A friend wrote about making chef for a specific kind of bread, and I find myself wistful for the time when had time to putter in my kitchen and experiment with bread crafting. Now I see my kitchen as a vast wasteland of sky blue tile and cobalt blue appliances, the former marred only by doggie footprints, the latter dust free only because the maids make certain of it.

I remember baking with my grandfather, whose sourdough chef bubbled and grew on the counter over the dishwasher, and think he would be disappointed that I’m not keeping his legacy alive.