From her side of the duplex she brought hot applesauce, or homemade braided bread, an extra loaf she ``just happened'' to bake. She volunteered to watch our brood while we enjoyed an occasional weekend away from home. The buzz of the kitchen timer cuts short my reverie . . . cinnamon streusel -- oven-hot, breathes through the house. Carefully, I cradle it in yellow, terry towels, and carry it next door. The dearest family has just moved in.