Snickerdoodle

On a January afternoon, the kitchen settles into its quiet rhythm—flour dust drifting onto the counter, butter softening in a porcelain bowl, cinnamon rising in fragrant spirals. The oven’s warmth seeps into the room, carrying the first hints of something golden. Vanilla lingers at the edges, honey softens the air—never cloying, always gentle. Outside, winter presses against the glass; inside, the hush is broken only by the low murmur of voices drawn by the scent of baking, each breath promising comfort and home.