Baking bread has a special meaning to me. I vividly remember my grandma and my aunts from the countryside baking it every Saturday morning. I was never allowed to mess around with the dough (I think grandma was afraid it wouldn’t rise – she was a very superstitious woman), but I stood and watched the whole process. They had their hands full of flour and sticky dough and they always baked enough for the whole week. This means that they put 3-4 huge loaves of bread in the outdoor oven. The smell was divine and I always got as much hot hot hot bread as I wanted. So now when I rarely bake bread I always think of them. My grandma is gone, her sister is almost deaf and kinda sick and her daughter (one of mum’s first cousins) is still young but her face is full of wrinkles and she feels old and tired. And they have stopped backing bread a long time ago – now they just buy those packed and cut loaves from the grocery.

I can’t believe it’s so cold outside already! But I like it. I think I’ll actually enjoy this season. I drink tons of tea and I can hardly wait to wear all those thick tights and dresses. And, also, I have the perfect excuse for my wild mood swings. Christmas is just around the corner and today I daydreamed about going home, meeting all my dear dear ones. I’ve been in this city too long without a break. Its ugliness is starting to get to me. This love-hate relationship I have with Bucharest still amazes me. When I’m there I wanna come back here, when I’m here I wanna be somewhere else. I still haven’t found my place. Maybe such a thing doesn’t exist. Maybe I need to give Bucharest a little more time. Or maybe I shouldn’t be so goddamn picky :)

*Norah Jones – She’s 22