A Blithe PALATE

Scenes from October 4

       

Birthdays should be special, and milestone birthdays should be celebrated in grand style.  We celebrate Hubby's 40th birthday amidst the company of good friends and nestled in the Irish countryside in a 250-ish year old house. 

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This day we leave the house for Ennis on an adventure à deux, and away from the company of our friends, Hubby settles into his own skin again.  I find that Ireland suits Hubby's temperament; being here, I see facets hitherto unguessed at in him.  Ireland calls to him, and tugs at his psyche with a siren song.  I had no idea. Sometimes, no matter how close I am to him, I have moments of clarity when I realize that in some ways I am meeting him again and again for the first time.  My aunt Lori once said that the person you meet is not the person you marry; that was just a representative they sent out to meet you.

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This means so much to Hubby:  four friends have flown across the Atlantic to join him; James has flown over for the evening from London; and Alwyn drives four hours to join us as well. 
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Dinner for eight is a delicious affair as produced by George:  five luscious courses with lamb (Hubby's favorite) as the main entree, eight bottles of wine, two bottles of champagne and a sweet rum-soaked sponge and cream birthday cake.
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When George and I plot out the details of Hubby's birthday festivities, I mention that Hubby is particularly enamored of traditional Irish music.

George:  Ah!  I know some musicians who would be perfect!

Me:  The Chieftains?  The Clancy Brothers?

George:  (pause) Uh...no.

But George works his magic and after our meal, we retire to the drawing room where a gifted sixteen year old young woman gives us a stunning private concert.  She plays the fiddle, the tin whistle and the concertina.  But it is when she sings the Bantry Girls' Lament, her dulcet and raw voice welling with the sad history, that we are all momentarily weepy.

"I love my culture," sighs Alwyn when she finishes.
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What ties us to the earth we tread?  What makes a geographic mass the thing for which we will die and kill and embrace and yearn and miss and love?  And when we lose it, what do we have left to salve the wounds?  The music and the food.  We preserve what remains of our identity and we indoctrinate future generations with what we remember.
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I find that when a people's temperament bends towards romantic and dreamy, and their history bloodied and conquered, their music can be as heartbreaking as their food is soulful. 

 

"Fields Of Athenry"

By a lonely prison wall, I heard a young girl calling
Michael, they have taken you away,
For you stole Trevelyan's corn,
So the young might see the morn.
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.

Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonely prison wall, I heard a young man calling
Nothing matters, Mary, when you're free
Against the famine and the crown,
I rebelled, they cut me down.
Now you must raise our child with dignity.

By a lonely harbor wall, she watched the last star falling
As the prison ship sailed out against the sky
Sure she'll wait and hope and pray, for her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

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I love the romance and the roughness that is Edinburgh.  I love the callow and carefree joy of Paris.  I love the steady heartbeat that is London.  How should I describe Ireland that won't devolve in ridiculous clichés? 

Ireland...is oneiric and filled with longing.

       

The Heroin Cookie: Russian Tea Cakes

For someone who has long avowed that she does not like cookies, I'm finding that I protest overmuch because I'm slowly discovering that yes, in fact, I do like cookies.  But I am particular about the cookies I eat.  Adulthood has moved me away from Chips-Ahoy and Keebler and brought me into the celestial sphere of high end, gourmet and utterly delectable cookies.   First it was cantuccini.  Then Madeleines.

In my last post about cookies, I mentioned my thin-mint-a-holism.

Shannon left a comment about a frosting covered sugar cookie that she and her husband refer to as the Heroin Cookie.

Well, these are my version of heroin cookies.  I kid you not.  You start eating them, you can't stop.  My sister Kaly is my pusher.  She started making them years and years ago and these are her specialty, so much so that last year, she baked 800  (yes, 800, but that is due both to the fact that she is a) kind and b) a Hong and therefore given to these freakish fits and starts) of these cookies in her tiny stove in her elegantly petite Manhattan apartment.  How tiny a stove?  It could fit only a 16" cookie sheet.  ONE AT A TIME.

I've known about Kaly's Russian Tea Cakes for years, but as she began making them prolifically and proficiently long after we no longer lived under the same roof, I wasn't really aware how good they are.  My first inkling came when Hani mentioned that Souris had requested, and received, a box by mail, of these famous cookies.  And I thought, Kaly ships?  So last January, for my baby shower, I asked Kaly to send a shipment to serve with the tea party the girls were hosting for me.  When the box arrived, I found 100 cookies all nestled gently amidst individual layers of bubble wrap to prevent them from being smashed.  Being careful about quality assurance,  I lifted one and took it to have with my tea. 

And decided promptly that there was enough food and sweets for the tea party and I would not need (nor did I want) to share these cookies.  They are that amazing, yes.  When Joetta and Jenn arrived, I offered some to them.  We all agreed that these did not need to be shared with the rest of the crowd...

And so it began.  That confectioner's sugar on the cookie?  May as well be pure grade A heroin. 

When next I encountered them it was at Dad's 75th birthday party.  Kaly baked 150 cookies for him and the family made relatively short work of nearly half of them.  After they left, I made off with the rest.  Mom had put the box in the closet and I went deep inside the closet repeatedly and refused to come out.

When I depleted my father's entire store of birthday cookies (which, I should also note, he and Mom routinely hide from THEIR guests, so it should tell you how coveted they are), I realized I was in big trouble.  So a furtive late night call to Kaly:

Me:  Kaly, I have been a bad bad bad cookie monster.

Kaly:  What happened?

Me:  I ate all of Dad's cookies.

Kaly:  Ki!  Those were Dad's birthday cookies.

Me:  I know.  I know.  I have to make another batch to restore his stash.

Even though Kaly gave me the recipe over the phone, I had no time to replace Dad's depleted supply, but since Dad and Mom do not have addictive personalities, I don't believe they're any the wiser since the (unknown-to-them-empty) box remained in their closet.

I made some earlier this week for a friend's tea party, but am resisting the urge to make any for myself.  I know my weaknesses.

"Hello.  My name is Cath.  I am a cookie fiend."

"Welcome Cath."

The Shiny Wears Off.

An interlude while I wait for my Ireland pictures to come back for the posting on Hubby's Birthday DInner

a recollection repeated

Jimmy and Erika, newly married, were on their honeymoon.  This is the story they recounted to us over dinner when they returned, reimagined, embellished and yes -- very truthful.

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At the restaurant overlooking the Park, they, newlyweds, wait to be served, and find themselves side by side with an older couple, who in their late and elegant fifties, are conversing quietly in French, their low voices lilting with animated familiarity, and punctuated with deliciously flirtatious smiles.  The patrician woman, in a simple dove grey shift dress leans towards her companion, whose austere features are softened by the blue eyes focused solely on her.  Whatever she says to him elicits laughter.

Erika's concentration is momentarily broken when the waiter brings a bottle of champagne to their table, pouring two flutes full.  A geyser of bubbles surface through the golden liquid and Jimmy raises his flute to his wife.

"Happy anniversary," he says.

"We just got married," she answers.

"A week ago today," he says.  "So Happy First Week Anniversary."

The couple next to them are watching them and the woman lifts her wine glass.  "Congratulations," she says with a smile.

"Thank you," says Erika.

"We're celebrating our anniversary too," the woman says.  She glances warmly at her companion. 

"How many years have you been together?" asks Erika.

"Thirty-two years," says the man.  "We met when she was twenty-six and I was thirty-one."  There's no trace of an accent in either voice and Erika realizes that they were speaking French to keep their conversation intimately private.

"Well congratulations to you too," says Erika.  "I hope when we've been married thirty-two years we'll still look as happy as you do."

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a piece of pseudo fiction:

When Hortense's affair begins, Hortense is consumed with the joy, the excitement, the passion, the wide range of emotions that accompany the illicit and ill-starred event. 

When Hortense's husband, Wolfgang (obviously not their real names) finds out, they enact all the cliches, ending in divorce, her moving out, and much to Wolfgang's chagrin, taking up with her boyfriend within a week of their divorce.

Even in his bitterness, Wolfgang can't help but to say, "I suppose if I'd been paying attention to her, she wouldn't be with her boyfriend now."

Personally I think it's crock, but he believes it so.

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the overheard conversation at a cafe

The girl:  Would you judge me if I told you I was having an affair?

The friend:  Are you?

The girl:  Would you judge me?

The friend:  How could you?

The girl:  I see.

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the sound of heartbreak...

...is a man keeled over in your living room brokenly asking both of you the question you can't answer for him ("Why?)" after he finds (and shows you) a love letter from his wife to another man.

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the recollection revisited

"Well congratulations to you too," says Erika.  "I hope when we've been married thirty-two years we'll still look as happy as you do."

"Thank you dear," says the woman genially.  "But we're not married to each other.  We've been having an affair for thirty-two years."

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The Shiny Wears Off

This is strawberry shortcake.  It was so delicious when I first had it that I kept making and eating it even after the summer ended and I knew the strawberries were no good until finally the shiny wore off and it lost its yumminess -- it was so intoxicating at first --and so sweet on the first bite -- but when you start to indulge, the aftertaste is slightly bitter. 

Much like an affair, n'est-ce pas?

 

A Pint o' Plain

A long time ago, on a long drive to a friend's house, Patrick and I talked about life, love and the pursuit of perfection.  He said that all anyone ever needed to know about him could be summed up in these words:  Daisy (his dog - "dumb as a doornail but so sweet"), surfing, and Guinness.

"One of the holy trinity of litmus tests," I muttered.  Girlfriend worthy material is determined by a series of tests related to how familiar she is with particular guy things.

His interest piqued, he said, "And do you know the other two?"

"Hockey and 'Cannonball Run.'"

"And?"

"And I have drunk Guinness, I love hockey and I've been forced to watch the latter umpteen times."  Pause.  "So I got that goin' for me."

Delight dripping from every syllable, he said, "Which is nice."

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Text message to beer aficionados:  "Is it mean to tell you I am at the Guinness brewery in Dublin right now?"

Responses:

1.  Yes.

2.  go #$%^&*( yourself

3.  Yes

4.  ooooooooooh....beeeeeeeeeeeer......

5.  !@#$%^&*() you.

In Ireland, we are at GMT +1 (daylight savings) so the various people who received this text message were either a) asleep or b) on their way to work.

I suppose it's cruel.

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It's true.  It's all true.  Guinness doesn't taste as good any where in the world as it does right here in Ireland. 

I have quaffed a few of these in my time, and the ones I've had in Ireland are hands down, the smoothest, silkiest stouts ever.

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There's such a thing as an illegal Guinness.  Apparently every pint glass is marked with a line which indicates how low the head can go.  Seriously.

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Sean's Bar is the oldest pub in Ireland (and Europe), formerly known as Luain's Inn, in Athlone.  In Gaelic, Athlone is "Atha Luain" which means the "Ford of Luain."  Luain was an innkeeper who helped people across the ancient ford.  Hubby and I stumbled across the bar quite by accident, after we stumbled across the restaurant where we ate dinner, also quite by accident.  We spent the day together, apart from our party, on our first date since Baby's birth.  We enjoy his company so much we are seldom without Puggle, but rediscovering how to be a couple is also a lovely experience.  Across from Athlone Castle, there is a quiet little bistro where we elect to devour angus steaks and perfectly crisp potatoes.  Oh I love this country so much, they make my favorite starches so well.  And over a bottle of wine, we quietly commune and rediscover the conversations of long ago, when we were just a couple.  He wants to hear traditional Irish music so we ask our waitress for a recommendation.  She tells us that Sean's is the place to go.

"It's the oldest pub in Ireland," she tells us.  And as it is Tuesday night, there is sure to be traditional music.

Walking over, Hubby says, "You know, I'm sure every country lays claim to the oldest something, but how old can this place be?  Because Dublin was settled in the fourth or fifth century."

At Sean's Bar, there is a prominent sign displayed over the bar:  Luain's Inn.  900 A.D.

"That's pretty damn old," says Hubby.

He is content and delighted when a musician appears and from our little corner next to the singer, we nurse our creamy pints while we listen to songs.  Hubby makes a request:  "The Fields of Athenry."  It's one of his favorite songs.  The singer has a strong voice and he does great justice to the heartbreaking lines.

As it happens, Athenry is not far from Ballinderry Park, where we are staying. 

"Shall we go see the last star fall in Athenry before the ship sails off to Australia?" I ask, paraphrasing the lyrics.

"The ship's not in Athenry, they're leaving from the bay," grunts Hubby.

Pause.  "Oh, well then in that case, should we go see the birdies flying free?"

"Are you you mocking me?"

"Never."

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Odd phrases to order a pint:

1.  A pint o'plain

2.  The blonde in the black skirt

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Greg wants to know how I liked the brewery.  I tell him the brewery is just fine, but it's the gift shop that has me gobsmacked.  Guinness has some seriously savvy marketing folks.  They have everything imaginable in the store, all imprinted with the Guinness logo.

"If this is a public company I want you to buy stock," Hubby says.  "Harley Davidson has nothing on this!"

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On our way to the Cliffs of Moher, we stop at a pub to grab lunch.  One of our party orders the Beef and Guinness -- and after tasting it, I think it's the best dish on the menu.

Katie asks the bartender if they have rice.  He cocks an eyebrow.

"This is Ireland, not Vietnam."

It's one of the catchphrases for the trip and we laugh uproariously every time we say it later.

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At Brogan's Pub in Ennis, Ireland, Hubby and I are both appalled by the Guinness the bar wench brings over.  It's the worst poured pint we've seen since we've been there.
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Years later Patrick told me that night's conversation was the first moment he'd been happy in two years.  And said he wished we hadn't been on our way to see my (then) boyfriend.  There was no recourse from this unexpected confession save one.

I wonder where he is, and if he is downing a Guinness now, too.

The House at the End of the Road

When driving through Europe, I am always amused by the very descriptive directions that are provided, generally involving landmarks and not road names. 

We are caravaning in two cars:  Lance, Margie and I follow behind Hubby, Jared and Katie.  Hubby is co-piloting for Jared, and the two of them are attacking the course with military precision.  Disconcerted by the directions provided, they elect instead to map their way to Kilconnell, where the house is in situ; and from there, they call George, the owner of the house, to guide them in.  When we turn onto Ballinderry Road, we are confronted with a modern two story structure and I am repulsed because this is not the house I imagine; and I know we are not at the right place.  Margie echoes my sentiment when she says, "This doesn't look like the house on the website!"

I shake my head vigorously when Hubby gets out of his parked car.  "This is not the house!"

Our car takes the lead position and we trek further down Ballinderry Road.  We pass a man leading his sons and his horse along the road and ask:  "Where is Ballinderry Park?"

"The house at the end of the road," he says.

We keep on the little dirt path, and soon trees spring up around us, covering the road which is overgrown with bushes and fauna, and in the distance, we see glimpses of a white structure until, rounding a corner, the limestone building rises several stories high in the afternoon mist.  It is a perfect jewel box of symmetry, its center column flanked by two bays of windows, one atop the other.  A peaked roof gives the structure the look of a Norman chateau.

Ballinderry Park, is an exquisite Palladian house in a countryside dotted with Georgian homes.  The house dates from the early eighteenth century and its owners, George and Susie, have lovingly and passionately restored the home after it fell into a 48-year state of neglect and vandalism.  They believe the house dates to 1750, and possibly even earlier, given some its fine architectural features, including a dramatic staircase the rises three stories high. 

Knowing we would be coming straight from the airport, disoriented after a too short sleep on the flight, and by body clocks not yet adjusted, George kindly prepares a light repast for us:  a plate of venison sausage made by a friend of his, prosciutto, and smoked ham;  lush red little tomatoes paired with fresh mozzarella drenched in olive oil; smoked salmon with capers; a bowl of fresh greens that he has picked up at the vegetable market in Galway that morning; and fresh stone fruit in a bowl of ice.  A loaf of freshly baked bread is sliced and warm on the table.

I wonder what it is about bread and meat that makes the soul go "ahh," as if in recognition?

George asks us about our dinner plans, and as he is well known for his cooking, we are in accord with the suggestion of eating dinner at the house.  With lunch finished, we are too tired to contemplate much action, so we retire for naps. 

For dinner George has made a stew. 

"I made a venison stew," he says.  "Or perhaps that's not smart enough?"

On an overcast day where temperatures are dipping towards cool, not only is it smart enough, it is perfect for what we want:  comfort food.  So our first night in Ireland finds us in the quiet, candle lit dining room where dinner begins with fresh sardines that George has pan fried.  It's been so long since I've had fresh sardines and the taste memory that quickly fills my mind is of my grandmother, my Ba Ngoai, who last year passed away, braising sardines in nuoc mam.  The filet is tender and briny, and the skin perfectly crisp. 

A rustic stew follows, so supple, with meat so tender, we pause momentarily in conversation to let the warmth seep in.  When a bowl of whipped and browned potatoes makes it way around, I don't pretend to be polite, filling plate with an appallingly large portion.  Potatoes are my favorite carb and starch, and Ireland and I are well suited.  Tender braised carrots dipped in butter finish our plates and we have the house red wine.  For pudding, George has made a coconut tart topped with a vanilla yogurt.

If this is how our trip is to start, I think, we are going to have a remarkable time.