It's worth getting up for. Just at dawn, on a dead-of-winter walk, I could smell it wafting from homes all around the lake as they emerged from the dark like loaves from an oven, steaming. Is there an aroma more divine than that of bread warming, bread browning, crisping for the spread of butter and marmalade, the sprinkling of sugared cinnamon? Whatever terrors the night might harbor, how bad can it get, if hot slices stack our morning plate, the white ones patterned with cobalt blue? It's what in the current vernacular we'll all eventually be: a pleasant redolence rising and haloing a roughed up, frozen expanse – for such days, we make not-too-burnt offerings of thanks; we raise our glasses of juice. Susan Deborah King