La Maie

17 June

Today I went down to the seaside. There was a large antiques market going on, so I stopped by and walked through all the stalls. The merchandise was mostly useless old junk. There were several stalls of old photographs, and most of the rest was dedicated to furniture and kitchenware. Nothing really caught my attention until towards the end. One stall was selling old French antiques—brass molds for cakes and madeleines. In one corner sat a small, wooden breadbox. Twelve dollars. Something about the dusty old box drew me in. I had to buy it. I was never so happy to remember my wallet on my little walks. I am the proud new owner of an antique French breadbox. It now stands in the cramped kitchen of my studio apartment.

18 June

I think I may be getting sick. I couldn’t sleep last night, and my appetite is lost. It’s strange, because all my dreams were of bakeries and flour. I had a nightmare that I made a rye bread but it couldn’t get it to rise. The yeast was bad, but it was somehow disturbing in the dream.

I cleaned my new breadbox. It’s still as plain as it looked yesterday, but small engravings on the side are now more apparent. It’s funny; the design doesn’t look that French, but the writing on the top is clear—“le pain.” I think I’m going to bake bread tonight after dinner, so I can keep something in my new breadbox.

23 June

Homemade bread is the best, especially when kept fresh in a breadbox. I’ve eaten three loaves already, but I don’t think I can make anymore for a while. I don’t actually remember eating all of that bread, but I’ve been a little out of it lately. I haven’t been sleeping. I guess my zeal for bread and my breadbox has gotten a little out of hand; I’ve been having odd nightmares about bread. I even dreamt last night that my breadbox was trying to haunt me in my sleep! Maybe I’m just going crazy.

24 June

Last night was the worst. What sleep I got was full of nightmares. This time, I was choking on bread. Or tripping over the breadbox, mysteriously placed over the stairs down the four flights of stairs to the lobby of my apartment complex. Every other hour, I awoke, fearing a bread related death. I think I need a vacation. I bought plane tickets to Iowa. I’m going for a week. Surrounded by nothing but fields… What a vacation it will be.

July 14

What a pleasant vacation! America’s Heartland. It revived me. No more nightmares since I left. I just got in yesterday, somewhat late. I toured farms and slept in barns and felt a little like Kerouac, living for a short while on the road.

The State Fair isn’t until August, but I was fortunate enough to find a small county fair. It was interesting. There was a small roller coaster that looked like it would fall over if I got on, but it didn’t. That was lucky. There was also a small tent that housed a sleepwalker and a hypnotist. The sleep walker was freaky. He stumbled around the stage like a zombie, and even ate and drank a small snack—bread, cheese and water. The hypnotist tricked some poor girl into thinking she was half cat. All in all, it was an entertaining little show. It certainly took my mind off of things, and I feel much better. Actually, I haven’t checked out my breadbox since I got back. I should bake some more bread—I was thinking a multigrain boule.

16 July

I’ve been sleeping better, but I don’t feel well again. Maybe it’s depression from being unemployed. Maybe I really am going crazy. I’ve had more dreams about the breadbox again. They’re not nightmares anymore, but I can’t say they’re pleasant dreams either. I think I might be sleepwalking. Rather, sleep-eating. The bread I make disappears faster than I can keep making it. I’ve had to switch from buying yeast packets to buying food storage sizes. I keep it in the freezer, and my arms have definitely gotten more toned from all the kneading. Maybe tonight I’ll make rolls. Refrigerator rolls, like Mom used to. And I’ll keep track of how much I eat during the day to see if I really am sleep-eating.

17 July

I ate 3 rolls, one at lunch and two at dinner.

18 July

I woke up, and three more rolls were missing. I weighed myself, too, to see if I was gaining weight from all my nighttime eating. Still 150. I’m 29 years old, and no one has told me that I sleep walk. Things are curious.

18 July

All the rolls are gone. I made two dozen. I don’t know what’s happening to them. I’m starting to doubt that I sleepwalk. Has someone broken into my house? I wish I had a cat, so I could blame the disappearance on something rational. How can bread disappear overnight like this?

24 July

It’s the breadmaker. It’s haunted. I know. I saw it… I saw it. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t believe it otherwise. Last night, I was up late, talking to a friend on the phone, and I walked into the kitchen late. Noises were coming from the countertop—kind of like a grumbling noise, a little like a hushed blender. The cookie I left in there as dessert after dinner was thrown out. Right before my eyes. One second, the breadbox was still, the next the lid lifted and the cookie flew across the counter. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do.

25 July

I’m crazy. A haunted breadbox? There’s no way. That just can’t be true. It’s the market. The economy has driven me crazy. Maybe I’ll move back home, like my Mother offered a month ago, when I had first lost my job. I need to do something to get my sanity back. Maybe I’ll give up bread for a little while, in the mean time.

28 July

It’s the breadbox. I know it’s the breadbox. It has to be. It bit me… I mean, I was going to put it in the cupboard, since I’ve decided to abstain from bread for a while. Why keep it out if I’m not using it? Especially since it seems to be the object of my insanity? I went to pick it up, and the lid somehow managed to slip over my fingers. It pushed down, hard. It hurt. I pulled my hand out, and it left me alone. I don’t know what to do about this. How can I dispose of a haunted breadbox? Maybe I’ll google it.

30 July

I’ve done it. I found out how to fix it. The owners of my apartment complex made us all sign insurance… including fire insurance. So, tonight, I borrowed my ex-girlfriend’s straightener. I plugged it in and dropped it in a pile of newspapers. That thing almost started a hundred fires before, whenever she would forget to turn it off. There’s a hole in my carpet to prove it. This time, the fire won’t be stopped. The whole apartment will go down, breadbox included. And I’ll move in with my parents, find a new job, and move on with my life.

But, if the breadbox really is haunted… The fire won’t work. It will keep going on, finding another fool to take it into its home, feed it bread… Of course, I’m such a fool! I just burnt everything down! I just hope I never see another breadbox again…