It was a ritual in 1995. Friday nights, often feeling hopeless and ignorant about Slobodan Milošević, I would come home to my Brooklyn apartment. Diminished by a corporate day job, an unrequited love in my heart and an artist's very light pockets, I would combine flour, olive oil, yeast, salt and engage my roommate's glorious sound system with Alanis Morissette's debut album. On my hands and knees I scrubbed Murphy's Oil into my hardwood floors rising to beat, knead, repeat and bake. I would...