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.

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.

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.

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.

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.