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.