Baking. Snowstorm in Seattle, on the way to visit the boy who can lick his elbow for some sledding, hot turkey and wine. 360s on the slick, hilly streets. Remnants of days passed on flat Long Island parking lots spinning around on the ice in a Falcon station wagon. Heading to a Roslyn wine and cheese bar to see Aztec Two Step. At the Duck Pond is an old shack with a weathered, grey wooden door. On this door is a shiny, glass, maple-colored knob with gold flecks affixed to a rusty brass plate. I told myself that if I ever left Long Island, I would take it with me. When I did leave, it was gone. I still look for it on every grey door on every shack on every island I visit.