My hands smelled like yeast, and yours smelled like cinnamon. We said we would split the work, but you got tired of kneading and I got tired of spreading. The had house smelled like the morning after that new years eve, when your mom made cinnamon rolls after a mug of coffee big enough to cover up all the eighties songs she crowed last night. I held up your mug to my nose, before you swatted at me, still grinning. Eventually, we pulled the rolls out of the oven, miraculously pillowy and unburdened by pesky gluten bonds and gravity despite your refusal to properly measure the flour. 

I accidentally made two mugs of coffee this morning, for the first time since I put my suit jacket back in the closet to collect dust. I measure out my flour. I knead. I spread. My hands smell like cinnamon and yeast.