The dough is still tough, cold but in a little while it will be elastic, warm. My hands will pull, throw, twist and fold until it glistens and obeys my commands. I’ll make sure it will look forward to its rest in the warm buttered bowl.
But now I focus on the work and anticipate the earthy smell of the yeast, the chewy crust and the warm crumb. A story turns itself over in my mind as I knead. Words are like bread. They rise and sometimes they turn out tasty. Sometimes they don’t, but like my less-than-perfect loaves, I’ll enjoy them anyway.