This morning I woke up wanting to bake something. I didn’t have a specific recipe or a special reason—just the craving for a homemade smell in the kitchen. I made some cookies with oats, a little chocolate, some honey… Simple things, using what I had on hand. The kind of recipe that doesn’t need to be perfect—just made with care. While they were baking, I opened the window. And that moment—with the scent in the air and sunlight warming the room—felt even better than I expected. I didn’t make them for guests or a special occasion. I made them for me. Because I deserve soft, sweet things made with intention too.