The cookies are done. They sit in piping hot rounds, reeking of cinnamon and butter and loving mixing. The crisp of the baking paper, the rustle of the heat as it cools and crackles through the mixture, settling back into the searing black tray, causing the edges of the biscuits to curl upwards as though to escape from the blistering heat. Is there anything more loving than baking? A pain-staking, wondrous activity, precise measuring and slapdash rolling, peeking through hot oven doors and wiping of floured hands on a starchy apron. Sometimes all you need to pull you out of a bad day is that flow, the gorgeous concentration that goes into lining a cake tin, the closed eyed, somewhat hedonistic act of rolling cookie dough with your fingers, or reaching for a fistful of flour and feeling cool white dust all the way up to your wrist.