Everything depends on the moment the spice hits the pan: whether it sizzles with mouthwatering fragrance or turns to ash. Once, I thought happiness was the sizzle in the pan. But it’s not. Happiness is the spice – that fragile speck, beholden to the heat, always and forever tempered by our environment.

There are many dreams in a lifetime – dreams that flourish or flounder for reasons much more complex than can be pinned down to any one person or situation.

It’s true: A slice of pound cake does wonders to thaw the coldest of days.

The contortions of the gargoyles were the only therapy we had.

The easy truth is as much a lie as any.

My first encounter with a baguette, torn still warm from its paper sheathing, shattered and sighed on contact. The sound stopped me in my tracks, the way a crackling branch gives deer pause; that’s what good crust does. Once I began to chew, the flavor unfolded, deep with yeast and salt, the warm humidity of the tender crumb almost breathing against my lips.

Most people who have had a rough background will admit there’s something unsettling about finding happiness after difficulty – that even after we unwrap this gift, we don’t know how to stop searching, rummaging, pilfering for something else. We walk haltingly through life, ready for the other shoe to drop. The question is not if, but when.

As I stand there, staring absently at the stirring pot on the wall, I remember Greg’s words all those years ago: No one could create peace for me. Yes, I did the tough work to heal on my own. But in the process I’d missed the finer point. An insular life is just another wall. The realization rushes over me: There can be no peace without community. Real community – people to count on, and who could count on me.

There’s no such thing as half family.