Yeasty beginnings

Time for another delectable batch of home made bread. Kneading it is most therapeutic, as I can imagine my fingers squeezing, squeezing, throttling...well, Mr. Rogers used to sing a song called "What Do You Do When You're Feeling Mad," and one lyric suggested pounding on a piece of clay, so if that mild-mannered, lovable old feller advised it, the activity must be somewhat productive in a sublimative fashion.
Made my mom happy by getting her to the hair salon. Once again, we're existing under conditions only a giant Pacific octopus could love, icy-temperatured water, sluicing down, flooding the low spots. Now, naturally, is the time slot I have in which to run.
It in fact became soothing to run along in the cold rain, pissing and grumbling about the state of the union; to squish into the gym and throw weights around; then to run back up a mile long towards home, feeling at least hollowed out, and warm, finally.
The bread is delicious.