I come from a long line of bakers, although my mother, bless her, is not a baker. The few memories I have of her in the kitchen are only sounds of frenzy, before the eventual deafening fire alarm. Rather I have memories of her situated at her sewing machine, coming alive late into the night, beside her latest creative endeavor. My childhood smelled like burnt toast and muslin, both of which still bring me comfort to this day. It should go without saying, I did not learn to bake from my mother. I have only spent my whole life hearing stories and witnessing a sparkle in both her and my fathers eyes when they talk about the treats their mothers baked. I grew up romanticizing these stories and knew that if I were to ever become a mother, a baker I must also become. 
This instinctual rhythm is my connection to the women I never knew, but whose blood runs through me. I get a glimpse of them and unravel another piece of me. The act of mixing, kneading, rising, waiting, slicing and serving, is my access to their heart. I inherit their wisdom every time I tie my apron. I hear whispers of truth passed down through the generations. I am most eager to share these domestic adventures, with the little lady at my hip and the one beneath my feet. I dream of them sharing this existence with their daughters, and their daughters, daughters. 
I want them to remember me with that same sparkle in their eye. I want them to remember me in the smell of cinnamon rolls, and loaves of sourdough. I want them to find me again and again in flour and time, in the mysterious transformation and the single-minded joy. Because it is in between the understood and the impalpable, where my watchful heart resides. They probably don’t know it just yet but the warmth I pull out of my oven is my eventual vintage heirloom, the gateway to my heart, long after I am gone.