For a very long time, fueled by a nasty eating disorder, I avoided many sources of carbs. Like potatoes. My beloved French fries simply became a thing of the past. Bread a big no-no. How I craved a good slice of bread. Pasta always made me cry. My mother would cook a delicious vegan pasta dish and I would have a few forkfuls and pretend to eat bowls after bowls. I threw away a lot of food. My conscience was suffering from anxiety and was rather racked by guilt, but that voice in my head that repeatedly told me that I was fat was much stronger.

One day, on a chilly morning in Amsterdam, I noticed a few locals caring freshly baked bread. There were huge smiles plastered on their porcelain-like faces. I was jealous. I begin to think, “Wow, really? So a happy face like that can be caused by bread?” The smell of freshly baked bread also filled the morning air. It was delicious. You know when you crave something so bad your head just turns into a void? You can’t really think of anything, can’t feel anything. It’s like your sole purpose in life is to attain whatever you desire. It was like that, what I felt for a delicious piece of bread that one Dutch morning. I was still suffering from disordered eating at that point, but God, did I want to eat some wheat concoction. I headed to an organic market (that just magically appeared in front of me, I must say) and there was a choir of angels when I finally saw the fantastical bread aisle. Like a kid in a candy shop, I loaded my basket with different types of bread. Mind you, I was travelling alone. I could’ve fed a family of 6 with the bread that I bought that day. It wasn’t just hunger I felt that day. Not just physically. It was an emotional kind of hunger, my soul needed bread. It was symbolic, at least to me. I rushed home right after I paid. I started to pinch a thick piece of spelt bread on my walk back to my flat. I probably finished a quarter of it. I took my time when I got home. I was just smelling the air in my bright kitchen. The sunlight made everything look like a dream and the fresh baked bread smell wafted in the air. It was love, to be honest. For breakfast, I had a raisin cinnamon bun. I think on my week stay in Amsterdam, I consumed 6 of those. I was lucky enough to always buy them warm, freshly out of the oven. The baker started to call me “Bun Girl” because I was there every morning, buying the exact same thing. I’d like to pretend she called me Bond Girl, but I’ll settle for what I really was: Bun Girl.

My next stop during that trip was Paris. And my love affair with bread continues. I bought myself delicious fig bread that I had for dinner, sitting by the Seine and drinking wine. As you do, you know. I would find a seat at Les Tuileries, read a book and munch on bread and hummus. It was la vie en rose for me. Maybe it was an effect of being on vacation, but all the negative thoughts were gone. I didn’t die. I didn’t hate myself for eating bread. I was breathing. I was strolling everywhere. I didn’t think I was a fat elephant.

When I got back to Canada, I was really scared all the nasty thoughts about bread would reemerge. But they didn’t. I didn’t eat that much bread though, to be honest, but I think that’s just because I preferred bread from overseas better (don’t stone me, my dear Canadians). I have sandwiches a few times a week. I don’t shy away from bread. If a restaurant offers a bread basket, sign me right up. I’ll have the vegan burger, please. Pita bread, you say? Yes, please!

One of my favourite vegan spots in Montreal is Green Panther. It’s convenient, the food is tasty, but it’s comfort food, veganised. I’ve had the falafel pita (full size of course) many times. But then, one day, I decided to try their “tempeh-tation” pita. Oh my Lord, that was one heck of a sandwich. My taste buds were rejoicing. I was over the moon. Clearly, I found my new favourite sandwich.