Every sunday, when the sun became patently yellow, I start my drift to looking for a piece of bread for my family. Hang on! I won't to tell you a story about poorness. Unlike, my problem is not pretty the money. I have enough. My problem is a problem of the last day of week. From monday to saturday I buy a deliciousest bread of all over the country, cooked in the little village of Antas de Ulla, more or less at 40 kilometres of Lugo, the town where I waste my life. But that bakery doesn't work on saturday night and, as a consequence, I can't eat her bread. I need to buy a terrible bread that is precocked, unfreezed and ovened by early morning. The alternative is that I cook my own bread. I heard a history about the ancient roman army that invades Galicia and built a military camp in the third century before Christ that became the most important city in the Gallaecia. The investigators said the roman soldiers prepare one mass of weaht flour and water, that they kneading and then spreading on their shields. Before, they put on pieces of meal, cheese and smashing herbs. They lit bonfires and hold over the fire to roast. They called this recipe focaccia. Like the Imperium's fighters, every sunday I think I may to use the instrument that I use to win my salary to get my bread in these days, but I'm journalist, oh surprise!, my newspaper is print still on paper. On sundays I feel confused than Stephen Dedalus of Joyce's novel. Now, before my weekly adventure I'll read Ulysses for calm my heart: "Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk."

ULYSSES GO OUT TO BUY THE BREAD

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