I recognized the specific shape of what she had done, the hiding of a harmless thing out of the fear of being gently mocked, and I recognized it because I do it too, and I suspect almost everyone does.

We all have some small true delight that we keep a little hidden, some enthusiasm we have learned to downplay because someone, once, made us feel foolish for it.

For Jacqueline it was flour and living cultures and heritage grain.

For someone else it is the poetry they write and show no one, or the elaborate model they build in the garage, or the songs they only sing alone in the car.

The world is quietly full of people tending secret joys behind shut doors, not because the joys are shameful but because tenderness is fragile and mockery, even affectionate mockery, can bruise it.