I don't understand

This summer, when I learned to make traditional Finnish pulla, I was dismayed. Even after baking delicious pulla five or six times, no local neighborhood Finns came with tarpaulin in hand to wrap me up and carry me home, plant me in front of a huge iron kettle, and call me "wife."

Now, I have begun to make my own rye bread regularly. This is not because I am some sort of obnoxious, esurient epicure: this is because I am scared of my neighborhood at night and I'd rather just bake the bread myself than wrestle a wigged-out hobo to get inside the grocery store. Plus, flour and water are much cheaper than bread.

But it's become more than defensive now; I'm emotionally attached to my rye bread. I don't come home to an empty house anymore, I come home to a ball of dough which has been rising expectantly, waiting for me to come home, punch it, and roll it around a little bit-- LIKE A WIFE OF MY OWN!!

But here's my question. Pulla was one thing. But rye bread? DAILY? I understand that I live on the 12th floor of a building with pretty tight security, again, surrounded by a moat of wigged-out hobos. But I'm a TEENSY bit incredulous that no woodsmen have come to club me in the head and lovingly drag me home by the hair to shave their backs and cure their moose. I think I deserve to get thrown across a threshold for this display of ur-Finn domesticity.


Well, until then, I'll just be here on this Laz-E-Boy, reading Soap Opera Digest.