When I baked a lot of bread.

Yeasty bread, the swollen dough beneath my fingers. And the tackiness of the gluten, sticky. Hot cornmeal,steamy on the stone. Aromas intoxicating in my lungs.
Music beats in the background carrying with them memories of older love and vineyard-bedecked fields with serpentine roads. Hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Sweet memories I have, of those bread-filled days and a belly, too full, perhaps. But a heart, too. Of love and dinner parties with friends, coming together to share community, to build together sticks propped against each other. Tepees of friendship the wind couldn't knock down.
But sometimes love is too simple, and days in a snow globe (without snow) seem suffocating. So she packs up her car. Because adventure calls and texture beckons. She realizes she needs more scratchy wool and rough corduroy there, in her life.
It's hard to get back into the snow globe, the perfect world, where it's often windy, but the bread tastes good.