When I was in college, there was a health food store in the little town adjacent to the university. It was a ten-minute walk from campus. To get there, you’d wander down the wide tree-lined boulevard outside the stately, formidable university library: a silvery-gray fortress of limestone and schist. You’d come upon town’s main street and turn right, passing a jumble of small shops and restaurants: the tucked-away sushi spot frequented by crowds of college students before formal parties, a rambling Catholic Church and the crumbling-looking thrift shop next door, and the second-best ice cream store in town (it loses out to the number one spot in terms of flavors, but wins over the student body for diversity of toppings guaranteed to give you a sugar high for studying, from a warm drizzle of Nutella to crumbled Butterfinger candy).

I could tell you how quick and simple these dinner rolls are. You might believe me, but I think in lieu of you being right here with me while I bake them, it would be more convincing if I walk you through what it took to make them today.

I woke up early to get to the pool and swim. It’s nearly impossible to time it just right and miss the early morning pre-work rush: I’ve yet to figure out any discernible pattern to the pool schedule between 7 and 9 AM. So I cross my fingers and hope for the best. Today, I get lucky. I split a lane with one other swimmer for the duration of my 20 laps.

I’m sitting crosslegged at my desk, which looks out over the sloping roof to the backyard. The trees are mostly bare already, their limbs dark and skeletal looking against the slate gray sky. One stands out still—the dogwood tree—which is covered in dark wine-red leaves that tremble and shake in the wind. Rain is lashing against the windows; I’m waiting for it to let up just slightly so I can dash outside to put out the trash.