I had contemplated ironing the tablecloth but there was bread to be made.
The dough had quadrupled in size before I pulled it from the bowl and shaped it into a loaf. Tucking under the ends. Pinching the seams. Generously oiling the tin.
Waiting was not a problem. I would let it rise a second time. As high as it might.
I tucked myself into the sofa with knitting needles and a thin weight, medium chestnut yarn.
As the hours slipped under the setting light, I set down my work, shifting attention back to the risen loaf.
It would be close, but I was certain that it would be cool enough to slice in time for supper.
This would be the case.