Food, Round Two

On a drive early in my stay here I noticed, on the Edenderry Road, a small sign, Organic Farm Shop, Friday 1-7.  It took me until today, three Fridays into my stay, to be able to go. I missed the turn on the way back from Ballinderry and got nearly to Edenderry before I realized I had done and made the always precarious u-turn back. The lane into the farm went under an archway of sheltering trees just coming into bud that were planted on both sides of the dirt track. At the end of the lane the drive opened onto a gravel yard. On the right was a small farmhouse painted white with the usual dark wood trim. Directly in front was the barn. The door of the narrow side room was open, and inside two young women were packing eggs. Across from the house on the third side of the rectangle was a second outbuilding; this one housed the shop.

The shed, a low-ceilinged windowless building with cement block walls, was about eight feet deep and maybe twice as wide. It was filled with food, fruits on the left, vegetables directly in front, whole free-range chickens and packages of spelt and other grains on the right. On the floor under the chickens were glass bottles of unhomogenized milk. The table in the center of the room held two huge wedges of cheese, which turned out to be a locally made Emmenthaler. Everything was organic.

            I had despaired of finding produce that wasn’t shrink-wrapped and shipped from Spain or China, and although everything at the shop was certainly not locally sourced (the pile of bananas on the fruit side was a dead giveaway) it was all fresh, healthy-looking and utterly appealing. Thinking of my tiny fridge and the fact that I had stupidly bought some produce at the Dunnes Stores the night before, I nonetheless filled my arms with broccoli, potatoes, an enormous head of red-leaf lettuce, cremini mushrooms, and some gorgeous parsley. Sadly, I had just missed the asparagus, a vegetable I haven’t laid eyes on since I got here and would have paid nearly anything to have.

 The wiry woman in a knit cap who runs the stand, clearly a great marketer, offered me a taste of the cheese; the complexity was intense, but I succumbed to only a tiny sliver, most of which I have already devoured. She of course talked me into eggs, and I couldn’t pass up the milk either; I’ll make some cream of broccoli soup for my cousins.

Tonight I had a short time to prepare dinner before heading off to a meeting of the Edenderry Historical Society. I found myself focusing on my usual fallback dinner when I’m in a hurry, scrambled eggs. This time the yolks of the eggs were thick and rich and orange when I whisked them. I sautéed the mushrooms

first, then stirred in the eggs and finished them off with lots of chopped parsley. With the eggs I had the red-leaf lettuce in a salad with red peppers and feta cheese, two purchases from the supermarket. Heaven.

This week I’ll buy some pans so I can cook some asparagus and one of the chickens, and I’ll be on the doorstep when the shop opens at 1 next Friday.

Food, Round One: A slight diversion

This post is for Owen, who was the first to ask me, not without a note of irony in his voice, How is the food?

I'm not sure what prompted me to order the steak and mushroom pie for lunch. It may have been the weather--the description on the forecast says 'periods of rain' which turns out to mean bone-shattering cold, showers that come down as if someone above is being playful with the on and off taps, and whipping winds. The day's productivity is somewhat hampered by the need to seek heat by any means possible. Although I know it won't,

 still it wouldn't entirely surprise me if it snowed.

I'm also at about the end of my rope with Indian takeaway or warmed-over prepared meals, which is the only food I am able to prepare in my little room except for the rare foray into scrambled eggs on the cooker. Last night I had a cold pasta salad from the Super-Valu. Two nights ago I went to the Trim Hotel for dinner, an act of pure desperation that resulted in an edible pasta bake and a very long one-sided conversation (his) with an American therapist here on a photographic vacation.

Today I headed back to Watson's, the first place I ate when I arrived in Trim. This was my third visit: my ordering at the other two was cautious: first, a plain omelette on the all-day breakfast menu, with brown bread toast. 'Sure you don't want chips with that?' the waitress asked. I'm fairly certain I am the only person who ever ate at Watson's who didn't order the chips. The second time  I ordered a chicken sandwich with salad, which means here a big mayonnaisey concoction that may or may not have something green in it.

 When I arrived the waitress, who recognizes me now, directed me toward the small balcony dining area; she gestured at the spot I sat in the other two times and said, it's freezing there. Maybe it was that friendly gesture that made me decide to order some real Irish food. 'I'll have the steak and mushroom pie, please.' 'Do you want chips or veg with that?' Veg, please, I answered. 'But you do want potatoes, yeah?' Sensing only one correct answer to this question, I said, Fine. The waitress looked a bit more satisfied at my response this time and went off to place the order.

The plate was enormous, easily the size of a small serving platter and nothing like the lunch plates I dine off at home. The wedge of pie must have been four inches wide at its widest point. Beside it were some boiled carrots,several stalks of boiled cauliflower, and one piece of broccoli. The rest of the plate was filled with potatoes, not one but three scoops of good Irish mashed. And everywhere there was gravy. Only the broccoli had escaped, or nearly escaped, being coated with it.

I peeled back the top crust of the pie and dug into the beef and mushrooms, both of which were delicious. Even gravy-drenched, the vegetables were not bad. As for the potatoes, I took a couple of bites but mostly pushed them around on the plate to disguise the fact that I wasn't eating them for the waitress' sake. 

At the table next to mine, four men polished off similar platters of food, then ordered dessert: huge slabs of chocolate cake with fist-sized globs of cream to accompany them.

Tonight I'll eat the leftover pilau rice from my last Indian takeaway. Tomorrow, in my new apartment, I'll cook a real dinner. 

Domhnach Cásca

By 11am the church was packed. I got there just as the bells finished ringing, and found a seat near the back of the nave. The pew had a couple of spots left because to get in there you had to squeeze between a pillar and a stand holding free copies of the Irish Catholic News. Just after I sat down I was joined by a young woman in tight jeans, a black jacket, and orange heels decorated with rhinestones. Her shoes were the pointiest I had ever seen. 

         As the service started people continued to pour in, so that within minutes there were at least 100 people standing in the aisles and across the back of the church. All ages were at Mass today, from babes in arms to primary school children to teenagers with blond mohawks to pensioners, some of the men having the look of someone who spends most of his time in the open air. Just in front of me stood two girls, ages about 5 and 7, both with the most beautiful hair, long and raven and slightly curly. I had to force myself not to stare at it.

The church is large and unremarkable, built around the turn of the twentieth century, with undistinguished stained glass windows, depictions of the stations of the cross in wood and ceramic ranged around the nave, and the usual Catholic tendency toward gaudy ornaments, including some mysterious red globes on the altar that looked exactly like Christmas balls from my considerable viewing distance. The elements of real beauty are the Celtic friezes that are painted on the stone at various points above and beside the altar.

 

          As we stood the first hymn, unfortunately one of the many, many hymns that I know from my childhood, I began to sing with the choir. It took a chorus of Christ the Lord is Risen Today for me to realize that I was the only one in the congregation singing. Here, evidently, is a major difference between Catholic and Protestant services. 

         I had planned to stand with the congregation but sit when they knelt, a sort of private rebellion against religion in general, but the first time I tried that the man behind me inadvertently stuck his folded hands, which were resting on the top of the pew in front of him, in my back, so I quickly slid off the pew and knelt with the others. When the priest asked the congregation to remember people in their prayers I realized that I had someone to remember: Claire's friend Brian Franklin. Brian committed suicide last December at the age of 21; his funeral mass was the last time I had been to a Catholic service. I said a sort of secular prayer for Brian, Justine and Bob, and was glad I had chosen to attend a Catholic service today. Brian’s death was one of the most difficult of the deaths of my children’s friends.        

         The music, once I realized that I was to listen, not sing, was impressive for a small parish, the choir balanced and soaring out over the organ. There was even a trumpet; the addition of the brass brought a sense of fullness to the singing that for once the organ didn't ruin.

         Father Andy Farrell could have been sent from central casting. Sixtyish, rotund, and with the florid face of someone who likes his whiskey of an evening, he spoke in front of this massive crowd with the confidence of someone who has done this more times than he could count, which he undoubtedly has. His sermon centered on Ireland's serious economic woes, and although the best he could offer, in the spirit of the day, was a better time in the hereafter, he did suggest that in this life these current hardships would pass, as they always do.

         The service was the third time I saw Father Farrell. The first was an encounter in the yard outside the church as I passed through a day or two ago. He was headed toward his quarters and greeted me fulsomely, undoubtedly assuming I was one of his more errant parishioners, the type who shows up only twice a year, at Easter and Christmas. This morning I nearly bumped into him as I entered the church for what I thought was the 10am service. What I faced was a starkly empty church and the good Father saying farewell to the last of

the worshipers for the 9am mass. Because I was an hour early I took the opportunity to walk along the River Boyne, which runs through Trim. The day was brilliantly bright and warm, and I realized again that for me this kind of gentle communing with the outdoors has always been my best form of Sunday worship.

 

Ceanannas

The romance of the town of Kells is lost in the rumble of trucks on the High Street; it would seem that half of Ireland's worldly goods need to pass through this small market town on the way to somewhere else. The Heritage Visitor Center was also closed when I arrived, but that was okay, because I was headed for the real thing, a tenth- or eleventh-century (the age is disputed) oratory building, St. Colmcille's (aka St. Columba's) House. The House, which is not signposted anywhere, is located behind the churchyard on a narrow street. It is tucked between the Garda station and a row of semi-detached houses. The satellite towers of the Garda punctuate the sky just behind the tiny stone mound of a building; the Kells Handball Society headquarters watches over it from across the way.

The sign on the locked gate of St. Colmcille's instructs visitors to get the key from Mrs Johnson, who is to be found 200 yards down the hill in Lower Church View. I head back down the street, and when I think I have gone about 200 yards I begin to look for Lower Church View, to no avail. There are no signs on any of the houses, or any indication that Lower Church View exists at all. I cross the street and ask two men rigged out in full soccer fan gear who are standing in front of the churchyard if they know about Lower Church View. 'Ah, that'd be Mrs. Johnson,' says one. 'In the pink house, just there,' says the other. 'Just ring the bell.' They know all about the key.

The door is opened by a thin, harried looking woman in rubber gloves, who tells me that Mrs Johnson is out at the moment but to wait back at St. Colmcille's. 'She won't be five minutes,' the rubber-gloved woman says. Sure enough, not five minutes later a wom

an comes slowly up the hill. She is wearing a bright orange jacket and a dirty knit cap and walks with a cane. When she gets there she apologizes that I had to wait, but says that tourists rarely come this early in the year and she hadn't expected to need to let someone in.

The House has an organic shape to it, vaguely squarish and with a

 pointed roof. It is made entirely of stone, with the 

damp chill of that material, so  that even as you enter the cold seems to get beneath your skin. The interior consists of one room, empty except for a metal folding chair in one corner, obviously in place for Mrs Johnson in case she has to wait awhile, and a very long black steel ladder that goes up into the rafters of this cold and awesome space.

The scriptorium is up above, Mrs. Johnson tells me. 'You mean I can go up the ladder?' I ask. 'You do,' she says.

I put my purse and carry bag on the metal chair,

 grab my camera, and start climbing. About a third 

of the way up I begin to wonder what I think I am doing. Two thirds of the way up I decide I have a bad case of vertigo; my heart is pounding in my chest and my palms are sweaty. When I reach the top and realize I will have to boost myself up with my arms and

 slither through a tiny hole, I think the Irish must be totally out of their collective minds to allow a bunch of tourists to take their lives in the ir hands this way. 

'Watch the stone. Lots of

 people bump their heads,' calls Mrs Johnson from below. I thank her but don't dare look down. Trying not to think about my black coat and jeans as I pull myself up through ten or so centuries of dust, I manage to get a foothold at the top and ease myself onto the stone floor of the scriptorium. There are three rooms, one opening onto the other. The door

ways between them are so small that I have to nearly crawl through them, although I can stand in the middle of each room. There is only one window, at the far end, a thin slit that lets in just enough light to make the other two spaces barely navigable. 

Everything that I thought I knew about scriptoria does not fit this scene. The monks were supposed to have light, first, and warmth, so their hands stayed flexible; often they were placed next to the kitchens as the warmest place in the monastery. They needed stuff to function: desks, quills, inks, parchment, scrapers, pins, tools to scribe lines, pots, rags, a bench. How could even some very short tent

h-century guys on a mission manage to get all of these items up in these rafters, and why on earth would anyone expect them to do so?

Once I manage to overcome my sheer panic and get back down the ladder, the redoubtable Mrs Johnson has no answer to these questions. 'Oil and candles,' she says, and again to another question, 'They had oil and candles.' Prison, I think, for errant monks, but not, surely, a scriptorium, although I notice that the odor of sanctity stays with me as I descend the terrifying ladder.

As I get ready to leave (hoping I am not supposed to tip her, as tips are not generally sought

 in Ireland), I ask if I may take her photo at the doorway of the House. 'Well,' she says,' I don't take a good photo,' but she pulls off her knit cap and makes a face at the camera. I tell her that I can't offer her a ride back down the hill, as my car is parked in a Pay and Display over near the High Street. 'That's alright,' she says,' I may just wait here awhile in case someone else comes along.'  She is standing patiently in the doorway, resting against the stone, as I head back down the hill.

Baile Áytha Troim

The market town of Trim is the perfect scale for an introduction to a stay in Ireland. It's got everything you could possibly want in a town--a castle, a ruin, a river, an Indian takeaway, a library and a bookstore. Trim Castle, which is in fact also a ruin, is a twelfth-century castle. It is one of the largest medieval castles in Europe, but it's main claim to fame is being the site of Mel Gibson's film Braveheart, a factoid I doubt I'll ever verify by watching the film.

On Friday, my first full day here, I visited the castle grounds, investigated Ready  to Go mobile phones, and walked all over the town. I was amazed that every cafe was stuffed with diners at lunchtime until I realized that Friday was also the start of the school holidays, a two-week break that always happens at Easter. On Monday, when I went back to Watson's, already my favorite lunch spot, there were about three customers in the place. I suspect word is going around that there is an American in town with actual money to spend, seeing as I have had two lunches at Watson's and a takeaway sag paneer from Khan Spices, just up the road from Watson's and also largely empty in the evening now that the Celtic Tiger has lost its roar.

bealach isteach

Coming off a 10-hour flight to London, a 4-hour layover at Heathrow, a 2-hour flight to Dublin and an hour's drive on the left side of the road at rush hour, I was intensely relieved to have Frank, my new landlord, and his son Loman meet me at the pub to lead me into Trim, my first stop here. 

Over tea at the pub I told Frank and Loman about the grilling I received by the agent at the Dublin immigration desk, who must have been having an otherwise tedious day and was lying in wait for a non-Polish-speaking visitor with whom he could spar. I had to justify my visit in terms of my planned work, give him my cousin's name, phone number, and specific relationship to me (I made that up; later we established that we are second cousins), name an amount of dollars I could lay my hands on to prove that I wouldn't immediately become a ward of the state, give a 'permanent' Irish address as well as the address of my lodging, and demonstrate that I was aware that I didn't need a visa for a three-month's stay. In the end he cleared me until July 1st, which is exactly how long I intended to stay. He wished me well and I passed through into the land of my mother's birth. Next time I'll know to travel on an Irish passport.

Frank and his wife Rita have two tiny apartments attached to their stucco house which sits just at the outskirts of Trim town center. Each apartment consists of an entry, a galley kitchen with a kettle, a toaster, a microwave, a cooker and a dorm-size fridge but no surface on which to prepare food, a bathroom with a shower pod that looks like something out of a 1980 science fiction movie, and a very small bedroom that overlooks the parking area at the front of the house. I am in the downstairs apartment; Loman, who has moved back home temporarily, is above. It is immediately apparent that the place is entirely too small, but for now the place is warm, the bed looks comfortable, and there is plenty of hot water as long as I remember to put a two euro coin in the electric meter.

Over tea (already I have been offered more tea than even I can manage) Rita tells me that the name of the house, Breffni, comes from one of Ireland's ancient kingdoms, near where she was born. Frank and Rita are proud of their house and their hospitality; I don't have the courage to tell them I will be moving soon.

Fáilte

Welcome to my Ireland blog. I am spending three months here to research and document Ballinderry, the house where my mother was born. That the house is still standing is due to my second cousin Alan Tyrrell-Cox, and his wife Eleanor Murphy, who rescued the house from near total dereliction and are, with the greatest patience, returning it to its 250-year-old Georgian splendor.

Of course I'm also living here, and that's what this blog will mainly be about: finding a space for myself on this small and contradictory island.