In Seven Days

In the beginning God made bread and then he said, "MMMMMMMM That is good."

On the second day God got a sense of humor and he said, "Pull my finger!"

On the third day God, in his sick and twisted sense of humor way said, "Thou shall no longer partake in this good thing called bread."

On the fourth and the fifth day God watched me starve and he giggled in his sick and twisted sense of humor way.

On the sixth and seventh day I found my way back into the kitchen and I cooked without bread and I don't care what God said about it.

One week it has been and I have survived. The first two days were hard. Really fucking hard. I almost forgot how to cook. Or to eat. Or to drink. Or to function. How can one do anything without bread? I felt completely lost in the kitchen. The whole idea of cooking became foreign to me. To eat was a chore. It was a strange experience to go through.

There is this commercial (and if I ever find it I will post it here) about quitting smoking. Funniest damn thing I ever saw. Some guy trying to figure out how to do normal every day tasks, like getting into a car, without a cigarette in hand. Keys in hand he is on top of the car, under the car, putting the key into the gas tank. Yep. That is how I felt. Substitute the cigarette with a loaf of freshly made sourdough bread of course. I couldn't function in the food world those first couple of days. A pan was just a large flat metal object meant to be used as a weapon of mass destruction. Food was poison. If that is what an addiction does to a person coming off it, I am glad mine was bread. Holy shit!

I wish I can jump up and down and exclaim that I feel so much better, happier, lighter, healthier blah blah blah. I can't. But I can say that it is easier now. I am cooking again. The pan has been placed back onto the stove. Food has been cooked. And I am adjusting just fine. Until little moments hit like when a neighbor friend reminds me that I will never partake in a chicken fried steak dinner again. The I start thinking of that frying pan becoming a WMD.

"I swear I don't know how my pan ended up in his head, officer."