Waiting for studio notes on the first cut of my pilot, I spend the entire day baking. I make molasses cookies for my executives, a tray of blueberry pie bars for my editor, two loaves of rosemary sourdough bread for whoever will take them. Learning and worrying, I feel most safe with dough, which I know, and even then, only sort of. But I know where I stand with it, I know people will eat it, it requires no act outs of score, it’s not supposed to be funny. I let it rise in my bathroom, the best place to prove bread in my house. I peek under the dish towel, and it’s doubled, just like it’s supposed to. In the oven, the cornmeal biscuits puff up in size and it’s centering to watch. My neighbor smears butter over one and crunches into it. Good job, he says. And I know that it was.