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.