…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…