I love the German people for a lot of reasons: they're practical, logical, and exceedingly helpful. They never hesitate to give strangers helpful advice. If you walked around with a shoe untied, for example, several thousand Germans would point this out to you. And that's before you left your house.

One thing I don't love, though, is German bread. It's solid and hard and heavy and healthy. You can get it dense or denser, from forty different wholesome grains, with or without dried seeds on top.

Which is great -- if the first item on your To Do list is "Scrub my colon until it's shiny and pink."

The bread I like, though, is a rough and primal thing. It's hand-kneaded and hand-shaped and baked in a wood-fired oven. It's pretty much the opposite of German bread, so I was ecstatic when I finally found some in Germany. I actually smelled it before I saw it, in a bakery in Braunschweig, where the fire scented the air for miles around. In the window were huge, misshapen, crusty loaves, and inside the fragrance was pretty much the opposite of toast and closer to incineration.

This stuff wasn't served with a smear of marmalade. It was eaten around a campfire while dinosaurs watched.

On the counter, one mammoth slab had been cut in half. While the crust was scorched and solid, the inside was all fluffiness and air, with barely enough substance to support butter.

"One of those, please," I said. And I smiled all the way home.

I couldn't wait to tear it apart, but first I had to make plans. Should I slice it up, or just pull off chunks and stuff them into my mouth? Should I eat it plain or make a prehistoric sandwich? Would a wedge of cheese be too much? Would a slice of prosciutto be enough? Before I'd come up with a real strategy, my husband jumped in to help.

"That is too much bread," he declared. "There is no way we can eat that much bread. We must do something with it or it will go to waste." He was quiet for a second as his German brain weighed the possibilities. "Here is what we will do. We will freeze some, we will make croutons with some, and we will crumble some into bread crumbs."

It made sense to me, so I didn't complain. Besides, I love German practicality, and would never be so rude as to turn down their help. Ten minutes later, though, when I decided I'd start with a slab smothered in unsalted butter, I returned to the kitchen.

I looked for the bread. And looked. And looked. "Honey," I called shakily, "do we have any bread?"

There was a pause for a second, and then "No" was all he said.

My German teacher had a very strange idea: that people who have zero experience with the German language will be able to differentiate between right and wrong by the way it sounds.

"'I like you,'" the teacher said. "'I' is nominative. What about 'you'?"

"Dative," I replied. "Ich mag dir."

"Not accusative? 'Ich mag DICH'? Which sounds better to you?"

Which sounds better? That seemed like the wrong road to take. You could propose marriage in German and it'd still sound like you were thinking about hitting somebody with a brick. I didn't say it but I definitely thought it: "Lady, if we cared about what sounded better, you'd be teaching us French right now."

I'm an easy-going guy, relaxed and carefree, with just a few weird things that piss me off. Cheap toilet paper is one. I mean, who thinks, "Wow, we can save a dollar if we wipe our asses with sandpaper for a year!"? Then there's old, dried-out rubber bands that immediately snap when you try to stretch them. I actually came up with a pretty good solution for those, but if I don't have time to put on sunscreen, I'm not moisturizing rubber bands.

Recently, though, something else triggered me. Of course it didn't end well.

A few months ago I found myself frequenting an online chat group where everybody else was a straight, suburban housewife. Though they were pretty much my opposite, I stuck around for two main reasons: they appreciated everything I posted, and reading about their lives made me feel better about my own.

They complained about their jobs, their families, their cars, their dogs, and just about everything else. They also posted uncomplicated, unpretentious recipes, like one for Beefy Sausage Stew.

The title sounded tempting so I skimmed the recipe before I checked out the comments. Had anybody actually cooked it? I wondered. Was it actually good?

"Wow — it’s really beefy!“ Sarah wrote. "Beefier than Russell Crowe!“ Nancy added. "How the heck did it get so beefy?“ Francine asked.

These comments confused me a little. I mean, they sounded positive, but they didn't actually answer the question. They didn't use words like tasty, delicious, or finger-licking good. They didn't say they loved it, but just acknowledged the main ingredient. If I served steak at a dinner party I’d be flattered if somebody said it was juicy. I’d be thrilled if someone said it was tender. I wouldn't exactly be ecstatic, though, if someone said it was meaty. “Well, you know,” I’d probably reply, “that could be because it’s MEAT.”

See, there's a difference between an observation and a compliment. "Those sure are PANTS!" isn't a rave about your wardrobe. If somebody said to me, "Wow -- on top of your head! Could that really be ... HAIR?" I wouldn't send a thank-you note to Supercuts. Those are observations, and I'm not even sure they're complimentary. If you spend three hours getting ready for a party and the first reaction you get is, "Look out, world -- here comes BRONZER!!!" I'm pretty sure you did something wrong.

Before I know it, then, I’ve added my own comment about the Beefy Sausage Stew. "I think a quick glance over the list of ingredients should answer your questions,” I wrote. “Or did you miss the two pounds of beef?“

Nobody replied to my comment, and it didn’t get a single like. The next day, though, somebody posted a recipe for Creamy Pumpkin Soup.

I knew I should have avoided the comments, but I couldn’t help myself. "Wow — it’s really creamy!“ Sarah wrote. "Creamier than Leonardo di Caprio!“ Nancy added. "How the heck did it get so creamy?“ Francine asked.

This time I may have conveyed some impatience.

"I gotta tell you, ladies, it ain't exactly a miracle. Nobody’s materializing loaves and fishes here. You don't have to be the Son of God to make a creamy soup using roast pumpkin and -- would you look at that? -- EIGHT AND A HALF CUPS OF CREAM. In fact, I’m pretty sure you can make Creamy Dog Collars & Shoe Insoles with that amount of cream.“

It felt good to vent and nobody replied so I just assumed they ignored me again. The next day, though, somebody posted a recipe for Chunky Pepper Salad. I don’t know if they were purposely winding me up, but the comments were almost exactly the same. "Wow — it’s really chunky!“ Sarah wrote. "Chunkier than Jack Black!“ Nancy added. "How the heck do they get it so chunky?“ Francine asked.

This time my fingers flew over the keyboard. There was no way I could stop myself, and this time I was absolutely furious. "You know what?“ I replied. "I needed every encyclopedia I could find and forty-seven hours alone in a laboratory but I finally figured it out. All of the ingredients in this recipe are — hold onto your hats, rocket scientists — cut into CHUNKS. No joke. Not fucking kidding you. The peppers, the onions, every single one of the vegetables is CUT INTO GODDAMN CHUNKS. I tell ya, when the lightbulb finally went off over my head, it was like Madame Curie seeing her fucking hands glow in the dark.

"Needless to say, this revelation has made an amazing impact on my life. I'm almost too ashamed to admit it, but I've been -- hold onto your chairs -- chiffonading all of my adult life. Whether I'm making meatballs or moussaka, chopping up tomatoes or potatoes, everything gets cut into long, thin strips. And for what? NOT ONE FUCKING TIME did someone taste my cooking and say, 'Whoa, Roman! If I look up "chunky" in the dictionary, I know I'm gonna see a picture of that.'

"I can't express how much this has bothered me. Every night since my wedding my husband has said, 'Sweetie, thank you for cooking for me. Dinner is tasty, but — and I say this with the utmost respect — what is up with all the GODDAMN CHIFFONADES? They’re disgusting. They freak me out. When you’re making dinner do you think, “Is there some way I can get this cucumber to look like pubic hair?”’ I was too humiliated to discuss it with my pastor, so I just had to live with it. FINALLY, though, with your giant Sherlock Holmes brains, I think it's history now. I don't think it's an overestimation to say you've saved my marriage.

"So Sarah, Nancy, and Francine, I am forever in your debt. Now when somebody posts a recipe with half a pound of cheese in it and Sarah says, 'Wow — that’s cheesy!‘ and Nancy says, 'Cheesier than Nicolas Cage!‘ and Francine asks, 'How do they get it so cheesy?‘ I will happily join in with something like, 'Every bite has cheesy goodness!!!‘ instead of 'HOLY GOD, PLEASE LET ME PUSH THESE WOMEN INTO A LAKE!!!‘“

Anyway, I’m pretty sure somebody read that comment, because the next day when I tried to log in I got a message saying I was blocked. I couldn’t post anything, I couldn’t read anything, and I couldn't even message anybody to ask why. My life flashed before my eyes. Sarah, Nancy, Francine: they were my girls. What was I going to do without them? And what was today’s recipe going to be like: saltier than a pirate? Spicier than Rita Moreno? Easier than a truck-stop whore?

I spent an hour or so trying to sneak in through various methods before accepting that it was fruitless. How did it get so fruitless? Francine might ask, though this time around I couldn't reply, "BECAUSE THERE'S NO FUCKING FRUIT IN IT, YOU STUPID COW!"

I closed my laptop. It didn't matter. Like the rest of the internet, the site was a total waste of time. I had a great life, exciting adventures, and a wonderful husband, so why did I care about shallow internet bullshit? Besides, it was almost lunchtime. On another website I found a recipe for something called Hearty Chicken Fricasee and I resolved to make it, once I had a heart.