There's a critical point in making any yeasty product -- letting/hoping the dough rises. In my actual life, I was in the midst of making cinnamon buns. Before going to bed, I had proofed yeast and formed and kneaded a dough. I had put the dough in a bowl to rise and set that bowl in the microwave so it could have some alone time to rise, or do its dough thing. I was a bit skeptical of whether or not my yeast was still any good and wondering if my dough would rise. Then I went to bed. That night I dreamed that my dough was rising and rising and rising. At a very gradual but steady pace my dough was getting bigger and bigger. My anxiety about leaving my dough unattended was also getting bigger and bigger. I'm not sure why, but I perseverated in thinking that the dough should rise more. It just wasn't ready. Or, I wasn't ready to part with it. Or, I developed some strange attachment to it. So, I took it everywhere I went. I took it to the grocery store and put the bowl in my shopping cart. I took it in the car to take on a camping trip. I took it on the back of my bike, which eventually needed to be upgraded to a kids bike trailer so it could come with me to work. Sean was partially on board and supportive but I suspected growing increasingly frustrated with my dough attachment. The dough was getting too big to live in a closet. Too big to fit in a car. Too big to fit in a backpacking pack. Then I woke up. When I went in the kitchen I found that the dough had risen. I rolled out the doll, shaped the cinnamon buns, and baked them. They were yummy.