Archives for posts with tag: bread


Look, let’s get one thing straight. I am a tried and true, born and blue Calgary carnivore, raised on Prime Rib and dreams. I had a vegetarian phase in high school that lasted six weeks, and then I abandoned it. The one thing I loved about going veggie, however? BREAD.

Hi, I’m Amy, and I’m a breadaholic.

Back in October, I learned how to bake the Sullivan Street Bakery recipe for No Knead Bread, and it changed me. All of a sudden, I wasn’t Amy who can’t make a cupcake with a gun to her head – I was a BAKER. For a holiday party in December, I made a batch, and delighted in every guest who exclaimed “oh my God, you made this?”.

That was, however, before my doctor suggested I may have a “gluten sensitivity“. I’m 27 and my body was rebelling –  my allergies had gone haywire, my weight was fluctuating despite regular trips to spin class, and frankly I was feeling pretty icky. She suggested I go a month without gluten to see if my body responded – well, that and a new ultra badass and sexy allergy medication (oh yea!). 

So there we have it – nearly halfway through my gluten-free experiment and so far, so good. I’ve been using 21habit to forces myself to commit to sticking with it – yes, I’m so cheap that a dollar a day motivates me. I also have great, healthy coworkers, and lots of places near me where I can grab a salad, and now I have to be very aware of what I mindlessly snack on (I’m hoping this focaccia-free foray proves fortuitous for my fanny – awkward alliteration FTW).

Which brings me to my final thought: Paxti’s Gluten Free Vegan Pizza is actually really freaking good. This, of course, comes from a bread loving meat eater who might (no judgements) be addicted to carb consumption and is current cold turkey. Still, I’m pressed I would even consider it a pie I maaaaaay nearly crave after too many manhattans.



There’s a man down on Market street shouting, and even from eight floors up I can tell he’s not happy. Though one can’t make out the content of his rants, I can assure you they’re most likely not appropriate for a conversation with your grandmother.

Walking in today, I turn a corner near a bakery as they prep to open, and was overwhelmed by the scent of bread, and the reminder that I can’t eat it for the next month (damn potential gluten sensitivity). Around me, morning commuters perked their nose and looked around, this wonderfully warm unknown smell interrupting their scurrying.

I pass a man in the subway singing a cappella whenever I get on a train at Montgomery. No matter what day, no matter what season, he’s singing “My Cherie Amour” at the top of his lungs, perfectly. I make eye contact with him and drop a dollar in his hat – one must reward musical talent, after all. He smiles, and the song’s stuck in my head for the next hour.

Stuck behind a group of visitors on Market street as I run errands yesterday evening, I’m dumbstruck by a scent I can’t place. Laundromat cleanser? Unknown cologne? Aftershave of an old flame? Nope, I’m just outside the Abercrombie at Westfield – yep, that’s what it is.

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