Okay, here is an indicator of how weird I am.
I bought a book from the remainders table at a bookstore in Illinois (I think, smiling, of that bookstore, from time to time; my bank account is lucky that it isn't closer). The title was 52 Loaves (still is, in fact); the story of a man who had a simple desire: to bake a perfect loaf of bread.
I haven't been reading consistantly, but this morning I dipped back into it, at a section where he talks about planning to visit a French abbey where he will have some quiet time, and be able to bake bread the way they used to do it, and, by the way, teach one of the brothers how to bake, too. Oh, and speak French, all of the time.
And I sighed.