The Cookin' Woman

Sharry, (Kirsty's mother), has a book about a woman (Florence Irwin), who, from 1905-13, was employed as an Itinerant Cookery Instructress by the Department of Agriculture in Ireland. She was hired to go around to the Irish countryside and spend 6-8 weeks in each place teaching the women there "cookery, laundry-work and dressmaking." She carried with her an American "Mistress" stove, the likes of which no one had seen before. "The Cookin' Woman" was published in 1936 with some recipes of her own and those she found in her travels. She continued to publish recipes in her weekly column in "The Northern Whig" for 41 years.

A few lines from the introduction to the book by St. John Ervine:
"The human palate, in the last thirty years, and especially since the outbreak of the Second World War, has been so  grossly violated by incompetent cooks, manufacturers of synthetic foods, and officials who have been in the civil service so long that they have ceased not only to understand but to feel any human emotion, that it can scarcely be called a palate at all. . .
Had the chief baker put such bread on the Pharoah's table as is commonly put on a Briton's today, he would have been disembowled before he was hanged."

Lastly, he writes:
In my boyhood, Belfast was renowned for its cakes, but today, I am told you may buy the same cakes there that may be bought in London or Manchester. . . sawdusty things that are plastered with glucose and gelatin and are called French pastries. Synthetic flour, synthetic juices and synthetic bread must one day result in synthetic people. It is to avoid the calamity that this book is published, and I hope heartily that it may fulfill its holy purpose."

And I thought crappy food was all America's fault :)

Now, because those of you who know me well know that I am addicted to scones, I offer a proper recipe (and instructions) for making a scone (rhymes with lawn in this part of the world).

Chapter 10

CAKES, SCONES, ETC.

Some people make much better scones than others, each using the same recipe. The secret lies in the handling of the flour. Flour contains gluten which is of a sticky elastic nature which enables the flour to rise and retain its height when cooked. If this gluten is over-worked it becomes drawn out and so loses its elasticity-therefore all handling of flour must be "light," the fat must be rubbed in lightly, kneading must be light, and all unnecessary kneading avoided.
Lastly scones must be baked quickly. I don't mean an oven at cremation point, but certainly not less than 350 degrees, preferably 400 degrees.

SYRUP SCONES

8 ozs. flour, 1/2 teaspoonful baking soda, 1/2 teaspoonful cream of tartar, good pinch of salt, 2 ozs. margarine, 1 tablespoon golden syrup, buttermilk.
Method: Sieve dry ingredients, rub in fat, make to a dough with syrup and buttermilk. Knead as little as possible. Roll out 1/2 inch thick. Cut with a small cutter. Glaze by brushing with milk. Bake in an oven 400 degrees, or on the griddle.

There you go. Easy as pie. Of course I would add raisins to it because that's just the way it should be.
Happy scone making to you all my friends!

Brit-isms and Irish-isms

I have decided to 'splain some of the differences I have come across since flying over the pond. It is hoped that I can help reduce the confusion one might feel when visiting over here.

Your man: used when talking about another person. As an example, two people are talking and one says to the other: “the surveyor came around and started to measure the property. Then your man starts talking to the neighbor.” Your man refers to the surveyor, whether or not the other person knows the surveyor or not. The first time “your man” was used in conversation I was thrown for a loop. I thought I had lost the thread of the conversation and we were now talking about someone I knew.

Europeans are tougher than we Americans. They leave butter out of the fridge, and thaw chicken and shrimp out overnight. No namby-pambies over here. They also have margarine, but no one who likes food to taste proper would be caught dead using it.

Hire car is a rental car. On offer is a sale. Tea is either the drink tea or dinner. Dinner is lunch. Bread goes in a bread bin, sometime in a wrapper, sometimes not. Tomatoes are not kept in the fridge.

Courgette is a zucchini in the UK, Ireland, New Zealand and France (zuchini in US, Germany, Italy and just to be different from New Zealand, Australia).

Chips are French fries. Crisps are potato chips. A biscuit is what we call a cookie because it is sweet. If it isn’t sweet, it is called savory and is a cracker.

Half and Half doesn’t exist. Seriously. Neither do screen doors or screens on windows. We open the windows and doors and swat flies and wasps all day. Or at least I do. Maybe I haven’t adjusted to this yet.

A trolley is a shopping cart. Stick a coin in a slot on the handle of the trolley and the trolley is released from the one in front of it. To get the coin back, return it to the rack and attach it again to the trolley in front of it. Out pops the coin. Magical.

Tennis shoes are runners. Pants are trousers. Sweaters are jumpers. Button-up sweaters are cardigans. Panties are knickers.

Dual carriageway is a freeway. A lorry is a 18 wheeler. A garage can be a filling station, a place you get your car fixed, or the part of your house where you store all of your stuff instead of parking your car in it. Diesel is sometimes called derv. I don’t know, it just is.

Drivers use the parking brake (they call it the handbrake), put the car in neutral and let out the clutch when they stop in traffic. I kid you not. They drive on the wrong side of the road.

Hardly anyone has an automatic transmission here. They are very, very expensive. Even in the rental cars. If you want an automatic in a rental car, expect to pay about double the price. Lots of roundabouts and drivers use their signals way more than in the US. Especially getting in and out of the roundabouts. Did I mention they drive on the wrong side of the road?

It is quite common to have a small on-demand water heater in the shower (like the ones used on boats). And most have the movable shower head instead of the built-in kind.

I hope this short list is of use to those of you who haven't been over yet. All tongue-in-cheek of course, except for the half and half. I mean, really.

And lastly, take aways are take-outs.

Béke my friends!
(Hungarian for peace)

Back in Jolly Old England

Kirsty and I spent a couple of days in Northern Ireland, but spent the time with Kirsty's extended family as they dealt with the hospitalization of a family member (one of Kirsty's favorites). We then headed over to Stranraer, Scotland from the ferry port in Belfast. 13 hours later (one ferry ride, one cab ride (because the ferry was late so we had to cab it for an hour and a half to the next train station on the ferry company's dime), three train changes and lastly, her mom picking us up) we were back in Withernwick. Easy as pie.
We are going to catch our breath, then figure out our next destination. Below are some pics from here and there:

The most famous bar in Northern Ireland: The Crown Bar in Belfast.

The Crown Liquor Saloon in Great Victoria Street, Belfast was perhaps the greatest of Victorian Gin Palaces which once flourished in the industrial cities of Britain. It is owned by the National Trust and managed by Six Continents Retail Limited. In 1981 the Trust carried out a sympathetic restoration, and it took the sum of approximately £400,000 to restore the bar to its full Victorian splendour.

 On the ferry.

One of many this trip. No more British Rail, all private now. Trains aren't in the best of condition anymore.

Brits are ahead of the Yanks in credit cards (chips embedded in all and no more giving your card to the waiter as the machine is brought to the table), and phone top ups all over the place, even at cash machines (especially handy with the unlocked phones here).

Walking Meg in the early morning.

Meg. Dumber than a box of hammers. But cute, so whatamigonnado?

Take care my friends, will keep you updated on our quest for the first place we stay longer than two weeks.
Achukma my friends!
(Peace in Choctaw)

Another Facet of Ireland

Ireland is hideously expensive. I wonder how people survive here. Perhaps the money is still around from the Celtic Tiger (Ireland's major economic boom) years, but I don’t think it can last. 450,000 people on the dole, out of a population of 4.5 million. The dole is very generous here; a single person gets about $300 a week. For as long as a person isn’t working. More money if you have kids. You don’t have to try and find a job, no one checks. I know people here who have been on the dole for years, and have no real intention of finding a job. The government will pay for your schooling if you are unemployed, so why not keep going to school, or do whatever floats your boat? Yikes!

The money’s running out now, so the government is starting to crack down on welfare cheats and cut services. The roads are falling apart and coffee is $3-4 a cup! I mean, really.

Tried to get in and see the Immigration officers three times. Twice we ran out of time and once the office was closed for “unexpected reasons.” The way the government works is maddening at times. We can’t lease a flat if I can’t stay more than a few more weeks, much less buy a car.

So, the bloom is off the rose here and we are once again off for another locale. Scotland perhaps. Now where is my kilt?

We are off for Northern Ireland (I'll pretend I wasn't raised a Catholic and try not to get shot), to see Kirsty's granny, then on the ferry back to England. Stay tuned my friends!

Connemara Walkabout

Here are some pictures taken around the coast of Connemara.

Almost to the coast.

 Piles of turf. Turf is peat after it has been dug up.

Burns long-time in the stoves. Some of the people here have turf rights and can dig up peat from the countryside (on public lands). Some have kelp rights as well.

Hello Donkeys!

Getting a bit too close to junior, so mom came over to say hi.

Love the stone walls!

I could sit at the coral beach for hours!

Coral Beach.

Ballyconneely.

Me and my door fetish!

Driving back from Doolin, saw this Wedge Tomb in the middle of nowhere. The ground is so rocky here that it made graves all but impossible to dig.

Say, uh, hmmm. My map is in English and the road signs are in Irish (as it is the first language in many parts of the west of Ireland). The Irish words have very little in common with the English words they represent. Very little. Don't get me started on how to pronounce them either. Even less in common.

The next pictures are from Doolin. I was intrigued by the limestone and the way the water cut channels into it at the water's edge.

The next three pics are from back in Galway.

No waiting at Galway Airport.

Cows next to the parking lot at the airport.

Couple of Irish lads hanging about in Galway.

Ta my friends, Filemu (Samoan) to you all!

Stronach Gallery at Fermoyle Lodge

Kirsty and I were invited to stay for a few days with Nicola and JP (Jean Pierre) at their lodge in Connemara. They are two lovely people, real salt of the earth types. They both are giving, generous people who have that certain something that leads you to believe that they are true in their word and deed.
The former sporting lodge, built in 1875 is an eclectic mix of art, furniture and two dogs; a 13 yr old black lab named Wendy and four month old English Setter names Cashla. The lodge overlooks Fermoyle Lakes, the Twelve Pins and the Maamturk Mountains. Nicola and JP first ran a B&B there, then decided to turn it into an art gallery.
The grounds are raging with brush, trees and grass. All held back, for the most part, by the relentless attention of JP. It is easy to see that the grounds would run riot with vegetation in a very short time should he stop what he is doing.
Their meals are simple, exceedingly delicious, cooked with locally grown vegetables and fruit (when possible), and with fish caught in the lakes. Cheese and bread abound, as does the wine and occasional gin and tonic. JP is an extraordinary chef!
After a day, I was ready to put on my wellies (boots) and spend a few years helping JP with the garden and grounds! I felt like I had found the true Ireland, the Ireland of my dreams. It is so different from the cities like Galway and Dublin, that it might as well be on a different continent. The pictures that follow can barely convey the beauty and peace of this place. The air is clean and fresh, the silence is thundering at night.

The road down to the house.

Raging vegetation!

JP and Kirsty walking up to the cottage.

JP with his wellies on.

View north to neighbors.

View outside dining room side window.

View out back door to kitchen.

View from our bed.

Another view from bedroom.

This is the color of the water here. It comes from the lakes and is tinted brown because the ground here is peat. Softens you right up!

The next three pictures are of a rainbow that appears to go directly down to Gunther's house (a friend of Kirsty's). These pictures are from outside the dining room facing north.

 Faint outline of another rainbow to the right.

Gunther's house is the white part in the middle of the rainbow.

I mean, damn!

Alas, we had to go back to Galway after three glorious days and nights. My next post will be of the sights around Connemara that we saw while staying out with JP and Nicola.
This is a special place my friends, once you get away from the cities. It doesn't take long to hit the country and shed the noise and pollution of the city.

Tsumukikatu, my friends!

(Peace in Comanche)