I'm measuring the flour when the litany begins.
Fuck you, bread I don't feel like making.
I heat the cottage cheese and crack two eggs into warm water and honey. The yeast is already frothy.
Fuck you, cereal on the floor. Stuck to my feet.
I affix the dough hook to the mixer. Add the liquids to the flour and flick the switch. The dough looks like mud. Like wet sand. The motor is a steady rhythm and I keep going.
Fuck you, bags under my eyes.
Fuck you, dog prints on the hardwood floor.
Fuck you, coffee buzz.
Fuck you, bills I need to pay.
Fuck you, La Nina and your balmy October.
Fuck you, expensive sweater.
Fuck you rain.
Fuck you, pile of work that's waiting for me once all this is finally done.
The flour cleans up from the sides of the bowl and I add chips of cold butter. Pale yellow. Smooth. Grease on my fingertips. The dough is a ball, warm and ripe. Spongy clay ready for the potter's wheel. I hold it in my hands.
Hey, dinner is essentially made. {Sandwiches on bread day.}
I sweep the floor, drink a huge glass of water, and realize it stopped raining {for now}.
The bread is rising.
