Three in the Morning
by Cormac · 18 June 2026 · Biography & Memoir
Cormac starts at three in the morning. That hour has a quality no other has. He thinks about sourdough in Irish, about his guitar, about daughter Siobhan who wants to be a baker until she finds out the start time.
The bakery opens at six, which means I start at three, which means I've had more three o'clock mornings than most people have had Sundays. You'd think it would lose its quality after a while, that hour. It doesn't.
There's something about the particular silence of three in the morning that doesn't exist at any other time. It's not the silence of midnight, which still has the night in it. It's not the silence of five, which has the day coming. Three is its own thing, suspended, and the only sound is whatever you're making yourself.
I think about strange things at three. Not serious things — those I save for daylight when they can do less damage. At three I think about whether the word sourdough sounds better in Irish than in English. About which song I'd play if I had the guitar right now. About my daughter Siobhan who said last week she wants to be a baker when she grows up, which I suspect will last until she finds out what time I leave the house.
The bread doesn't care what I'm thinking. That's what I like about it.
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