One apprentice asked why I describe a dough one way and then write something much plainer on the production sheet. Because the sheet has to be useful when I'm not standing there waving my hands, I told him. Later I looked at a note from the old baker who taught me and found three words that would mean nothing to somebody who hadn't worked beside him. I know exactly what he meant. That isn't the same as having a recipe somebody else can follow. I'm adding the missing explanation to my copy, while leaving his words where they are. I don't need to choose between keeping his voice and making sure the next person can do the work.

Worked the dough by hand for part of the morning and noticed how much I was pressing with the heel of my palm instead of forcing everything through the fingers. My right wrist was touchy after the long prep yesterday, so I kept stopping to change position rather than pretending one more batch would be the last. The dough felt cool at first and softer as I worked, a useful thing to pay attention to when the room was getting hot. By eleven my arms were tired but I could still open my hand without that sharp catch. At home I ate sitting down, the brace waiting for tonight, and let the boy slice his own bread. He is sixteen. The loaf survived.

A sister at the masjid mentioned another man she thinks I should meet, and I was polite until she said I shouldn't get too comfortable alone. That irritated me more than the introduction. I have a son, parents, a job where somebody is calling my name before dawn; comfortable is not exactly the word for it. I know she means well. I am still allowed to dislike being treated like an unfinished arrangement. Told my mother about it and she asked whether I'd actually like to meet him. I said I hadn't got that far because I was busy being annoyed. She laughed. I didn't mind her laughing, which is how I know I wasn't mad at everybody.