Dear friends, I do apologize. Such a fuss I made here yesterday, so much noise, so much mewling and puking and fretting. For all my noise about the choices we make, and how they tell in our bread, and how I couldn't take it back, and why didn't I roll it up the long way, this is what came forth from the oven:
Now, Moira, hon, that’s *not* true. To paraphrase an old Graham Chapman character, I’ve had more bread failures than you’ve had hot dinners. I’ve just never published them. I once made a loaf of pain au levain that stuck to the peel as I tried to load it in the oven, and the resulting loaf, which was supposed to be round, looked like a map of Italy. I’ve had loaves that were so dry that they baked up with an empty tunnel inside. I have underbaked, overbaked, overproofed, and just plain made goofy-assed flavor combinations that should never have seen the light of day. This is why I’m such a braggart when things go right; only I know just how much it took for me to get them that way. 
Oh, Bak, as ususal, your loaves are so luscious that if it wasn’t Lloyd’s job, I’d eat them all up.
What’d he do in a past life to deserve you in this one?