I awoke, and it was Sunday morning in Central New York. Not much different than waking up on Sunday morning in Dublin. Except for about an 80% humidity difference. And on this particular Sunday morning, like many before it, I went for a run.
I ran down a hill, then up a hill. Then the hill kept going up, so I stopped and wandered home. Yeah.
I got excited on the walk home about eating bread. It’s Sunday! I get to eat bread! I wonder what we have in the cupboards. I wonder what they have at the Farmer’s Market. I wonder if I have any money to buy bread, or if I’ll have to grovel and perform magic tricks.
Then an even more surprising thought arrived: I’m not in Dublin. It is not Lent. You do not pass Go and you do not collect $200.
But I’m a creature of habit, and I have come to know and love Sundays as Worship of Bread days. And because of my unfailing stubbornness, that’s the way it will stay with me.
Even though there’s a pretty massive water barrier between here and there, a lot of Irish can be seen in my Ithaca life. I was potting seeds on my porch and realized the sunflower selection I had bought was called Irish Eyes. Because the middle of the flower grows green little buds.
But that’s just like claiming those silly neon green buttons that have clovers on them to be authentic. It’s just politics. Its politics, and they’re now growing roots on my front porch.
And when I found myself at lunch with the old man today, we were served our meals and I saw his eggs and steak platter with grilled and buttered bread. And I said, “Ahhh jeez, that looks yummy. I want some! Can I have your toast? Please? I’ll trade you a tater. PLEASE?!?!?” And after judging glares from the toddler sitting at a neighboring table, my dad pointed out that my own meal (a grilled cheese sandwich, or in Irish pub talk, toastie), was loaded with bread as it was.
So I ate my toastie. And it made me feel… so, toastie inside. Then I ate my dad’s toast too. And when I got home again, I became bored with lack of housemates or cable TV., and so there was only one thing to do: make toast.
This time I ground up and sprinkled some sugar and cinnamon sticks on top.
I find myself on the porch with the Irish Eyes. They can’t see me yet, they are still in the soil. But I have a feeling they will be popping out soon. Irish eyes have a tendency to do that: pop. Either out of skulls from 40 years of alcoholism, or from soil in a pot from love and water and Ithaca sunlight.
I find myself defending my eating habits to my new co-workers downtown. I am now employed at a groovy little restaurant that serves only vegetarian food. And there’s a big mammal on the front window. And they have a tendency to pounding out new cookbooks about every two years. Any guesses? Yeah, I work THERE.
When I told them I was studying Nutrition and had been a vegetarian for 2 years, they had such high hopes for me…
I find myself thinking about my bread relationship in real depth. Am I too emotionally available? Should I create distance? How much is too much? When does no actually mean no?
I find that not a lot in my life is as developed as the sincere and relentless need for complete and instant satisfaction. Which sounds insane, but it’s not. It’s like when my housemate talks to his cat. He knows the cat is listening and I know it’s listening but everyone else knows he is crazy. And he is. But he’s happy. His complete and instant satisfaction: kitty conversation.
Whatever floats your boat.
My Irish Eyes are thirsty.
20 June, 2010
14 June, 2010
Reverse Culture Shock: ranting from a mad woman
So I made bruschetta.
And no one died.
No one complained either. I guess you could call it a success. But because there was pesto and spices, my teeth were peppered (literally) with little black specks.
No one told me, naturally. And because I might have added just a pinch too much garlic (I have this theory, and amateur culinary practice, that anything can be improved by adding more garlic), I noticed that no one would go near my mouth for days. Not that this is out of the ordinary, just that it would have helped. Again, with the specks. So it was a peppered success. Success peppered with… humiliation.
So I’ve decided to switch paths. I now sit in a nice little coffee place in college town, Ithaca. They are playing The Doors. The people at the table next to me are looking at post cards. I’m drinking a mug full of something called a Milky Way. And Jim’s voice is lulling me into a faraway time and place where I was looking at his grave eating a French baguette.
Must have been in another life.
I’m trying to remember the last time I ate bread. I’m trying to remember the last time I plucked my eyebrows. Some people say, you can’t go back home. Some people, like elderly Cornell Alum who I catered for over the weekend, say that bread should never be served without a toaster. Or fat-free butter.
I don’t know if I’m going to cut it in this business. But I remember, and it was when I made a caprese sandwich in my summer house. I put too much vinaigrette on the tomatoes, and it made the white sliced bread squishy. But I’m learning, slowly and surely. You just can’t go back home.
Until that day I had my caprese, I’d realized I hadn’t bought a loaf of bread since returning state-side.
What have I been doing for the last 3 weeks? I have become numb to the hunger for sweet and savory goodness. Which I just learned refers to meat.
Is it because America is filled with advertisements and appointments and complications that keep your mind from wandering to genuine, deep, inner core of our actual perceptions and emotions? And hunger?
Yes. Obviously.
So now that I don’t crave bread, I don’t know what I crave. I crave a life where I want to eat bread all day long. And stumble down a canal, or up a Spanish rooftop, or read my blog to an Irish ear.
Something out of a movie.
So about that crossed path. I want to learn how to bake. So I never have to buy a .79 cent of white bleached bread again.
But only for people that will alert me when my teeth are filled with pepper.
And no one died.
No one complained either. I guess you could call it a success. But because there was pesto and spices, my teeth were peppered (literally) with little black specks.
No one told me, naturally. And because I might have added just a pinch too much garlic (I have this theory, and amateur culinary practice, that anything can be improved by adding more garlic), I noticed that no one would go near my mouth for days. Not that this is out of the ordinary, just that it would have helped. Again, with the specks. So it was a peppered success. Success peppered with… humiliation.
So I’ve decided to switch paths. I now sit in a nice little coffee place in college town, Ithaca. They are playing The Doors. The people at the table next to me are looking at post cards. I’m drinking a mug full of something called a Milky Way. And Jim’s voice is lulling me into a faraway time and place where I was looking at his grave eating a French baguette.
Must have been in another life.
I’m trying to remember the last time I ate bread. I’m trying to remember the last time I plucked my eyebrows. Some people say, you can’t go back home. Some people, like elderly Cornell Alum who I catered for over the weekend, say that bread should never be served without a toaster. Or fat-free butter.
I don’t know if I’m going to cut it in this business. But I remember, and it was when I made a caprese sandwich in my summer house. I put too much vinaigrette on the tomatoes, and it made the white sliced bread squishy. But I’m learning, slowly and surely. You just can’t go back home.
Until that day I had my caprese, I’d realized I hadn’t bought a loaf of bread since returning state-side.
What have I been doing for the last 3 weeks? I have become numb to the hunger for sweet and savory goodness. Which I just learned refers to meat.
Is it because America is filled with advertisements and appointments and complications that keep your mind from wandering to genuine, deep, inner core of our actual perceptions and emotions? And hunger?
Yes. Obviously.
So now that I don’t crave bread, I don’t know what I crave. I crave a life where I want to eat bread all day long. And stumble down a canal, or up a Spanish rooftop, or read my blog to an Irish ear.
Something out of a movie.
So about that crossed path. I want to learn how to bake. So I never have to buy a .79 cent of white bleached bread again.
But only for people that will alert me when my teeth are filled with pepper.
27 May, 2010
Wrapping up... or just unfolding?
I’ve been told a lot of things.
I was told, before leaving Dublin, I should ‘sum up my carbohydrate stay in Ireland’. This came from my ma. I was also told, “Liz. Rap up the bread blog. I need closure.” This came from the mouth of a Bostonian, who went a little crazy upon the return to America, land of ignorance and potato chips. She revised her demand, “Wrap. But feel free to rap too.”
So I thought about summing up. And I’ve never been good at math. And it’s absolutely impossible to recount the carbohydrates I devoured in 5 months. But when you put it all together… it’s there… on my hips… and that’s about as ‘summed up’ as I can take.
So I then began thinking about rapping. And that thought quickly ended. I began with another thought, wrapping.
Tomorrow I have to go to work to wrap up cookies for the Cornell Commencement ceremony for the Architecture Department.
I realized something yesterday at work. At my work, there’s this big walk-in fridge, and there’s a big number 3 on the front of it. I don’t know what the 3 means. Maybe that’s how many bodies can fit inside. Or how many times my boss has yelled at me to put my shoes back on. But inside, is a metal shelving unit fully stocked with bread.
All sorts. Rye with seeds. Rye without seeds. Wheat without gluten. Multi-grain without calories… it’s a lot of variety. Which is one thing I have noticed about this glorious country I have lived in all my life. We have anything we could possibly want, in about 14 different flavors and colors.
And I just realized, this special number 3 fridge, is open to employees who are over-worked, under-fed, and in-between logical brain synapses. Because they have been assorting 2,400 forks into little baskets with napkins between them. Because for some reason, ALL of the Cornell students wanted to eat this weekend.
They’re so greedy sometimes.
As you can tell, I am very pleased to be back in the working world. But back to the wrapping. I always think I need to wrap things up. I tend to have strings, fibers, loose ends… and that’s when I realized, I don’t have any strings anymore.
Yesterday I was being introduced to a new work colleague, and my boss said, “This is Liz, you know, the vegetarian I told you about that doesn’t eat vegetables?” I told her, “I’m eating meat again. And I realized I really like tomatoes. Isn’t that neat?” I don’t think she believed me. “Sure, next you’re going to say you liked the Guinness, right?”
So yeah. I’m a walking contradiction. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Life moves pretty fast, you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it (Oh Liz and her Ferris Bueller quotes…).
I’m making a dinner for some very dear friends and family tomorrow night. I’m making the infamous bruschetta with a nice summer salad. I’m already nervous. I burned my dinner (toast) this evening; toasters are so much more EFFICIENT on this side of the pond!
I don’t want to be disappointing, and I don’t want to concoct food that is unfit for human consumption, but I think, even if that happens, I can find a really, really, REALLY interesting and creative way to write about it here. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll cook, and report back on the disaster level.
So have a little faith. We survived during the bread famine (lent period spent in Ireland), we can get through anything, even Liz’s clumsy and often detrimental effect on kitchen appliances.
And if not, I’ll go back to wrapping cookies.
I was told, before leaving Dublin, I should ‘sum up my carbohydrate stay in Ireland’. This came from my ma. I was also told, “Liz. Rap up the bread blog. I need closure.” This came from the mouth of a Bostonian, who went a little crazy upon the return to America, land of ignorance and potato chips. She revised her demand, “Wrap. But feel free to rap too.”
So I thought about summing up. And I’ve never been good at math. And it’s absolutely impossible to recount the carbohydrates I devoured in 5 months. But when you put it all together… it’s there… on my hips… and that’s about as ‘summed up’ as I can take.
So I then began thinking about rapping. And that thought quickly ended. I began with another thought, wrapping.
Tomorrow I have to go to work to wrap up cookies for the Cornell Commencement ceremony for the Architecture Department.
I realized something yesterday at work. At my work, there’s this big walk-in fridge, and there’s a big number 3 on the front of it. I don’t know what the 3 means. Maybe that’s how many bodies can fit inside. Or how many times my boss has yelled at me to put my shoes back on. But inside, is a metal shelving unit fully stocked with bread.
All sorts. Rye with seeds. Rye without seeds. Wheat without gluten. Multi-grain without calories… it’s a lot of variety. Which is one thing I have noticed about this glorious country I have lived in all my life. We have anything we could possibly want, in about 14 different flavors and colors.
And I just realized, this special number 3 fridge, is open to employees who are over-worked, under-fed, and in-between logical brain synapses. Because they have been assorting 2,400 forks into little baskets with napkins between them. Because for some reason, ALL of the Cornell students wanted to eat this weekend.
They’re so greedy sometimes.
As you can tell, I am very pleased to be back in the working world. But back to the wrapping. I always think I need to wrap things up. I tend to have strings, fibers, loose ends… and that’s when I realized, I don’t have any strings anymore.
Yesterday I was being introduced to a new work colleague, and my boss said, “This is Liz, you know, the vegetarian I told you about that doesn’t eat vegetables?” I told her, “I’m eating meat again. And I realized I really like tomatoes. Isn’t that neat?” I don’t think she believed me. “Sure, next you’re going to say you liked the Guinness, right?”
So yeah. I’m a walking contradiction. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Life moves pretty fast, you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it (Oh Liz and her Ferris Bueller quotes…).
I’m making a dinner for some very dear friends and family tomorrow night. I’m making the infamous bruschetta with a nice summer salad. I’m already nervous. I burned my dinner (toast) this evening; toasters are so much more EFFICIENT on this side of the pond!
I don’t want to be disappointing, and I don’t want to concoct food that is unfit for human consumption, but I think, even if that happens, I can find a really, really, REALLY interesting and creative way to write about it here. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll cook, and report back on the disaster level.
So have a little faith. We survived during the bread famine (lent period spent in Ireland), we can get through anything, even Liz’s clumsy and often detrimental effect on kitchen appliances.
And if not, I’ll go back to wrapping cookies.
3 movies and 7 trips to the bathroom later
I’m up in the air.
Yeah, somewhere above Boston. I’ve always liked being above the clouds. It’s like that Jodi Mitchell song. And because I’ve once again devoured the stewardess’ cart of red wine, I’m seeing things with a splash melancholy, just a hint of apprehension.
Luckily I didn’t pass up on the complementary bread roll this time. But you know, I like symmetry. And I like things coming full circle. Except, on this side of the circle, I am furnished with a bruised elbow from falling down my stairs in a drunken furry, without a shower in the last 30 hours, and absolutely no money besides 20 cents in Swiss franks.
I’m kinda like a half moon cookie. The dark side.
And now they are telling me to Please stow all portable electronics. My head is warm and I’ve just tortured myself with movies such as P.S. I love you and Leap Year, and I’ve decided my life really IS a movie.
We have started our initial descent, god damn.
There was this little poll I created back on the 4th of January. It asked my readers, What would you like to read more about? It was unanimously voted that my life leaves something to be questioned, and something to be entertainingly ridiculous.
Well, I’ve watched the number of days listed below the poll tick by over the last few months. I remember looking at it when it was 117. And then it hit 53. And today, it clicked to 0. If all of our days are numbered, then why do I keep counting?
Yes I stole that from a Killers song. Yes the stewardess (“flight attendant”) is yelling at me again. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, (**SLURS WORDS WITH RED WINE TEETH), MY WRITING IS ALL I HAVE….”
Yes, I’m back in America. Bloody wankers.
Yeah, somewhere above Boston. I’ve always liked being above the clouds. It’s like that Jodi Mitchell song. And because I’ve once again devoured the stewardess’ cart of red wine, I’m seeing things with a splash melancholy, just a hint of apprehension.
Luckily I didn’t pass up on the complementary bread roll this time. But you know, I like symmetry. And I like things coming full circle. Except, on this side of the circle, I am furnished with a bruised elbow from falling down my stairs in a drunken furry, without a shower in the last 30 hours, and absolutely no money besides 20 cents in Swiss franks.
I’m kinda like a half moon cookie. The dark side.
And now they are telling me to Please stow all portable electronics. My head is warm and I’ve just tortured myself with movies such as P.S. I love you and Leap Year, and I’ve decided my life really IS a movie.
We have started our initial descent, god damn.
There was this little poll I created back on the 4th of January. It asked my readers, What would you like to read more about? It was unanimously voted that my life leaves something to be questioned, and something to be entertainingly ridiculous.
Well, I’ve watched the number of days listed below the poll tick by over the last few months. I remember looking at it when it was 117. And then it hit 53. And today, it clicked to 0. If all of our days are numbered, then why do I keep counting?
Yes I stole that from a Killers song. Yes the stewardess (“flight attendant”) is yelling at me again. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, (**SLURS WORDS WITH RED WINE TEETH), MY WRITING IS ALL I HAVE….”
Yes, I’m back in America. Bloody wankers.
The Gardener and a Goodbye, but not really.
There’s someone in the rose bushes.
I’m looking out my bedroom door, into the backyard where I’ve spent many a day nibbling bread in my hammock. And I’m pretty sure the person in the rose bushes is the gardener the landlord hired.
Pretty sure.
Anyways, I’ve been thinking. I do a lot of thinking when I’m about to transition into a new life period. Like reading a book. There’s a lot of thinking on that blank page before the next chapter, a lot of thought in that blank space… and I can identify with that.
I’ve tried to think of a clever way to say goodbye to Dublin, but the more I tried to make a nice little package with a bow, the more I realized, that would just not be fitting.
I think I should write about all the magic and nonsense of this little country. And that’s where I get lost. Cause I don’t know how to do that yet.
Okay. It’s definitely the gardener. What else would he be doing with that hatchet…
I know they have a woman president, but that she really doesn’t do much besides go to rugby matches and smile for cameras. The Taoiseach has all the power, and this upsets me.
I know there’s this guy that likes to practice tai chi by the canal, and that pedestrians stop to look at the barges going upstream, but really, their lookin’ at the funky dude in tights.
I know they don’t know how to do coffee right, but somehow after 5 months, it tastes pretty good. But that’s because I always chase it down with the right kind of bread. Croissant for a mocha. Baguette with an Americano.
I talk like I know what I’m doing but I have no idea.
I know the men have wild hair and they all smell like sex. I know the café where the waiters draw smiley faces in our drinks. And I know I’ll be back when I know how to say goodbye properly.
I’m looking out my bedroom door, into the backyard where I’ve spent many a day nibbling bread in my hammock. And I’m pretty sure the person in the rose bushes is the gardener the landlord hired.
Pretty sure.
Anyways, I’ve been thinking. I do a lot of thinking when I’m about to transition into a new life period. Like reading a book. There’s a lot of thinking on that blank page before the next chapter, a lot of thought in that blank space… and I can identify with that.
I’ve tried to think of a clever way to say goodbye to Dublin, but the more I tried to make a nice little package with a bow, the more I realized, that would just not be fitting.
I think I should write about all the magic and nonsense of this little country. And that’s where I get lost. Cause I don’t know how to do that yet.
Okay. It’s definitely the gardener. What else would he be doing with that hatchet…
I know they have a woman president, but that she really doesn’t do much besides go to rugby matches and smile for cameras. The Taoiseach has all the power, and this upsets me.
I know there’s this guy that likes to practice tai chi by the canal, and that pedestrians stop to look at the barges going upstream, but really, their lookin’ at the funky dude in tights.
I know they don’t know how to do coffee right, but somehow after 5 months, it tastes pretty good. But that’s because I always chase it down with the right kind of bread. Croissant for a mocha. Baguette with an Americano.
I talk like I know what I’m doing but I have no idea.
I know the men have wild hair and they all smell like sex. I know the café where the waiters draw smiley faces in our drinks. And I know I’ll be back when I know how to say goodbye properly.
13 May, 2010
L'excessive
So here’s the thing, I have learned a few specific things about myself in the past few weeks. They all, surprisingly, have to do with what I'm supposed to be studying in college.
For instance, I’ve come to realize the futility that I epitomize by not only speaking one lone language, but arguably the ugliest one. Also, it’s become apparent that I have absolutely no culinary skill, and can even ruin raamen noodles (sorry Vic and Cam, I am not going to be a good housewife).
But to look on the bright side, after this morning’s final exam I have come to understand my ‘unique sense of urgency’ as expressed by my professor. After an hour of thinking and writing about… thinking and writing, I near to lost my cool as I slammed down my pen and stormed out of the squash court (Yes, Trinity had me sit in the squash court for my psychology final).
So, with all of these ‘quirks’ to work on, I have decided to focus primarily on food. Obviously.
I had dinner at a real suave Italian place the other night. And I ordered bruschetta with salad. And it was just about the best thing I’ve ever eaten. So much garlic. So good.
The next night I decided to test out my talents at imitation, and I think it kind of worked! Lots of tomatoes (which I now love, I think I’m developing my adult taste buds, and you know what that means…) and some vinaigrette and salt and oil… and other unhealthy things. And garlic.
It went down pretty easy, minus the slimy tomato innards, I don’t think I cooked it long enough... but it was quite satisfying. Maybe too much garlic pesto. The stench is still coming out my pores.
I’ve decided that Ireland does not do cuisine all that impressively, and neither do I, and maybe that’s why it’s been such a good fit.
I’ve also decided that I will need to continue my culinary endeavors, seeing how I plan to learn the French language, be a baker that gives loaves of bread to hungry people around the world, and live out my days in a cottage with a cookbook.
And a Spaniard.
I think I have entered a new chapter of bread eating.
For instance, I’ve come to realize the futility that I epitomize by not only speaking one lone language, but arguably the ugliest one. Also, it’s become apparent that I have absolutely no culinary skill, and can even ruin raamen noodles (sorry Vic and Cam, I am not going to be a good housewife).
But to look on the bright side, after this morning’s final exam I have come to understand my ‘unique sense of urgency’ as expressed by my professor. After an hour of thinking and writing about… thinking and writing, I near to lost my cool as I slammed down my pen and stormed out of the squash court (Yes, Trinity had me sit in the squash court for my psychology final).
So, with all of these ‘quirks’ to work on, I have decided to focus primarily on food. Obviously.
I had dinner at a real suave Italian place the other night. And I ordered bruschetta with salad. And it was just about the best thing I’ve ever eaten. So much garlic. So good.
The next night I decided to test out my talents at imitation, and I think it kind of worked! Lots of tomatoes (which I now love, I think I’m developing my adult taste buds, and you know what that means…) and some vinaigrette and salt and oil… and other unhealthy things. And garlic.
It went down pretty easy, minus the slimy tomato innards, I don’t think I cooked it long enough... but it was quite satisfying. Maybe too much garlic pesto. The stench is still coming out my pores.
I’ve decided that Ireland does not do cuisine all that impressively, and neither do I, and maybe that’s why it’s been such a good fit.
I’ve also decided that I will need to continue my culinary endeavors, seeing how I plan to learn the French language, be a baker that gives loaves of bread to hungry people around the world, and live out my days in a cottage with a cookbook.
And a Spaniard.
I think I have entered a new chapter of bread eating.
05 May, 2010
There's a plane, and I am flying
Because Paris was made into a cluster-fuck of people trying to escape the city, and because we really, really wanted to see the Flower Clock, Allison and I hopped a train to Geneva three Friday’s ago. By hopped, I mean forcefully threw ourselves into a box car that was unattended and hid in the corner.
We arrived in the dark. Stepping into Geneva air was, well, not much different than stepping into Paris air. Except that it lacked the lukewarm piss stench we had grown so accustomed to. No complaints from us, as we were promptly grabbed and hugged by our soon-to-be new best (Swiss!) friend, Nina.
I hope Nina wanted a shout out.
Now, because of the spontaneous eruption of Iceland’s now famous volcano, I had expected my European expedition to be derailed, and it was. Literally, there wasn’t a train, boat, plane, or twinkly-eyed fucker driving back to the UK or Ireland anytime soon. It was assumed this would not be a good thing. I had bread to eat in Venice, after all.
Things that did not go as planned (they went better):
-7 days of schedules and tours turned into 12 days of uncertainty and happiness
-meeting Jurek, Uta, Inka, Amelie and Nina became living with them. Including one dance recital and a cookie-baking day
-experiencing Geneva’s nightlife unfolded into BEING Geneva’s nightlife, at a club where a bottle of vodka costs more than my IC education, and a British/ Australian man is shared amongst us American girls
-Sunday morning started with Florence and the Machine singing us to the town bakery
There’s this little house. It’s in between Gland and Nyon, on the shore of Geneva Lake. And there’s a long wooden table with at least 10 chairs around it, it faces out the back towards the garden and lake and mountains. And I ate there, a part of a family, every morning and evening for over a week. I ate homemade German dishes; Uta is incredible with herbs from her garden. And I had traditional Polish food, Jurek grilled ostrich over the fireplace. But every evening, they brought home fresh loaves of bread for us.
Some loaves had grains of sugar stuck to the top; another was shaped like a sunflower. I bought that one in a store. And then there were the French baguettes we used to sop up the dressing from the mozzarella caprese salad. We had brown bread and nutella and jams. And I just can’t justify myself deserving it all.
Last Tuesday I had decided I wanted to be a doctor. I want to help people; I want to know people better than they know themselves.
Thursday, I convinced myself the only real profession for me was a baker. It just makes sense. I’d be a damn good baker.
By Friday, I knew the inescapable truth was that I would write. And write and write. Forever. And maybe get paid for it.
I’m not sure what I’d really like to DO. But I know now, it has something to do with that lake. And the dancing. And Sunday mornings with Focaccia.
We arrived in the dark. Stepping into Geneva air was, well, not much different than stepping into Paris air. Except that it lacked the lukewarm piss stench we had grown so accustomed to. No complaints from us, as we were promptly grabbed and hugged by our soon-to-be new best (Swiss!) friend, Nina.
I hope Nina wanted a shout out.
Now, because of the spontaneous eruption of Iceland’s now famous volcano, I had expected my European expedition to be derailed, and it was. Literally, there wasn’t a train, boat, plane, or twinkly-eyed fucker driving back to the UK or Ireland anytime soon. It was assumed this would not be a good thing. I had bread to eat in Venice, after all.
Things that did not go as planned (they went better):
-7 days of schedules and tours turned into 12 days of uncertainty and happiness
-meeting Jurek, Uta, Inka, Amelie and Nina became living with them. Including one dance recital and a cookie-baking day
-experiencing Geneva’s nightlife unfolded into BEING Geneva’s nightlife, at a club where a bottle of vodka costs more than my IC education, and a British/ Australian man is shared amongst us American girls
-Sunday morning started with Florence and the Machine singing us to the town bakery
There’s this little house. It’s in between Gland and Nyon, on the shore of Geneva Lake. And there’s a long wooden table with at least 10 chairs around it, it faces out the back towards the garden and lake and mountains. And I ate there, a part of a family, every morning and evening for over a week. I ate homemade German dishes; Uta is incredible with herbs from her garden. And I had traditional Polish food, Jurek grilled ostrich over the fireplace. But every evening, they brought home fresh loaves of bread for us.
Some loaves had grains of sugar stuck to the top; another was shaped like a sunflower. I bought that one in a store. And then there were the French baguettes we used to sop up the dressing from the mozzarella caprese salad. We had brown bread and nutella and jams. And I just can’t justify myself deserving it all.
Last Tuesday I had decided I wanted to be a doctor. I want to help people; I want to know people better than they know themselves.
Thursday, I convinced myself the only real profession for me was a baker. It just makes sense. I’d be a damn good baker.
By Friday, I knew the inescapable truth was that I would write. And write and write. Forever. And maybe get paid for it.
I’m not sure what I’d really like to DO. But I know now, it has something to do with that lake. And the dancing. And Sunday mornings with Focaccia.
27 April, 2010
This is the strangest life I've ever known.
Today I hallucinated that there were 2 boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in my kitchen.
They were waiting for me, and I had branded them mine with a sharpie already the day before. I just couldn’t remember where they were. At about 1pm, when I should have been studying for a psychology final for Trinity, I was crawling on my kitchen counters looking for a non-existent box of artificial coloring and bleached noodles.
It was at this point that I started considering that I may have a hinge loose. Or a marble rolling around a bit. But either way, I had 6 slices of bread today. And that helped matters.
It’s gotten harder to keep up on my bread reflections. Ever since Easter, I have systematically returned to a blessed and simple life of bread. My days are effortless, and without a care. It’s almost like the bread hiatus never occurred. And going to Paris didn’t help my motivation.
It was my dream and Mecca for countless years. The city of light. And accordions. And smelly metros and people. What happens when you get your dream?
You find yourself standing in front of James Douglas Morrison’s gravesite. Except when you envisioned it, you were alone and free to sit idly by and ponder his music and sexual appeal all to your peaceful self. I stood in front of his ‘gently loved’ gravesite, with a few dozen other tourists in Pere Lachaise as cigarettes were thrown and middle-aged women speaking French asked me who the dead guy was.
I can’t cry, because then they’ll think I’m crazy.
I can’t yell at them, because they won’t understand my American gibberish anyhow. And I will prove their suspicions correct that I am, in fact, crazy.
I said, He was a Poet. They don’t understand.
So I just looked on. I considered hopping the gate to hump his headstone, but I know for a fact that has been happening for 40 years, and I’m not about to start copying 3 generations of groupies.
I realized there was still half a loaf of bread in my shoulder bag. As I strolled away, stronger and wiser than before, I nibbled at the French baguette. It was one of the only things that morning that lived up to the hype.
Sometimes, dreams aren’t as good as reality.
But I guess, maybe, that’s when you find a new dream.
After Paris, my travels (and a volcano in Iceland), stranded me and Allison in Geneva, Switzerland. But that’s another story.
I found my new dream.
They were waiting for me, and I had branded them mine with a sharpie already the day before. I just couldn’t remember where they were. At about 1pm, when I should have been studying for a psychology final for Trinity, I was crawling on my kitchen counters looking for a non-existent box of artificial coloring and bleached noodles.
It was at this point that I started considering that I may have a hinge loose. Or a marble rolling around a bit. But either way, I had 6 slices of bread today. And that helped matters.
It’s gotten harder to keep up on my bread reflections. Ever since Easter, I have systematically returned to a blessed and simple life of bread. My days are effortless, and without a care. It’s almost like the bread hiatus never occurred. And going to Paris didn’t help my motivation.
It was my dream and Mecca for countless years. The city of light. And accordions. And smelly metros and people. What happens when you get your dream?
You find yourself standing in front of James Douglas Morrison’s gravesite. Except when you envisioned it, you were alone and free to sit idly by and ponder his music and sexual appeal all to your peaceful self. I stood in front of his ‘gently loved’ gravesite, with a few dozen other tourists in Pere Lachaise as cigarettes were thrown and middle-aged women speaking French asked me who the dead guy was.
I can’t cry, because then they’ll think I’m crazy.
I can’t yell at them, because they won’t understand my American gibberish anyhow. And I will prove their suspicions correct that I am, in fact, crazy.
I said, He was a Poet. They don’t understand.
So I just looked on. I considered hopping the gate to hump his headstone, but I know for a fact that has been happening for 40 years, and I’m not about to start copying 3 generations of groupies.
I realized there was still half a loaf of bread in my shoulder bag. As I strolled away, stronger and wiser than before, I nibbled at the French baguette. It was one of the only things that morning that lived up to the hype.
Sometimes, dreams aren’t as good as reality.
But I guess, maybe, that’s when you find a new dream.
After Paris, my travels (and a volcano in Iceland), stranded me and Allison in Geneva, Switzerland. But that’s another story.
I found my new dream.
11 April, 2010
Christianity, allergies, love, and other inconvenient things.
I was told, “Spring happened last night.”
To the untrained eye, there wouldn’t be a noticeable difference. Luckily, after over 3 months in this kooky, backwards city, I have started to catch on.
For example, the typical wardrobe of Dublin girls includes a see-thru shirt, a few over-sized and tattered accessories, and near to non-existent skirts. Today, I have passed by many a lasses that all together forgot their pants. But that’s alright; no one seems to be complaining.
In addition to the wardrobe changes, the St Stephen’s Green park etiquette has shifted. As I lay here in the grass with the Irish sun breathing down my back and a hanky in my hand to blow my allergy-stricken nose on, I notice the numerous couples that have settled around me. Most containing older men and younger women, few consisting of acceptable conversation topics for 2 pm near a playground, and all comprised of a massive amount of public affection.
There is something in the air. And it’s making me sneeze.
I blame the dubiousness of my recent decisions on the recent turn in weather here in the Fair City. Today is Sunday, and I am thinking about all my last Sundays since February. Today is Sunday and I am so happy I am not a catholic.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a magical Easter experience. I did. I just choose to take matters into my own hands 2 days before.
Maybe you thought I had found contentness and virtue in my lent journey. Perhaps I lead on that my determination and self-will was truly growing and proving me to be a worthy individual.
Maybe you should have looked harder.
I have learned many things on this long and strange trip:
1. Chips after Guinness isn’t worth it. You’re only going to regret it the next morning.
2. There are few substitutions for good Focaccia bread, and there are few things I wouldn’t do for one.
3. It’s not a good thing to find yourself in a hole-in-the-wall deli in Dun Laoghaire, being served undercooked eggs and ham chunks after a questionable night, unable to make eye contact across the grease stained table. But sometimes they are cutting fresh bread for toast. And sometimes, that’s exactly where you should be.
For these few reasons briefly stated above, I chose to forfeit my bread lent 2 days before Easter. Yeah. And you know what? It’s okay. Once you know what you want, you know what you want I suppose.
On Easter morning my apartment woke up and dressed in our finest to walk down Haddington Rd to St. Mary’s Church for mass. Yes, we were clueless. No, we were not all-together sober. But we were there, and we sang.
The first piece of bread I had on Easter was from the priest, I’d never had it before. I’ll probably never have it again, either. But that’s okay. That’s what this city has shown me. It’s here today and gone tomorrow. It’s a field or a sculpture or a man or a croissant that I have never encountered, that I never will again.
Once you know what you want, every moment is fleeting. And every fleeting moment is worth it.
To the untrained eye, there wouldn’t be a noticeable difference. Luckily, after over 3 months in this kooky, backwards city, I have started to catch on.
For example, the typical wardrobe of Dublin girls includes a see-thru shirt, a few over-sized and tattered accessories, and near to non-existent skirts. Today, I have passed by many a lasses that all together forgot their pants. But that’s alright; no one seems to be complaining.
In addition to the wardrobe changes, the St Stephen’s Green park etiquette has shifted. As I lay here in the grass with the Irish sun breathing down my back and a hanky in my hand to blow my allergy-stricken nose on, I notice the numerous couples that have settled around me. Most containing older men and younger women, few consisting of acceptable conversation topics for 2 pm near a playground, and all comprised of a massive amount of public affection.
There is something in the air. And it’s making me sneeze.
I blame the dubiousness of my recent decisions on the recent turn in weather here in the Fair City. Today is Sunday, and I am thinking about all my last Sundays since February. Today is Sunday and I am so happy I am not a catholic.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a magical Easter experience. I did. I just choose to take matters into my own hands 2 days before.
Maybe you thought I had found contentness and virtue in my lent journey. Perhaps I lead on that my determination and self-will was truly growing and proving me to be a worthy individual.
Maybe you should have looked harder.
I have learned many things on this long and strange trip:
1. Chips after Guinness isn’t worth it. You’re only going to regret it the next morning.
2. There are few substitutions for good Focaccia bread, and there are few things I wouldn’t do for one.
3. It’s not a good thing to find yourself in a hole-in-the-wall deli in Dun Laoghaire, being served undercooked eggs and ham chunks after a questionable night, unable to make eye contact across the grease stained table. But sometimes they are cutting fresh bread for toast. And sometimes, that’s exactly where you should be.
For these few reasons briefly stated above, I chose to forfeit my bread lent 2 days before Easter. Yeah. And you know what? It’s okay. Once you know what you want, you know what you want I suppose.
On Easter morning my apartment woke up and dressed in our finest to walk down Haddington Rd to St. Mary’s Church for mass. Yes, we were clueless. No, we were not all-together sober. But we were there, and we sang.
The first piece of bread I had on Easter was from the priest, I’d never had it before. I’ll probably never have it again, either. But that’s okay. That’s what this city has shown me. It’s here today and gone tomorrow. It’s a field or a sculpture or a man or a croissant that I have never encountered, that I never will again.
Once you know what you want, every moment is fleeting. And every fleeting moment is worth it.
30 March, 2010
Day 41
I saw something yesterday and I feel compelled to write about it.
It was something many people would have disregarded, but being the over-analytical and baby-crazed person that I am, it hit me. Literally. The kid wacked me with her 3 foot French baguette as she ran to catch up with her Pa. I’ll explain.
When you have an hourly countdown going on in your head for when you will be able to enjoy something next, life becomes a reflective and provocative thing. In my head. I’m thinking all day long about bread. It’s all encompassing. Did you know that if you search “Bread” on thesaurus.com, the first definition for it is “daily food”? Ironic.
But back to the grocery store and the mean little kid. I was shopping for dinner. It was decided we would make chicken, again.
And I don’t know how this happened, but I was once an American girl who hated beer, refused meat, and overdosed on bread daily. I have become an Irish squatter who grills her own chicken fillets, and has replaced her nightly dinner roll with a Guinness nightcap.
But again, back to the grocery store. I was wandering around with chicken in one hand, stack of oaties in the other, and I see this cute little girl standing in the middle of the aisle with her back to me. Sporting ringlets and big rubber boots, she was uncoordinatedly following behind her (assumed to be) dad. I went about my shopping (definitely not oodling over the cutest little Irish offspring I’d ever seen), when she turned around abruptly and I saw that she had a baguette the size of a Subway sub clenched in her dinky little hands. Man, she was a sight. Slobber rolling down the torn-open packaging that I could only hope she wasn’t swallowing in her fervor. She looked at me, ripped off another bite of her tightly held prize, then spun and ran away.
Did she know? Did she do that on purpose because she knew I couldn’t be doing that? Even if this whole lent thing was over? Let’s be real. Me slobbering on a stick of bread in the frozen foods aisle wouldn’t emit the same reaction from passerby’s as the toddler in polka dots.
I tried to put it out of my mind.
As I neared the queue to pay, I saw her again in front of me. She had probably devoured at least a third of it by then. Her father, after paying for actual baby mush and suitable forms of food for teething infants, took the bread from her so the the unlucky cashier could scan it. And in that instant, that girl must have had all the sadness in the world come out of her eyes. Tears ensued. Quickly realizing the mistake he had made, Dad gave the bread back to the girl, who snatched it and started off without him.
And I stood there, and thought to myself. This girl and I are not that far off each other. Sure, we are citizens of different countries, and I have about 4 feet in height on her, but on the inside, we’re exactly the same. That would be me, without cognitive awareness or acceptable social behavior skills. That girl is going to grow up, and maybe she will become the next Irish Taoiseach. Or maybe she’ll be a street performer on Grafton St. Either way, she’s going to do great things, I can tell. With a passion like that, why not?
A few days ago, a Dubliner told me that “Aran” is Irish for “bread”. It’s a dreadful language, Gaelic. Independent/dependent forms of verbs, some short vowels are lengthened while others are diphthongized… terrible.
I love it.
It was something many people would have disregarded, but being the over-analytical and baby-crazed person that I am, it hit me. Literally. The kid wacked me with her 3 foot French baguette as she ran to catch up with her Pa. I’ll explain.
When you have an hourly countdown going on in your head for when you will be able to enjoy something next, life becomes a reflective and provocative thing. In my head. I’m thinking all day long about bread. It’s all encompassing. Did you know that if you search “Bread” on thesaurus.com, the first definition for it is “daily food”? Ironic.
But back to the grocery store and the mean little kid. I was shopping for dinner. It was decided we would make chicken, again.
And I don’t know how this happened, but I was once an American girl who hated beer, refused meat, and overdosed on bread daily. I have become an Irish squatter who grills her own chicken fillets, and has replaced her nightly dinner roll with a Guinness nightcap.
But again, back to the grocery store. I was wandering around with chicken in one hand, stack of oaties in the other, and I see this cute little girl standing in the middle of the aisle with her back to me. Sporting ringlets and big rubber boots, she was uncoordinatedly following behind her (assumed to be) dad. I went about my shopping (definitely not oodling over the cutest little Irish offspring I’d ever seen), when she turned around abruptly and I saw that she had a baguette the size of a Subway sub clenched in her dinky little hands. Man, she was a sight. Slobber rolling down the torn-open packaging that I could only hope she wasn’t swallowing in her fervor. She looked at me, ripped off another bite of her tightly held prize, then spun and ran away.
Did she know? Did she do that on purpose because she knew I couldn’t be doing that? Even if this whole lent thing was over? Let’s be real. Me slobbering on a stick of bread in the frozen foods aisle wouldn’t emit the same reaction from passerby’s as the toddler in polka dots.
I tried to put it out of my mind.
As I neared the queue to pay, I saw her again in front of me. She had probably devoured at least a third of it by then. Her father, after paying for actual baby mush and suitable forms of food for teething infants, took the bread from her so the the unlucky cashier could scan it. And in that instant, that girl must have had all the sadness in the world come out of her eyes. Tears ensued. Quickly realizing the mistake he had made, Dad gave the bread back to the girl, who snatched it and started off without him.
And I stood there, and thought to myself. This girl and I are not that far off each other. Sure, we are citizens of different countries, and I have about 4 feet in height on her, but on the inside, we’re exactly the same. That would be me, without cognitive awareness or acceptable social behavior skills. That girl is going to grow up, and maybe she will become the next Irish Taoiseach. Or maybe she’ll be a street performer on Grafton St. Either way, she’s going to do great things, I can tell. With a passion like that, why not?
A few days ago, a Dubliner told me that “Aran” is Irish for “bread”. It’s a dreadful language, Gaelic. Independent/dependent forms of verbs, some short vowels are lengthened while others are diphthongized… terrible.
I love it.
27 March, 2010
Day 37
Yeah. It’s been a while.
I gaze at my keyboard as I do of the baguettes in the store fronts, with apprehension, and wonder to myself why it is we tear apart the very fibers that tend to hold ourselves together.
Somber thought for a Friday morning in Trinity library. 32 breadless days in the last 37. 32 mornings of waking up to yet again, porridge. 32 evenings of make-shift tortilla shell pizzas. And you know what? After over a month of the nonsense, I’d like to believe that I’ve learned something important. Bread isn’t my fibers.
Well. Actually, it is to a certain extent…
What I mean to say is that bread isn’t what holds me together; it’s the comfort that is served alongside it. It’s the familiarness that is sprinkled on top. It’s the god damn flakes on the side of the croissant that my tongue melts on impact, I’m that hott.
Eating bread has lead to thinking about bread. Which has lead to writing about bread. Which has lead to psychoanalyzing my undivided and consistent emotional attachment to an inanimate object that lingers a moment on the lips and forever on the hips. This sequence is not favorable. And I blame this terrible progression solely on Trinity.
Yes, you Trinity College, you overzealous and pretentious school.
I have a paper on Insight and Creative Thinking due next week. That’s why I came to the library this morning. To work on my paper. But all I can think about is how much happier, more productive, charismatic, and good looking I would be if I could have just had toast for breakfast.
And this is where it hits me. Bread will do none of the afore mentioned things. It may in fact do the polar opposite. I know this. I am a nutrition student, and though I near-to fail out of every chemistry class, I know what massive amounts of carbohydrates do to the serotonin and insulin in a body. So why do I want it?
About a week ago, I cheated.
In Howth. It was dusk. Wind was calm and the sea was spraying drops of salt water along the pier, and the ambiance was just stellar, it shouldn’t have happened… but it did….
All over a hamburger. A hamburger wrapped in a decadent sesame seed bun. I bit into it like I hadn’t had beef for years (which I haven’t) with the appetite of a practiced carnivore (which I’m not).
My life is a walking contradiction.
So now that I am over the bread cravings and on to the beef, chicken, and fish cravings, I’ve completed my attempt at total and complete irony, thru and thru.
Maybe it’s time to start that Insight paper.
I gaze at my keyboard as I do of the baguettes in the store fronts, with apprehension, and wonder to myself why it is we tear apart the very fibers that tend to hold ourselves together.
Somber thought for a Friday morning in Trinity library. 32 breadless days in the last 37. 32 mornings of waking up to yet again, porridge. 32 evenings of make-shift tortilla shell pizzas. And you know what? After over a month of the nonsense, I’d like to believe that I’ve learned something important. Bread isn’t my fibers.
Well. Actually, it is to a certain extent…
What I mean to say is that bread isn’t what holds me together; it’s the comfort that is served alongside it. It’s the familiarness that is sprinkled on top. It’s the god damn flakes on the side of the croissant that my tongue melts on impact, I’m that hott.
Eating bread has lead to thinking about bread. Which has lead to writing about bread. Which has lead to psychoanalyzing my undivided and consistent emotional attachment to an inanimate object that lingers a moment on the lips and forever on the hips. This sequence is not favorable. And I blame this terrible progression solely on Trinity.
Yes, you Trinity College, you overzealous and pretentious school.
I have a paper on Insight and Creative Thinking due next week. That’s why I came to the library this morning. To work on my paper. But all I can think about is how much happier, more productive, charismatic, and good looking I would be if I could have just had toast for breakfast.
And this is where it hits me. Bread will do none of the afore mentioned things. It may in fact do the polar opposite. I know this. I am a nutrition student, and though I near-to fail out of every chemistry class, I know what massive amounts of carbohydrates do to the serotonin and insulin in a body. So why do I want it?
About a week ago, I cheated.
In Howth. It was dusk. Wind was calm and the sea was spraying drops of salt water along the pier, and the ambiance was just stellar, it shouldn’t have happened… but it did….
All over a hamburger. A hamburger wrapped in a decadent sesame seed bun. I bit into it like I hadn’t had beef for years (which I haven’t) with the appetite of a practiced carnivore (which I’m not).
My life is a walking contradiction.
So now that I am over the bread cravings and on to the beef, chicken, and fish cravings, I’ve completed my attempt at total and complete irony, thru and thru.
Maybe it’s time to start that Insight paper.
10 March, 2010
Day 21
Hey, look over here at the roof. Let’s climb up it.
Not my smartest moment, but potentially my most brilliant.
My lasses and our new English boy-toys followed me over the hand rail as we crept to the peak of the Oasis Hostel roof. Not only because we weren’t tired, but also because one of them was dreadfully cute, and we just couldn’t decide if he was into girls or not.
Saturday night was long behind us and by the time I realized it was Sunday, I was perched like a pigeon, file-line along the shingled rooftop, legs dangling and gleaming out towards Granada, or rather, the space in Granada between the rooftops and Heaven. It’s a shame we don’t see more cities in this way.
But in any case, by the time I realized it was Sunday (!!!) I was very much stuck in one place, with the whole slew of us trying to remain covered by the lone blanket that belonged to the brit on my left. We clumped together (like pigeons) and talked in obnoxious Irish/English/American accents about our past adventures and our future destinations and how America totally owned England in the American Revolution, and how Ireland totally did too. And how Britain has little-man-syndrome. And bread.
Bread. Random, right? Not so much. It was officially Sunday, remember. And the moment I realized I could run down the (roof shingles) stairs and scrounge around the hostel for bread, I was tangled in a mess of wool blanket and human legs. Thus, I weighed my options and the expected outcomes if I were to
A. Leap up and make a bolt for the door to the roof, satisfy my intense craving, consequently sending my new friends down the roof and to their “When In Rome…” death, or
B. Wait it out till morning, or at least when we all ventured back down together.
After much debating I resigned with choice B.
But my girls knew what was up. And as a result, the story of the Bread Blog surfaced. I explained my little idea of self-sacrifice and atonement, and how much bread has been a part of my life. One of the gents challenged it:
Him (I don’t recall his name, but I’ll always remember him): Bread doesn’t seem to be hard to live without.
Me: For me it is, I really love it a lot.
Him: Why give something up if you really love it so?
Me: I guess just to see if I could do it at all.
Him: You make no sense you crazy American. But it’s kind of like that movie, Forest Gump?
Me: I do not follow. Please explain.
Him: Well, he has a whole “life crisis” and so he goes, “well, I wanted to run, so I just ran”, and all of them goes, “Run Forest, Run!”
Me: Am I Forest Gump in this analogy?
Him: Ahem, yes. Yes you are. Eat bread Liz, eat bread!
*All pigeons stooped on the perch join in.
I am not kidding. This conversation did happen. Give or take a few words, by this point it was 5am and no one was speaking coherently.
We contemplated staying awake till the sun rose, but after I established the Christmas Theory (the sooner you fall asleep, the sooner Santa comes), I decided I wanted to pass out PRONTO, so that bread would come sooner. At this point we all turned to the east, and imagined the most beautiful sunrise, went “Awhhh….” And then leaned backwards and shimmied on down.
The next morning, breakfast was complementary, and I ate 4 pieces of toast with Spanish knock-off Nutella.
**I know this post did not contain a lot of DIRECT bread material, however, I’m realizing more and more, the anticipation is sometimes more pleasing than the climax. Interpret as you will.
Not my smartest moment, but potentially my most brilliant.
My lasses and our new English boy-toys followed me over the hand rail as we crept to the peak of the Oasis Hostel roof. Not only because we weren’t tired, but also because one of them was dreadfully cute, and we just couldn’t decide if he was into girls or not.
Saturday night was long behind us and by the time I realized it was Sunday, I was perched like a pigeon, file-line along the shingled rooftop, legs dangling and gleaming out towards Granada, or rather, the space in Granada between the rooftops and Heaven. It’s a shame we don’t see more cities in this way.
But in any case, by the time I realized it was Sunday (!!!) I was very much stuck in one place, with the whole slew of us trying to remain covered by the lone blanket that belonged to the brit on my left. We clumped together (like pigeons) and talked in obnoxious Irish/English/American accents about our past adventures and our future destinations and how America totally owned England in the American Revolution, and how Ireland totally did too. And how Britain has little-man-syndrome. And bread.
Bread. Random, right? Not so much. It was officially Sunday, remember. And the moment I realized I could run down the (roof shingles) stairs and scrounge around the hostel for bread, I was tangled in a mess of wool blanket and human legs. Thus, I weighed my options and the expected outcomes if I were to
A. Leap up and make a bolt for the door to the roof, satisfy my intense craving, consequently sending my new friends down the roof and to their “When In Rome…” death, or
B. Wait it out till morning, or at least when we all ventured back down together.
After much debating I resigned with choice B.
But my girls knew what was up. And as a result, the story of the Bread Blog surfaced. I explained my little idea of self-sacrifice and atonement, and how much bread has been a part of my life. One of the gents challenged it:
Him (I don’t recall his name, but I’ll always remember him): Bread doesn’t seem to be hard to live without.
Me: For me it is, I really love it a lot.
Him: Why give something up if you really love it so?
Me: I guess just to see if I could do it at all.
Him: You make no sense you crazy American. But it’s kind of like that movie, Forest Gump?
Me: I do not follow. Please explain.
Him: Well, he has a whole “life crisis” and so he goes, “well, I wanted to run, so I just ran”, and all of them goes, “Run Forest, Run!”
Me: Am I Forest Gump in this analogy?
Him: Ahem, yes. Yes you are. Eat bread Liz, eat bread!
*All pigeons stooped on the perch join in.
I am not kidding. This conversation did happen. Give or take a few words, by this point it was 5am and no one was speaking coherently.
We contemplated staying awake till the sun rose, but after I established the Christmas Theory (the sooner you fall asleep, the sooner Santa comes), I decided I wanted to pass out PRONTO, so that bread would come sooner. At this point we all turned to the east, and imagined the most beautiful sunrise, went “Awhhh….” And then leaned backwards and shimmied on down.
The next morning, breakfast was complementary, and I ate 4 pieces of toast with Spanish knock-off Nutella.
**I know this post did not contain a lot of DIRECT bread material, however, I’m realizing more and more, the anticipation is sometimes more pleasing than the climax. Interpret as you will.
03 March, 2010
Day 15
It’s been difficult to sit in one place today. Wandering legs led to a wandering mind, and sometimes I find that I am not in Dublin, but rather a whimsy old town in the middle of a glen. Or in the middle of my mind. And everyone there is quite bizarre and inspired and gifted at the art of baking bread. A wandering mind manifested into wandering eyes. Curious eyes that scrounged the corners and dark windows of the shops this morning that were out of power. Eyes that darted to the passerby’s own darting eyes then back to the cobblestone wobbles. My fingers drumming my hip as I turn off Grafton onto Wicklow and follow the indent in the sidewalk to stand before the small teal door of my prized French café. I won’t be eating bread today. It’s not like I’ve forgotten this inopportune detail.
I can’t remember why it is I’ve wandered this far.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be an addict.
I start breathing heavier, because the sweet woman behind the counter recognizes me and assumes my normal behavior to ensue, and for her to get her fix of crazy American banter this morning, but I think in a way she knows it’s not happening. She can see my eyes. “Ahs yeah, she’s a goner,” she’s thinking. I nod my steam-filled head on my way past the window, “It’s still early in the game.”
I think it’s fair to say that a thing can be observed clearer when it’s not in front of your face. You don’t know a good thing till it’s gone. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Love is a battlefield. You get it. As my weeks go by with only one out of seven days being bread-furnished, I start to see where my multi-daily regimen would have fallen into position, almost unconsciously. Filling up idle hands, silences, mumbled words, and most importantly, bellies.
There are times of day, places in the city, and conversations with people, which have become a sort of Pavlov conditioned response trigger that sends off a vibe that says, nay, screams bread. But alas, I am above a trained animal, and shall continue my attempt to prove so.
I met a lovely Dublin man who works for Trinity today, and his wife is taking bread baking lessons in town. He explained to me how she goes every Thursday, unaware of what the lesson will be on for that week; pizza? Focaccia bread? Bauernbrot? Either way, she takes home to him at least 5 or 6 baked attempts. They have so much by the weekend, he said he might need a bit of help putting it to use. He thinks I’m a crazy and a little eccentric (and who’s to really argue with that), but he might bundle some up and bring it to campus for me some Sunday. What a guy.
I tell him, I’m doing this to prove a point.
What point is that?
That even though it’s splendid to surprise all the skeptics, the sliest one to shock is yourself. That’s a lot of ‘s’s.
I’ll be in Granada this Sunday. And I do believe I’ll be in a skirt, wandering the coast with a trusted baguette.
I can’t remember why it is I’ve wandered this far.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be an addict.
I start breathing heavier, because the sweet woman behind the counter recognizes me and assumes my normal behavior to ensue, and for her to get her fix of crazy American banter this morning, but I think in a way she knows it’s not happening. She can see my eyes. “Ahs yeah, she’s a goner,” she’s thinking. I nod my steam-filled head on my way past the window, “It’s still early in the game.”
I think it’s fair to say that a thing can be observed clearer when it’s not in front of your face. You don’t know a good thing till it’s gone. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Love is a battlefield. You get it. As my weeks go by with only one out of seven days being bread-furnished, I start to see where my multi-daily regimen would have fallen into position, almost unconsciously. Filling up idle hands, silences, mumbled words, and most importantly, bellies.
There are times of day, places in the city, and conversations with people, which have become a sort of Pavlov conditioned response trigger that sends off a vibe that says, nay, screams bread. But alas, I am above a trained animal, and shall continue my attempt to prove so.
I met a lovely Dublin man who works for Trinity today, and his wife is taking bread baking lessons in town. He explained to me how she goes every Thursday, unaware of what the lesson will be on for that week; pizza? Focaccia bread? Bauernbrot? Either way, she takes home to him at least 5 or 6 baked attempts. They have so much by the weekend, he said he might need a bit of help putting it to use. He thinks I’m a crazy and a little eccentric (and who’s to really argue with that), but he might bundle some up and bring it to campus for me some Sunday. What a guy.
I tell him, I’m doing this to prove a point.
What point is that?
That even though it’s splendid to surprise all the skeptics, the sliest one to shock is yourself. That’s a lot of ‘s’s.
I’ll be in Granada this Sunday. And I do believe I’ll be in a skirt, wandering the coast with a trusted baguette.
26 February, 2010
Day 9
I would like to begin by taking care of some housekeeping items. Firstly because I’ve always wondered what housekeeping items actually were. Secondly because I have encountered many queries and apprehension in the past week. I will try to address this all in a chronological order:
-No, I have not surrendered and cheated on my bread- mutiny. There will be no white flag upon my door.
-Pizza is not considered bread (at least the way I make it at my flat, with white tortilla shells). Hence, I have been eating ‘pizza’ every day for either lunch or dinner, sometimes both.
-I DID happen to realize there were 40 days left of lent if the Sundays were subtracted from the original count of 46. This was another reason I felt justified in keeping Sundays separate from the everyday blunder that is now my life.
-Abstaining from spaghetti sandwiches has led me to the realization that to place one form of starch in between and/or rolled up inside another starch (with a bit of marinara sauce) is genius, and whom ever thought up the concept deserves a medal. Or at least a really big hug.
-I do tend to smell my food before I eat it, even if it’s scentless. I also don’t really cry as much as my blog would let on that I do. Really, I don’t.
I guess next order of business would be, bread, right? **By the way, kudos to the lone ranger who voted D on my poll. About time my audience got some hair on its chest.**
Bread in the past: There is a little book located here at Trinity College in Dublin. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s dreadfully old, and you can’t understand it (unless you happen to be from the 7th century). But it’s still awfully pretty to look at. There are many pictures of Jesus, and odd little angels and demons playing in the dips of ‘U’s and the swirls of ‘S’s. And there’s bread. In the hands of angels and little babies (we think they are babies but they could be Benjamin Button persons, they all tend to have the 5 o’clock shadow), but either way they have bread. Running around the pages and ducking into margins and under borders with their nibbles. Greedy little bastards.
Bread in the present: I have made it a habit to go to a small Italian café located close to campus, give or take every other week. It started as a meeting spot for my program to buy us students a coffee and croissant, but I have adopted it as my personal refuge. A few days ago us students met again there with our program directors for our free coffee and croissant (you would be MAD if you passed this shit up for free). And yet I did. I had to. Remember? Croissants count as bread, so I had a mocha. Thankfully I had a brilliantly chiseled Italian waiter to keep my bread-starved mind distracted.
Bread in the future: I am expecting my first states-side visitor this weekend. He is arriving on Sunday, and will be carrying a suitcase containing 50 lbs. of assorted things; most assorted of them all is bread! After all, if not for dire situations such as these, what are Dad’s for?
-No, I have not surrendered and cheated on my bread- mutiny. There will be no white flag upon my door.
-Pizza is not considered bread (at least the way I make it at my flat, with white tortilla shells). Hence, I have been eating ‘pizza’ every day for either lunch or dinner, sometimes both.
-I DID happen to realize there were 40 days left of lent if the Sundays were subtracted from the original count of 46. This was another reason I felt justified in keeping Sundays separate from the everyday blunder that is now my life.
-Abstaining from spaghetti sandwiches has led me to the realization that to place one form of starch in between and/or rolled up inside another starch (with a bit of marinara sauce) is genius, and whom ever thought up the concept deserves a medal. Or at least a really big hug.
-I do tend to smell my food before I eat it, even if it’s scentless. I also don’t really cry as much as my blog would let on that I do. Really, I don’t.
I guess next order of business would be, bread, right? **By the way, kudos to the lone ranger who voted D on my poll. About time my audience got some hair on its chest.**
Bread in the past: There is a little book located here at Trinity College in Dublin. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s dreadfully old, and you can’t understand it (unless you happen to be from the 7th century). But it’s still awfully pretty to look at. There are many pictures of Jesus, and odd little angels and demons playing in the dips of ‘U’s and the swirls of ‘S’s. And there’s bread. In the hands of angels and little babies (we think they are babies but they could be Benjamin Button persons, they all tend to have the 5 o’clock shadow), but either way they have bread. Running around the pages and ducking into margins and under borders with their nibbles. Greedy little bastards.
Bread in the present: I have made it a habit to go to a small Italian café located close to campus, give or take every other week. It started as a meeting spot for my program to buy us students a coffee and croissant, but I have adopted it as my personal refuge. A few days ago us students met again there with our program directors for our free coffee and croissant (you would be MAD if you passed this shit up for free). And yet I did. I had to. Remember? Croissants count as bread, so I had a mocha. Thankfully I had a brilliantly chiseled Italian waiter to keep my bread-starved mind distracted.
Bread in the future: I am expecting my first states-side visitor this weekend. He is arriving on Sunday, and will be carrying a suitcase containing 50 lbs. of assorted things; most assorted of them all is bread! After all, if not for dire situations such as these, what are Dad’s for?
21 February, 2010
Day 4
She looked at me like I had just asked her why men had nipples. So I decided to ask again, “Are these organic?” The middle-aged Portuguese woman now eyed the grapes she had set at 2 euro a carton, and said, “No. They are seedless.” As she said this, a piece of something, possibly a seed, came spewing out her perturbed mouth. And thus sums up my experience with substituting bread for produce.
However, as all qualified nutrition students know, there are more food groups than the grain and fruit ones. At least that’s what they told me. And so I have (over the last erroneous and rigid 4 days) begun implementing substitutionary foods in for where I would normally eat bread. Is substitutionary a word?
Day 1, I went to an adorable Italian café and saw at least 12 bread choices from the starters menu that I wanted, but got a spinach salad instead. Oh joy... Day 2 I ate soup after yoga class (without bread, though I did eat cream crackers afterwards [NOT BREAD!]). Day 3 I made spaghetti and red sauce, and sliced a few cheese chucks to top it off and cried because I wanted something to make a spaghetti sandwich with. And realized a block of cheddar wouldn’t cut it.
I’ve become creative with my cuisine choices this week. That’s a lie, I hate trying new foods, and you know it. I’ve eaten a lot of cereal (2 boxes this week and counting). A moderate amount of soup. Some pasta. Crackers and nutella, until I ate the whole jar of nutella. Crackers with peanut butter. Raisins with peanut butter. Sometimes when all the service methods of peanut butter are gone, I’ll have just a spoonful of peanut butter.
Friday was the hardest. That was the day that my hope faltered momentarily when I was walking home from somewhere, probably not school, and saw an older woman standing by the Grand Canal, tossing bread to the birds that had accumulated around her. But not just a few pieces, she had a whole loaf by her side, consistently diminishing as she ripped off a chunk and tossed it up to see which bird would nip the other ones out of the way and catch it. And I stopped and stared at the spectacle, until the whole loaf shrunk to a meager little bit, and the old woman popped it into her mouth. I cried inside. Actually I could have been crying on the outside as well. That would explain the bizarre look she gave me as she collected the brown bag it came in and hobbled passed me.
You may wonder, is there a method to the madness? Can there be any desirable outcome to this endeavor, or will this simply be a failed attempt at personal and spiritual growth that will undermine the future of all of my confrontations and dilemmas about will-power and strength?
At least that's what I'm wondering. Quite a bit. And the honest answer I can give you is this: I do not consider madness to be me; therefore I see no reason to enforce a method.
It may be a complete waste of time and blog space. It may be the greatest experience of my inexperienced life. But I can tell you this with certainty, my first Sunday of lent (‘God’s day’, or ‘Cheat Day’, which ever you prefer), began with buttery toast and a smile, and is going to end with me devouring a homemade loaf of braided bread from a little French place about 20 minutes away. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to say that.
However, as all qualified nutrition students know, there are more food groups than the grain and fruit ones. At least that’s what they told me. And so I have (over the last erroneous and rigid 4 days) begun implementing substitutionary foods in for where I would normally eat bread. Is substitutionary a word?
Day 1, I went to an adorable Italian café and saw at least 12 bread choices from the starters menu that I wanted, but got a spinach salad instead. Oh joy... Day 2 I ate soup after yoga class (without bread, though I did eat cream crackers afterwards [NOT BREAD!]). Day 3 I made spaghetti and red sauce, and sliced a few cheese chucks to top it off and cried because I wanted something to make a spaghetti sandwich with. And realized a block of cheddar wouldn’t cut it.
I’ve become creative with my cuisine choices this week. That’s a lie, I hate trying new foods, and you know it. I’ve eaten a lot of cereal (2 boxes this week and counting). A moderate amount of soup. Some pasta. Crackers and nutella, until I ate the whole jar of nutella. Crackers with peanut butter. Raisins with peanut butter. Sometimes when all the service methods of peanut butter are gone, I’ll have just a spoonful of peanut butter.
Friday was the hardest. That was the day that my hope faltered momentarily when I was walking home from somewhere, probably not school, and saw an older woman standing by the Grand Canal, tossing bread to the birds that had accumulated around her. But not just a few pieces, she had a whole loaf by her side, consistently diminishing as she ripped off a chunk and tossed it up to see which bird would nip the other ones out of the way and catch it. And I stopped and stared at the spectacle, until the whole loaf shrunk to a meager little bit, and the old woman popped it into her mouth. I cried inside. Actually I could have been crying on the outside as well. That would explain the bizarre look she gave me as she collected the brown bag it came in and hobbled passed me.
You may wonder, is there a method to the madness? Can there be any desirable outcome to this endeavor, or will this simply be a failed attempt at personal and spiritual growth that will undermine the future of all of my confrontations and dilemmas about will-power and strength?
At least that's what I'm wondering. Quite a bit. And the honest answer I can give you is this: I do not consider madness to be me; therefore I see no reason to enforce a method.
It may be a complete waste of time and blog space. It may be the greatest experience of my inexperienced life. But I can tell you this with certainty, my first Sunday of lent (‘God’s day’, or ‘Cheat Day’, which ever you prefer), began with buttery toast and a smile, and is going to end with me devouring a homemade loaf of braided bread from a little French place about 20 minutes away. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to say that.
16 February, 2010
Can I get a Hail Mary?
What I am about to say is not to be taken lightly. It is not to be taken in haste, vain, or with a side of butter and jam. I’m talking about penitence, people. Prayer. Almsgiving. Self-denial. LENT! The next 44 days of my meager little existence here in the Dub will be bread-less. Don’t panic. I’ve a plan.
Hold on a tick. I have pumpkin bread in the oven and I believe it’s just browning…
Okay. Where was I? Aha. Yeah. No bread. It is Fat Tuesday, aka Pancake Tuesday (or if you prefer, Marti Gras), and I am preparing my pumpkin loaves for transit to the IES center where we are having a big ol’ pancake party. I sincerely believe they are holding this party exclusively for my pleasure (they know I have a fearful 44 days ahead of me…), but they say it’s an annual thing here in Ireland. Pancake Tuesday. This is one custom I simply MUST bring back to the states.
For all you doubters and non-believers, I have concocted an argument to express my terms and intentions. I anticipate (and am already receiving) complaints, inquiries, retorts, and simple downright bitching. But alas, Liz has done her homework, and she is ready.
For the practice of Lent, I will forgo bread starting tomorrow (Ash Wednesday), until April 4th (Easter).
And here’s where the disclaimers come into play:
DISCLAIMER #1: the term ‘bread’ applies to none of the following: tortilla wraps, noodles, crackers, (Irish) chips, pancakes, and those little rice cake thingies.
DISCLAIMER #2: the term ‘bread’ applies to all of the following: bread slices, bread loaves, scones, crepes, croutons.
DISCLAIMER #3: I am NOT a catholic. I do not affiliate with any organized religion. With that said, I do, however, possess an acute urge to misconstrue and use at my discretion the tradition of Lent, to better my own personal will-power and achievement.
DISCLAIMER #4: Though I am a Diet Coke Catholic (afore mentioned disclaimer), I have committed to this idea and after extensive research, I have concluded the Catholics are crazy because between February 17th and April 4th lies 46 days. Bollocks.
DISCLAIMER #5: I will practice penitence (aka won’t eat bread) every day until Easter, EXCEPT Sundays. That’s God’s day, folks. And it is the (majority) belief that no one, I repeat, no one should fast on this holy day. I’m just listening to the good word.
Nothing enthralls, motivates, or controls me as much as bread. It is my daily luxury that has been used and abused for far too long. Yes, I’m being dramatic, but I’m also being honest. It’s time to see what Elizabeth is without the b-r-e-a-d: Elizth.
Wonderful adventures to come, I promise whole-heartedly.
On that note, I’m off to gorge myself with flapjacks and scones.
Hold on a tick. I have pumpkin bread in the oven and I believe it’s just browning…
Okay. Where was I? Aha. Yeah. No bread. It is Fat Tuesday, aka Pancake Tuesday (or if you prefer, Marti Gras), and I am preparing my pumpkin loaves for transit to the IES center where we are having a big ol’ pancake party. I sincerely believe they are holding this party exclusively for my pleasure (they know I have a fearful 44 days ahead of me…), but they say it’s an annual thing here in Ireland. Pancake Tuesday. This is one custom I simply MUST bring back to the states.
For all you doubters and non-believers, I have concocted an argument to express my terms and intentions. I anticipate (and am already receiving) complaints, inquiries, retorts, and simple downright bitching. But alas, Liz has done her homework, and she is ready.
For the practice of Lent, I will forgo bread starting tomorrow (Ash Wednesday), until April 4th (Easter).
And here’s where the disclaimers come into play:
DISCLAIMER #1: the term ‘bread’ applies to none of the following: tortilla wraps, noodles, crackers, (Irish) chips, pancakes, and those little rice cake thingies.
DISCLAIMER #2: the term ‘bread’ applies to all of the following: bread slices, bread loaves, scones, crepes, croutons.
DISCLAIMER #3: I am NOT a catholic. I do not affiliate with any organized religion. With that said, I do, however, possess an acute urge to misconstrue and use at my discretion the tradition of Lent, to better my own personal will-power and achievement.
DISCLAIMER #4: Though I am a Diet Coke Catholic (afore mentioned disclaimer), I have committed to this idea and after extensive research, I have concluded the Catholics are crazy because between February 17th and April 4th lies 46 days. Bollocks.
DISCLAIMER #5: I will practice penitence (aka won’t eat bread) every day until Easter, EXCEPT Sundays. That’s God’s day, folks. And it is the (majority) belief that no one, I repeat, no one should fast on this holy day. I’m just listening to the good word.
Nothing enthralls, motivates, or controls me as much as bread. It is my daily luxury that has been used and abused for far too long. Yes, I’m being dramatic, but I’m also being honest. It’s time to see what Elizabeth is without the b-r-e-a-d: Elizth.
Wonderful adventures to come, I promise whole-heartedly.
On that note, I’m off to gorge myself with flapjacks and scones.
12 February, 2010
I don't want somebody to love me... just give me bread whenever I want it.
I can’t sleep.
After a sunny, adventurous, whimsical day wandering in Dublin, it all comes down to my girlies and I watching a romantic comedy, followed by Sex and the City reruns, contemplating in our flat why it is, exactly, we are single and unenthusiastically mingling in one of the grandest European cities on the eve of the dreaded V day.
That may be a run-on sentence. I never was good with grammar. But ANYWAYS, I felt it note worth for my bread blog. I’ll explain.
I’m not good with men. At least, being near them. But I’m rather good at all the other options. That’s what I have learned here. I wanted to go to Europe, where wine is cheaper than water and the men are sexy and sensitive, but the truth is, the wine ain’t so grand. And the men, well, men are still men, no matter what island you are on.
And it’s almost nauseating to watch Carrie whimper over Big. Even though she’s in the (self-described) greatest city in the world. So the American girls come to Ireland to find the man that will make up for all the stupid American boys. And I’ll stop starting sentences with ‘and’, just as soon as I find my train of thought…
Sometimes catastrophic, earth-shattering events ensue after a night out in this young and beautiful town. Sometimes you meet no one worth more than the Guinness dribbled on their black muscle tee, and you go home and decide to bake a loaf of bread. You bake a loaf of multi-grain brown bread in 3 mini-tins that cost too much in the corner store. And this makes you happy. Not only because you didn’t burn the shit out of the first thing you have placed in the oven in 6 weeks, but also because it’s something warm to hold, that tends to not talk back.
So I guess that’s my train. And my rant for feminists in Ireland and beyond. I promise it won’t happen again, but I thought you should know, whoever you are:
Love is flexible, wild, unruly and bottomless. And mine just happens to be 250 degrees Celsius and 43 minutes away.
After a sunny, adventurous, whimsical day wandering in Dublin, it all comes down to my girlies and I watching a romantic comedy, followed by Sex and the City reruns, contemplating in our flat why it is, exactly, we are single and unenthusiastically mingling in one of the grandest European cities on the eve of the dreaded V day.
That may be a run-on sentence. I never was good with grammar. But ANYWAYS, I felt it note worth for my bread blog. I’ll explain.
I’m not good with men. At least, being near them. But I’m rather good at all the other options. That’s what I have learned here. I wanted to go to Europe, where wine is cheaper than water and the men are sexy and sensitive, but the truth is, the wine ain’t so grand. And the men, well, men are still men, no matter what island you are on.
And it’s almost nauseating to watch Carrie whimper over Big. Even though she’s in the (self-described) greatest city in the world. So the American girls come to Ireland to find the man that will make up for all the stupid American boys. And I’ll stop starting sentences with ‘and’, just as soon as I find my train of thought…
Sometimes catastrophic, earth-shattering events ensue after a night out in this young and beautiful town. Sometimes you meet no one worth more than the Guinness dribbled on their black muscle tee, and you go home and decide to bake a loaf of bread. You bake a loaf of multi-grain brown bread in 3 mini-tins that cost too much in the corner store. And this makes you happy. Not only because you didn’t burn the shit out of the first thing you have placed in the oven in 6 weeks, but also because it’s something warm to hold, that tends to not talk back.
So I guess that’s my train. And my rant for feminists in Ireland and beyond. I promise it won’t happen again, but I thought you should know, whoever you are:
Love is flexible, wild, unruly and bottomless. And mine just happens to be 250 degrees Celsius and 43 minutes away.
08 February, 2010
Galway Girl (my version)
Today I felt groggy. It was a groggy day outside, so it made sense. Not a lot makes sense in Ireland, so I took this to be a good thing.
Because I have been in Galway for 3 days, and because I have no money or ambition to buy actual food, I woke up to 2 pieces of toast with crunchy peanut butter. For lunch, to my dismay, a beautiful entrée did not appear in the fridge during the 5 hour gap, but rather I made two pieces of toast with peanut butter again. Except THIS time, I added a little nutella (or the knock-off brand, I’m poor remember?) and put the slices together to make a sandwich. Yeah. I had toast for breakfast and a sandwich for lunch. And for dinner? Well, what do you think?
Wrong. After my yoga class I became unrivaled with motivation and cooked some spaghetti and broccoli.
And then ate bread when I got hungry again.
Did I mention I went to Galway? Lovely town. Lovely people. I was welcomed by all glossy-eyed men aged over 50 with a few balding spots, and pints were handed off left and right to me. Grand, really. But the kicker is, alas, the bread.
During our tour of the Cliffs of Moher, we stopped in a restaurant that was serving lamb, and stew, and other things that I don’t like to eat. So, I went to the man doing the carving and asked for a plate of potatoes and bread. And he must have thought me to be odd, but he gave me a plate full of piping hot potatoes and poppy seed rolls. I then succeeded in talking the cashier into only charging me 3 euro for the food.
It’s amazing what one can do with a few Euros and a bargaining mind-set.
That night, we lasses were treated to a dinner in a local pub by Allison’s family friend. I got a big bowl of penne with broccoli and cheese sauce. And bread.
And while I was walking to my yoga class today, I began to think about lent. For no particular reason really, besides the fact that I’m living in an uuber catholic country, and I don’t practice an ounce of Christianity. But I began to think, and thinking led to an idea. I want to give something up for lent.
Not only to be one of those A la carte Catholics that only use religion for weddings, funerals, and fun drinking celebrations in between, but to also practice my self-determinism. I have begun consideration to give up bread for the duration of lent (I’m told it’s 40 days long). I haven’t decided if this is an incredible challenge that I am within realm of succeeding at, or if this is a terrible, terrible mistake. And should be put out of mind instantly.
Top 4 Reasons I am NOT a Galway Girl (though I will always squeal in delight for Gerard Butler):
1. I do not own a skirt shorter than the length of my ass.
2. I cannot support the terrible nutrition habits of Supermac customers at 3am.
3. Galway girls are tough, striking, crazy women. And I’m only two of the three.
4. GG’s (for the quick ones….) don’t dance. They sit posh-like and stare at me, shakin my butt to Sweet Home Alabama. And you know what? I just want to dance.
Because I have been in Galway for 3 days, and because I have no money or ambition to buy actual food, I woke up to 2 pieces of toast with crunchy peanut butter. For lunch, to my dismay, a beautiful entrée did not appear in the fridge during the 5 hour gap, but rather I made two pieces of toast with peanut butter again. Except THIS time, I added a little nutella (or the knock-off brand, I’m poor remember?) and put the slices together to make a sandwich. Yeah. I had toast for breakfast and a sandwich for lunch. And for dinner? Well, what do you think?
Wrong. After my yoga class I became unrivaled with motivation and cooked some spaghetti and broccoli.
And then ate bread when I got hungry again.
Did I mention I went to Galway? Lovely town. Lovely people. I was welcomed by all glossy-eyed men aged over 50 with a few balding spots, and pints were handed off left and right to me. Grand, really. But the kicker is, alas, the bread.
During our tour of the Cliffs of Moher, we stopped in a restaurant that was serving lamb, and stew, and other things that I don’t like to eat. So, I went to the man doing the carving and asked for a plate of potatoes and bread. And he must have thought me to be odd, but he gave me a plate full of piping hot potatoes and poppy seed rolls. I then succeeded in talking the cashier into only charging me 3 euro for the food.
It’s amazing what one can do with a few Euros and a bargaining mind-set.
That night, we lasses were treated to a dinner in a local pub by Allison’s family friend. I got a big bowl of penne with broccoli and cheese sauce. And bread.
And while I was walking to my yoga class today, I began to think about lent. For no particular reason really, besides the fact that I’m living in an uuber catholic country, and I don’t practice an ounce of Christianity. But I began to think, and thinking led to an idea. I want to give something up for lent.
Not only to be one of those A la carte Catholics that only use religion for weddings, funerals, and fun drinking celebrations in between, but to also practice my self-determinism. I have begun consideration to give up bread for the duration of lent (I’m told it’s 40 days long). I haven’t decided if this is an incredible challenge that I am within realm of succeeding at, or if this is a terrible, terrible mistake. And should be put out of mind instantly.
Top 4 Reasons I am NOT a Galway Girl (though I will always squeal in delight for Gerard Butler):
1. I do not own a skirt shorter than the length of my ass.
2. I cannot support the terrible nutrition habits of Supermac customers at 3am.
3. Galway girls are tough, striking, crazy women. And I’m only two of the three.
4. GG’s (for the quick ones….) don’t dance. They sit posh-like and stare at me, shakin my butt to Sweet Home Alabama. And you know what? I just want to dance.
30 January, 2010
And even though we ain't got money... I'm so hungry.
I am not in a position to complain. Factor in natural disasters and the shit economy, if you have a home (especially one in a temporary country), you are doing just fine. I will not waste time chucking a tanty (Australian lingo). However, I will waste time elaborating on how I have come to be bankrupt 25 days into my Ireland Exploration.
It all started this fine day that I recognized my sincere love for Guinness. A blessed, cursed day. Pint prices range from 3.50-7 Euros, depending on the bar (and the push up bra).I have spent more on alcohol than was expected, so I re-budgeted to cut out a bit of groceries. Which sounded reasonable (calories are calories, says the nutritionist). And yet by 4pm my stomach was twisted up inside, begging shamelessly for carbs, at any price.
I used to be a poor college student. Now, I am a poor traveler that has a bread/ Guinness fetish. And no one likes to deal with THAT person. SO, I have been buying overpriced, impulsive, street vendor homemade loaves of goodness.
Until today. Today, my magical plastic card was declined when I tried to buy a leather jacket. I thought the cashier was running the card wrong, just being an reckless Polish tween. After all, it had just worked when I bought that poinsettia the other day… And yet, the Poland immigrant was not at fault. I was. After visiting the ATM, and having it beep at me and spit my card in my face, I found myself out of cash, with 4.20 Euro in my wallet from last night. Again, not a coincidence.
So, what would you do with that amount of money to live on until an indefinite amount of time? Right. Buy bread. And I did. Ms. Marley and I ventured to the Temple Bar Markets, and I found a lovely garlic and rosemary loaf with little checkered squares on top. 3.50 Euro. Then, there was .70 cents. I pitched the rest in to buy my first ever crepe with the girls. It had nutella and shredded coconut stuffed inside. Crepes cannot be fully explained, but they can be devoured in 1.3 minutes flat.
Like I said, I’m in no position to complain. I have a full belly, chocolate smeared face, and leftovers for dinner. But this situation I find myself in does spur the question: Will the bread obsession survive when I am forced to re-budget my money for books, sour candy, and toilet paper?
One can only scrape up the crumbs and hope.
It all started this fine day that I recognized my sincere love for Guinness. A blessed, cursed day. Pint prices range from 3.50-7 Euros, depending on the bar (and the push up bra).I have spent more on alcohol than was expected, so I re-budgeted to cut out a bit of groceries. Which sounded reasonable (calories are calories, says the nutritionist). And yet by 4pm my stomach was twisted up inside, begging shamelessly for carbs, at any price.
I used to be a poor college student. Now, I am a poor traveler that has a bread/ Guinness fetish. And no one likes to deal with THAT person. SO, I have been buying overpriced, impulsive, street vendor homemade loaves of goodness.
Until today. Today, my magical plastic card was declined when I tried to buy a leather jacket. I thought the cashier was running the card wrong, just being an reckless Polish tween. After all, it had just worked when I bought that poinsettia the other day… And yet, the Poland immigrant was not at fault. I was. After visiting the ATM, and having it beep at me and spit my card in my face, I found myself out of cash, with 4.20 Euro in my wallet from last night. Again, not a coincidence.
So, what would you do with that amount of money to live on until an indefinite amount of time? Right. Buy bread. And I did. Ms. Marley and I ventured to the Temple Bar Markets, and I found a lovely garlic and rosemary loaf with little checkered squares on top. 3.50 Euro. Then, there was .70 cents. I pitched the rest in to buy my first ever crepe with the girls. It had nutella and shredded coconut stuffed inside. Crepes cannot be fully explained, but they can be devoured in 1.3 minutes flat.
Like I said, I’m in no position to complain. I have a full belly, chocolate smeared face, and leftovers for dinner. But this situation I find myself in does spur the question: Will the bread obsession survive when I am forced to re-budget my money for books, sour candy, and toilet paper?
One can only scrape up the crumbs and hope.
25 January, 2010
…But keep the old. Except when it turns moldy.
A long walk and a quick hop to a train by 9am led us out of Dublin. Strung out and eating banana after banana (cheap, not chimp), I sat facing my roommate as we raced closer to Killkenny.
Yes, it is an old town. No, it is not where the South Park writers were inspired to generate various ways of killing the bobble-head character. Most definitely, it is where my bread obsession lead to the inevitable and utterly gratifying feeling of being stuffed.
Not in the Irish sense, a euphemism for being vastly sexually satisfied (not available for comment). But rather in the American sense, the feeling one get’s when inertia takes over, and the stomach just surrenders to the curvatious carbs. After trying out 4 different breads, I have concluded the following:
1. Soda bread from the bakery in town tasted of corn bread, which makes me think of Mississippi.
2. Homemade brown bread slices in the Kitty Kafe resemble my grandma’s bread I once ate that had mold growing on it.
3. While eating the discount mound of bread for lunch, dinner, and breakfast, I haphazardly searched the loaf for green spots as I shoved it down my throat, because as we all know (or just a select few who have witnessed the spectacle); Elizabeth and mold do not mix well.
4. Mississippi is moist. And moldy. And so is Ireland. What am I doing here?
I am here trotting through fog. I am here doodling in my journal and walking down the wrong side of the sidewalk and wearing silly colorful clothes that make middle aged men think I am a street performer.
We met another American in the hostel we were staying in. She decided to take off for a month upon graduating from a school in San Francisco to tour Ireland by herself. She was eating dried fruit and seeded crackers on the bottom bunk, so I leaned down from my perch, and said, I bet you’d like some bread. I was right.
In a foggy little town, where stag parties ramp through narrow streets and pubs just try to keep the windows warm and lit, we broke bread with our Californian friend. 2 loaves, 2 slices, and umpteenth bananas later, I’m thanking St. Patrick we didn’t have to use the epipen.
P.S. I was inspired today. I was inspired to start cooking (correction: baking), but more to come of that later.
P.S.S. I was also inspired to find “the butter of my bread”. I think he has blue eyes and a saucy grin. He must be around here somewhere…
Yes, it is an old town. No, it is not where the South Park writers were inspired to generate various ways of killing the bobble-head character. Most definitely, it is where my bread obsession lead to the inevitable and utterly gratifying feeling of being stuffed.
Not in the Irish sense, a euphemism for being vastly sexually satisfied (not available for comment). But rather in the American sense, the feeling one get’s when inertia takes over, and the stomach just surrenders to the curvatious carbs. After trying out 4 different breads, I have concluded the following:
1. Soda bread from the bakery in town tasted of corn bread, which makes me think of Mississippi.
2. Homemade brown bread slices in the Kitty Kafe resemble my grandma’s bread I once ate that had mold growing on it.
3. While eating the discount mound of bread for lunch, dinner, and breakfast, I haphazardly searched the loaf for green spots as I shoved it down my throat, because as we all know (or just a select few who have witnessed the spectacle); Elizabeth and mold do not mix well.
4. Mississippi is moist. And moldy. And so is Ireland. What am I doing here?
I am here trotting through fog. I am here doodling in my journal and walking down the wrong side of the sidewalk and wearing silly colorful clothes that make middle aged men think I am a street performer.
We met another American in the hostel we were staying in. She decided to take off for a month upon graduating from a school in San Francisco to tour Ireland by herself. She was eating dried fruit and seeded crackers on the bottom bunk, so I leaned down from my perch, and said, I bet you’d like some bread. I was right.
In a foggy little town, where stag parties ramp through narrow streets and pubs just try to keep the windows warm and lit, we broke bread with our Californian friend. 2 loaves, 2 slices, and umpteenth bananas later, I’m thanking St. Patrick we didn’t have to use the epipen.
P.S. I was inspired today. I was inspired to start cooking (correction: baking), but more to come of that later.
P.S.S. I was also inspired to find “the butter of my bread”. I think he has blue eyes and a saucy grin. He must be around here somewhere…
20 January, 2010
Make new friends...
If heaven were a town, and the only way of arriving was to ride the train for 4.20 (coincidence, maybe) euro, where an aspiring pastry chef and his wife gave free samples of flapjacks, and rich men drove shiny Saabs with rich cappuccino’s riding shotgun, and young women pranced with cocker spaniels down the shoreline while pigeons ate a crumb off your sleeve, along a vast cliff facing eastward and eternity, with only the lapping waves and bobbing seals understanding where you have been, or where you are going, well my friends, I reached heaven on Sunday. Stairway not required.
I’m not over exaggerating. I would fess up if I was.
After coming down from an 18-month meat hiatus, I ate my first bite of fish in this little shore town. I was so inspired, I also had a bite of chips. You may have heard of this rather delectable platter, it’s quite catchy.
However, as the meal wore on, I did not feel fulfillment. I guess you could say I couldn’t gain satisfaction (without the double-negative). And it is my belief that, while in heaven, one should at least, be able to have that sense of warm, gooey, sometimes fruity, happy feeling. And so, obviously, I returned to the market to barter with the bread baker.
She was a stickler, that one. I tried everything I could think of to gain even an inch of bread for free. As she recognized me from before (this was the third time I came for samples), she kindly asked if I wanted to buy anything when I stopped at her stand. I told her, I’d like to buy a banana bread loaf, but needed at least one more sample to verify my decision. She looked skeptically at me, but obliged. The bread bit very well melted on my tongue, and I held true to my word.
I payed 6 euro for a ‘small by American standards’ loaf, which could have bought all produce and a chocolate bar for the week. But you know what? That woman was proud. And she damn well better be. Cause she won. I bought her beautifully crafted, walnut checkered, butter-swooned bread. I ate half the loaf right there at the market. I told her I’d be back though, and I’d bring my negotiating tactics and A-game.
I think I made a new friend.
I’m not over exaggerating. I would fess up if I was.
After coming down from an 18-month meat hiatus, I ate my first bite of fish in this little shore town. I was so inspired, I also had a bite of chips. You may have heard of this rather delectable platter, it’s quite catchy.
However, as the meal wore on, I did not feel fulfillment. I guess you could say I couldn’t gain satisfaction (without the double-negative). And it is my belief that, while in heaven, one should at least, be able to have that sense of warm, gooey, sometimes fruity, happy feeling. And so, obviously, I returned to the market to barter with the bread baker.
She was a stickler, that one. I tried everything I could think of to gain even an inch of bread for free. As she recognized me from before (this was the third time I came for samples), she kindly asked if I wanted to buy anything when I stopped at her stand. I told her, I’d like to buy a banana bread loaf, but needed at least one more sample to verify my decision. She looked skeptically at me, but obliged. The bread bit very well melted on my tongue, and I held true to my word.
I payed 6 euro for a ‘small by American standards’ loaf, which could have bought all produce and a chocolate bar for the week. But you know what? That woman was proud. And she damn well better be. Cause she won. I bought her beautifully crafted, walnut checkered, butter-swooned bread. I ate half the loaf right there at the market. I told her I’d be back though, and I’d bring my negotiating tactics and A-game.
I think I made a new friend.
15 January, 2010
Ferris Bueller You're My Hero
Today was a most peculiar day. Skipping class at Trinity College, before actual semester classes commence, may not be the smartest of thoughts I've had before. And yet, Intro to Women's Irish Lit was not all that alluring, and it was so sunny outside... I COULD NOT let time pass me by. So, I ran home from campus, threw on my Mizunos, and took off on my first run since my arrival in grand Ireland. I followed the Grand Canal (located conveniently 50 yards from my apartment).
I followed it for, maybe 2 miles. But that's not important. What IS important is what I saw.
No doubt, you can guess what I saw.
Apparently, while the young aristocracy of Europe is attending class in Trinity's cathedral halls and lecture stadiums, there is a quaint little market bustling along the canal. Not too much, just a few stands with people sitting on benches, talking, smoking, laughing, NOT working at 2pm on Thursday.
ANYWAYS, one of the stands had about 14 large, straw woven baskets lined up in rows, and each basket contained a different kind of loaf of bread.
And it was so beautiful, I was running and my iPod was shouting Tall Skirt and a Long Jacket to me, and I just had to smile and think about cake, which made me run in an odd-skip-like way, and a very attractive blue-eyed man crossed to the other side of the street before I reached where he was sitting...
But the best part isn't the cake, it's the icing. As I was awkwardly running zigzags on an already uneven cobblestone path, staring at this masterpiece of a market, a man appeared in line for the bread baskets, and he had THE dirtiest, greasiest, most-sausage-link-y dreadlocks I have ever seen. I felt home.
I am happy to report the hippies are alive and well in my neck of the woods here in Dublin 4, and that's just grand. Maybe I'll run again tomorrow. Maybe I'll find a dreadlock rasta and we'll form a baked goods bond, and have little dreadlock-bread-eating babies. But I doubt it.
Save ferris. And skip class more often.
I followed it for, maybe 2 miles. But that's not important. What IS important is what I saw.
No doubt, you can guess what I saw.
Apparently, while the young aristocracy of Europe is attending class in Trinity's cathedral halls and lecture stadiums, there is a quaint little market bustling along the canal. Not too much, just a few stands with people sitting on benches, talking, smoking, laughing, NOT working at 2pm on Thursday.
ANYWAYS, one of the stands had about 14 large, straw woven baskets lined up in rows, and each basket contained a different kind of loaf of bread.
And it was so beautiful, I was running and my iPod was shouting Tall Skirt and a Long Jacket to me, and I just had to smile and think about cake, which made me run in an odd-skip-like way, and a very attractive blue-eyed man crossed to the other side of the street before I reached where he was sitting...
But the best part isn't the cake, it's the icing. As I was awkwardly running zigzags on an already uneven cobblestone path, staring at this masterpiece of a market, a man appeared in line for the bread baskets, and he had THE dirtiest, greasiest, most-sausage-link-y dreadlocks I have ever seen. I felt home.
I am happy to report the hippies are alive and well in my neck of the woods here in Dublin 4, and that's just grand. Maybe I'll run again tomorrow. Maybe I'll find a dreadlock rasta and we'll form a baked goods bond, and have little dreadlock-bread-eating babies. But I doubt it.
Save ferris. And skip class more often.
11 January, 2010
More Wine. And Bread!
After buying a bottle of red wine for 4 euro, Allison and I made our way to our newly befriended American neighbors for dinner. This wouldn’t be a particularly difficult concept, except for the fact that Ireland is in severe panic due to the snowy conditions. With not a snow plow in the city, the 3 inches of snow in the streets make for slippery travel.
I saw a motorcyclist wipeout when he tried to take a turn. Luckily the car in front, behind, and the store cashier nearby stopped and came running to his aid. Though the country ran out of grit days ago (shutting down banks early, airports completely, and allowing many to skip work on Friday), a lot of people are still out and about, stocking up on food, chasing pretty French girls, etc. And Allison and I, well, we just wanted to eat. So we crossed the Grand Canal Bridge, and began shuffling along.
We found the oys apartment, and were greeted by the smell of gourmet college cooking. And bread!
The neighborhood grocer has about 25 kinds of bread. Wheat, rye, Wonder, sota, hotdog rolls (hotdogs are popular here, don’t ask why). Even a Tim Horton’s bakery. Obnoxious, yes, but they love it. Sota bread isn’t so bad really, when you’ve been fighting the tundra that is Ireland.
Things I have learned so far:
-The Irish language talks in circles, and rarely involves the simple response of ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
-Irish men cannot simply be friends with women. When Harry Met Sally, people. Look it up.
-As a country they are a very proud people, but individually they are quite humble. I had drinks with a multimillionaire lawyer from Britain last night, and didn’t realize it till his buddy pulled me aside to explain why he kept taking calls. This alarmed me, because I was involved in a street snowball fight with these gents, and nailed the rich one in the nose, leaving a bloody cut. Oh well.
-Though I am from a town where 2 feet of snow the norm is, the Irish will talk till they’re winded about how it’s STILL worse in Ireland with their 2 inches.
-I could live here easily, and be very, very happy. Assuming I stop ambushing lawyers and get a job.
I saw a motorcyclist wipeout when he tried to take a turn. Luckily the car in front, behind, and the store cashier nearby stopped and came running to his aid. Though the country ran out of grit days ago (shutting down banks early, airports completely, and allowing many to skip work on Friday), a lot of people are still out and about, stocking up on food, chasing pretty French girls, etc. And Allison and I, well, we just wanted to eat. So we crossed the Grand Canal Bridge, and began shuffling along.
We found the oys apartment, and were greeted by the smell of gourmet college cooking. And bread!
The neighborhood grocer has about 25 kinds of bread. Wheat, rye, Wonder, sota, hotdog rolls (hotdogs are popular here, don’t ask why). Even a Tim Horton’s bakery. Obnoxious, yes, but they love it. Sota bread isn’t so bad really, when you’ve been fighting the tundra that is Ireland.
Things I have learned so far:
-The Irish language talks in circles, and rarely involves the simple response of ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
-Irish men cannot simply be friends with women. When Harry Met Sally, people. Look it up.
-As a country they are a very proud people, but individually they are quite humble. I had drinks with a multimillionaire lawyer from Britain last night, and didn’t realize it till his buddy pulled me aside to explain why he kept taking calls. This alarmed me, because I was involved in a street snowball fight with these gents, and nailed the rich one in the nose, leaving a bloody cut. Oh well.
-Though I am from a town where 2 feet of snow the norm is, the Irish will talk till they’re winded about how it’s STILL worse in Ireland with their 2 inches.
-I could live here easily, and be very, very happy. Assuming I stop ambushing lawyers and get a job.
08 January, 2010
The Beginning. Kind of.
Who knew? I skipped the complementary muffin on this morning’s flight (3am NY time) for the complementary merlot.
For the opening of my bread blog, I will blog about wine. It came in a box and the flight attendant (you cannot call them stewardesses anymore) poured it into the mini plastic cup with more heartiness than needed, splashing a little on the cart and me. But I’m not complaining. She didn’t card me.
Onwards and Upwards.
We arrived in the Dublin airport, taxied to the apartment, ran thru the landlord’s upscale pad and thru the meticulously manicured garden behind it, tried the door to our supposed apartment, realized we were at the backdoor, realized we hadn’t a key, realized we were surrounded by stone walls, Kate (housemate) questioned jumping the wall, then our housemates saved us at the last minute.
Soon, we found ourselves in a quaint, lovely little convenient store called Spars. Similar to the American CVS. Except it had BREAD. I bought a baguette for .60 euro, or, with the despicable exchange rate, a dollar. We strolled along a channel around dusk, took a few spills on the ice (this is the first time it has been so cold/snowy/HAILING in Dublin in over 40 years), and I ate the whole loaf. And THUS begins the Bread Blog.
For the opening of my bread blog, I will blog about wine. It came in a box and the flight attendant (you cannot call them stewardesses anymore) poured it into the mini plastic cup with more heartiness than needed, splashing a little on the cart and me. But I’m not complaining. She didn’t card me.
Onwards and Upwards.
We arrived in the Dublin airport, taxied to the apartment, ran thru the landlord’s upscale pad and thru the meticulously manicured garden behind it, tried the door to our supposed apartment, realized we were at the backdoor, realized we hadn’t a key, realized we were surrounded by stone walls, Kate (housemate) questioned jumping the wall, then our housemates saved us at the last minute.
Soon, we found ourselves in a quaint, lovely little convenient store called Spars. Similar to the American CVS. Except it had BREAD. I bought a baguette for .60 euro, or, with the despicable exchange rate, a dollar. We strolled along a channel around dusk, took a few spills on the ice (this is the first time it has been so cold/snowy/HAILING in Dublin in over 40 years), and I ate the whole loaf. And THUS begins the Bread Blog.
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