I really love making bread. I don’t love it more than anything else, but it is a true exercise in faith. You make it, and then go to bed. When you get up in the morning, you expect the sun to rise and the bread to rise. Having both makes the world seem like it might be OK. It’s true that all the real estate advice talks about making chocolate chip cookies before an open house, because it creates a welcoming aroma second to none. However, I have found that the wafting scent of baking bread causes a kind of drunken happiness that seems like a mix between coming home and the anticipation of a welcome sensory experience of a crunchy, soft, chewy repository for butter or jam that recalls a childhood zenith of satisfaction–even if it wasn’t necessarily your childhood.