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?
26 February, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
