For some reason, the simplest food often evokes amazingly warm feelings. Perhaps because it does not require any eating rituals, such as special utensils, plates, or complex tastes, this food is simple, understandable, reliable, and predictable—a rare phenomenon in our world.

This story is from the life before last, almost twenty years ago, when I was studying in graduate school, writing a dissertation on the Celts and trying not to go wild after a difficult divorce. Well, there was so much money that not only the cat would cry but also the cockroaches behind the baseboard.

Since the times at that time were rather fuzzy, Google had just appeared. There was no Facebook or YouTube, either. Everyone used the notorious ICQ. As a person who does not look for easy ways, I decided that to conduct one part of the research in my dissertation, I urgently needed to find out something about the Gaelic languages (these are the languages of the Celtic group, which are now spoken in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, the Isle of Man and a couple of even more exotic places). Trips to the Leninka and the Inostranka (meaning the library) could have been more fruitful; there was no money for a study trip to the UK, but the thirst for knowledge required an outlet.

So I climbed into ICQ and began filtering people by place of residence—Dublin, Edinburgh, Inverness, etc. Having caught several victims in my net, I composed a long appeal in the style of “Dear native Gaelic speaker, a Moscow doctoral candidate, is writing to you. Please help me because there are not enough materials” and began to send it to the list I found.

The most exciting thing is that the result took only a short time to come. The second person was a young historian from Inverness, a native Gaelic speaker descended from the Grant clan. Of course, he was shocked by my methods but admired my persistence (let's be honest, the majority of people decided that I was crazy and blocked me from being on the safe side).

In general, this wonderful person understood the situation, obtained the necessary information for me, introduced me to his university professor, and delighted my dissertation advisor.

We continued to communicate with the historian from Inverness. I asked some linguistic questions. One day, he caught me making breakfast (let me remind you, money was unfortunate). I baked wholegrain flatbread from flour, leftover oatmeal, water, salt, and eggs. The historian asked for the recipe and enthusiastically shouted, "Medieval flatbread!!!" So they stuck with that name. Every time I cook them, I feel warm and funny inside.

We continue to correspond occasionally. The historian is no longer so young; he became a professor. He solemnly gave his wife the recipe for the flatbreads; he says they regularly make them for themselves and their children. And I wrote a dissertation, by the way, but did not defend it because I went to work as a producer, and this did not fit with anything at all. I am very ashamed of the dissertation, but I still work as a producer.