Two lovely loaves of French bread today: one for John, and one for a woman at work. I get such pleasure out of the supple, soft dough, kneading it, how moldable it is under my wrists and hands and fingers - the texture is thrilling, how I could shape it into whatever I want to make of it. And the smell - so fragrant and fresh. John says these were the best loaves yet, but he says that with almost each new kind of bread I make, and these I've made several times before. Perhaps I know how to do it, finally.
I braved the misty weather for a run on the dam, which was also lovely. I haven't run there since I first injured that pesky Achilles tendon, and wouldn't you know, it started acting up again - and I believe it could be the slant of the running path. Hopefully I didn't overcompensate this time.
And since I ran, I am allowing myself more of Scottish Graeme's Talisker. We have to get through the bottle anyway, so then I can go purchase all of Scottish Ilan's recommendations.
Also, I couldn't have been MORE wrong about Cherie Priest's Boneshaker. What on earth was I thinking, dreading it? That woman has put in more enticing hooks than all of VanderMeer's novels combined. There are STEAMPUNK ZOMBIES in it. I devoured the first fifty pages last night. I'm going to force myself to read the new Locus issue before I pick up the book again, and then work my way through some slush submissions, which Kitty has agreed to help with.