Swedish rye this time.

Some days I have no idea how you people who don't make bread get by. With breadmaking, you punch and you punch and you punch, and then the people around you do not say, "You horrible violent person! We are calling the police!", they say, "Yummy! Oh, thank you!"

The green is called Inland. Which we are.

I have plans from now until Monday morning, essentially. Some of them are plans that go, "Sit still. Rest. Breathe." But plans they are.

Our basement contractors have promised that the basement will be ready to paint this weekend, and so we are painting it. Mostly by "we" I mean "other people than me," except that I will try to get my hand in during my steady time for the week. Now it is all fresh mudding and whiteness. By Monday morning the ceilings will be painted white and the walls will be painted green, blue, and red, depending on which room.

Among other things, this may mean that I stay behind on e-mail for awhile longer. Sorry about that. It's still me, not you. I ran some errands with timprov yesterday and got completely wiped out by them. This recovering from pneumonia thing: it is hard work.