Considering that we’ve been together for over a year and are living together, I suppose it’s odd that my family hadn’t met Mountaineering Man before a few weeks ago.

But that’s one of the downsides of living abroad, thousands of miles away from my parents, sister Anne, brother-in-law Juan and best friends. Though I’d kept everyone informed via emails and phone conversations, it’s always only half the story because despite Facebook photo albums and blog posts there’s no way to convey the whole truth about someone or something – especially one that is particularly significant. And because I’m immersed in my life here, I often forget that no matter how much I’ve shared with everyone back in LA they’re still not getting the full picture of MM.

Before we left on the big trip, MM took a fair bit of ribbing from his mates. As my father is a Vietnam veteran, his buddy Joe kept making “Meet the Parents” references and joking that my father was going to be keeping an eye on MM’s every move. Despite all the teasing, he was eager to meet my family and as we pulled up to my parents’ house he seemed relaxed and ready to Meet the Kleinedlers!

For the first half of the LA trip, we stayed at my folks’ house and within 10 minutes of walking in the door my mom had the photo albums out and was showing MM my baby pictures and telling childhood stories. Later that night we gathered at Z’s sushi, the place where my family goes nearly every other week for dinner. When I lived in LA, I knew if I went to Z’s on a Friday night, there’d be a good chance my sister and her husband or my parents or all four would be there, sitting at the corner of the sushi bar and bantering with Toshi the sushi chef. It’s just our place and has been for years.

So it was appropriate that the first family dinner was at Z’s, and what a great night it was. Toshi threw down piece after piece of beautifully fresh sushi (sea urchin, yellowtail, salmon, sea bass…) along with a half-dozen cooked specials like tempura rock shrimp with Sriracha mayo and miso soup with tofu and seaweed. Toshi welcomed MM, calling him his “new friend;” MM and my parents talked about Dublin pubs and my brother-in-law talked music with him. My sister, who is my identical twin, peppered MM with questions about his mountain climbing, job, our apartment, etc. (it’s a twin thing!).

Over the next week we spent quality time with the family. We did an urban hike with my parents in downtown Los Angeles where we took the world’s shortest cable car ride on Angel’s Flight and sampled some great tacos at Grand Central Market. We walked around Venice Beach and checked out the famous canals with Anne and Juan. Another day MM went music shopping with Juan while my sister and I hit the mall with my friend Tawny. The Sunday before we were due to leave my parents hosted a small party with a dozen of my and our family’s friends so they, too, could meet MM. And on the last day my sister cooked dinner for the six of us at her place and we put away way too many bottles of wine and talked late into the night.

Though it was probably all a blur for MM, it was great to finally show him my home and for him to meet my loved ones. And despite being thrown into a huge group of new faces, MM held his own and got a chance to spend a good deal of time with most of the people he met. Everyone got on great and it was a wonderful visit, the first of many to come.

When I lived in San Francisco I used to go camping in Big Sur every summer with a group of girlfriends. With its rugged coastline, signature pine trees and aqua blue ocean, it’s one of my all-time top places to unwind.

As Mountaineering Man is a huge fan of the outdoors, I knew he’d love Big Sur as much as I do. And since he was about to meet my parents, sister, brother-in-law and a half-dozen of my friends for the first time, I thought one more stop before the big LA debut couldn’t hurt. We rented a car in San Francisco and drove along Highway 1, the beautiful but notoriously dangerous windy road that goes along the coast of California.

I did the driving because it’s a lot cheaper for me to be the only driver of a rental car (they charge more for foreign drivers!), a decision I regretted as soon as we passed Monterey and started down the main highway. It was a four-hour, white-knuckled drive, but we finally made it to Treebones, an eco resort where guests stay in yurts instead of a standard hotel room. The yurts are fully furnished with a bed, couch, table and chairs, gas fireplace and sink with running water and feature the most breathtaking ocean view you’ve ever seen. The resort is completely off the grid, meaning they produce their own energy and waste nothing. The main lodge has 24-hour showers, a sushi bar and a restaurant that cooks up organic produce grown in the resort’s own garden. There’s also a heated pool and hot tub and a little gift shop that sells some of the California coast’s best wines.

After running around San Francisco for four days, this was exactly the break we needed. The yurts were spacious and comfortable and we lucked out again with the weather. The days were warm and sunny and the evenings were mild. At night we could hear the local sea lions yelping in the distance and see a million stars in the ink-black sky through the skylight in our yurt.

One of the highlights of our whole California adventure was the first night at Treebones. We were both quite tired from the drive and arrived in the early evening. Within a half-hour of checking in, we managed to get the last two seats at the sushi bar. We ate gorgeous sushi and sipped chilled white wine while watching the sun dip beneath the misty marine layer that had formed over the ocean; it was a magnificent scene I’ll not soon forget.

We had to catch a mid-day flight, so we left Treebones under a cover of darkness at 5:30 am. As we wound our way back up Highway 1, we watched the sun rise over the water and braced ourselves for the next big step: Meeting the Kleinedlers! Coming up next…

I apologize for being away so long, but we were on holiday and I decided from the onset that I would not bring my laptop along for the journey. But we’re back from our whirlwind tour of California after nearly two-and-a-half weeks away so here you go!

The main point of the trip was to introduce Mountaineering Man to my family in Los Angeles (the “Meet the Kleinedlers” post is coming up soon!). But before we journeyed to LA we first flew into San Francisco, a city where both MM and I lived at one point in our lives – though we never crossed paths.

I went to college in San Francisco and spent another few years there after  graduation and MM spent several weeks there one summer visiting his Irish college friends who were there on a J1 visa. So it was only appropriate for us to first land in the City by the Bay. Instead of staying at a hotel, we opted to rent an apartment via Airbnb, and the decision is one of the best we’ve ever made. Instead of spending $300 or more per night on a hotel room (gotta love those hidden fees/taxes!) we had a 14th floor penthouse apartment, complete with a private rooftop deck and hot tub, all to ourselves for nearly half that price.

Our good fortune didn’t end there. Though it was raining when we arrived Wednesday evening, by Thursday mid-day the skies had cleared and the weather remained absolutely perfect for the rest of our four-day stay. It also happened to be Fleet Week in the city, which meant the world-class Blue Angels flying team were practicing their formations for the big weekend celebration and sailors from all over the world were in town (somehow MM didn’t find the latter as appealing as I did!). Thanks to the rooftop deck, we had front-row seats (in the hot tub!) for the Blue Angels’ dress rehearsal – MM said he’d never seen anything like it before. [Editor’s note: if you look closely at the end of the video you can see MM’s legs; he’s wearing a robe as he was just out of the hot tub, lol!]

We spent our days trekking around the city on foot and via its fantastic public transportation system. One stop was at MM’s old house in the Mission district, where he once lived with 10 of his closest college mates. After snapping a few shots we walked around the corner to La Taqueria, the Mexican joint he and buddy Joe used to get their monster burritos after long nights of drinking. We also went by my old flat in Hayes Valley and had a lovely breakfast at La Boulange, a cafe bakery that unfortunately didn’t exist when I lived there. It was great seeing our old neighborhoods.

In the evenings we caught up with my best friends Stacy and Cat, who at one point in their lives were both roommates of mine and are now friends themselves. We spent a long, boozy night at Pizzeria Delfina, sampling some of SF’s best pizzas and then went across the street for some delectable frozen treats (salted caramel ice cream, anyone?) at the Bi-Rite Creamery. The next night they and their hubbies met us at the Slow Club, one of my favourite restaurants in the city.

The food in San Francisco just can’t be beat, and we ate our way through a good few districts. We stopped at the Ferry Building Marketplace to have brunch with my friend Joe, Jill and their adorable son Jack and had a fantastic breakfast taco of eggs and chorizo at the MarketBar Cafe. At Anchor & Hope, a restaurant specialising in seafood, I had one of the best appetizers I’ve ever eaten: the warmed sea urchin with crab in a lemon buerre blanc that is honestly out of this world. MM had the fried rock shrimp, which he adored. Another highlight of the trip was the banh mi sandwich we got at a tiny little Vietnamese restaurant at Golden Flower restaurant in Chinatown for a mere $3.25. If anyone knows where I can get a banh mi in Dublin, PLEASE let me know!

Though it was a short visit we had a blast and covered all the places we wanted to see. I even got my hair cut by Jackie, who I went to for YEARS before moving to Los Angeles and who is still the best hair stylist anywhere as far as I’m concerned. Of course the coolest part of the trip was introducing Cormac to my best friends, and I’m happy to report they all got on well. It was good practice for Meet the Kleinedlers – post coming shortly!

Between the living room and the hallway, in our apartment, there is a small, clean but intimidating room. Intimidating in parts, mind you. Not the bins or the dishwasher. Or the fridge.

But our kitchen is full of cupboards, cubby holes crammed with pots, strainer things, many, many bowls (large and small, and in between). Sharp knives abound.

And that’s before I get to the entire drawer full of exotic mashers and dicers, prong-type things and ladles. Way, way too much stuff for me to ever use, even in a lifetime of cooking. That’s about as much as I knew about our kitchen.

Until this week.

Clare is working a new contract at present, so our previous dinner arrangement has been turned on its head. Instead of dutifully turning up each evening to some seriously good  dishes – listed here in other posts – circumstances have now pushed me in front of the cooker.

A declaration – I used to cook before.

Strictly single-guy fare. Straight-up, rapid and simple and back out of that room so fast. No Michelin stars- but no trips to A&E either. It had been a while since I’ve tried it.

Not wishing to sprint before I could stumble I knew that I had to stick to what I knew. But not before I stuck to what Clare knew. Rigidly.

On the first day of the new arrangement she left ingredients, implements and a step-by-step guide to making salmon and bulgur wheat. I followed it, and pulled it off.

Good, but any chump can read and check a watch, and can differentiate salmon from a stock cube. It was good, but it lacked kudos.

I had to step up for day two. No clinging to Clare’s apron strings.

So, with my best Heston game face I strode into the kitchen, having set the mood by cranking up some Neil Young in the living room. The menu’s below – so there’s no need for a step-by-step.

But here’s some observations, from the hob’s mouth:

- Cutting onions is a pain. There’s a start-up somewhere right now planning to slice and vacuum pack them for sale, trust me. [Editor’s note: Hon, that happened ages ago and you can purchase them sliced or chopped or minced, vacuum packed, at shops everywhere].

- Don’t mop your brow after chopping a chili, even if you’ve washed your hands.

- The hob fan always drowns out the inspirational background rock music. Oddly enough the designers never considered this vital fact.

- The last five minutes are always the craziest. Who could have known that straining basmati rice while looking over your shoulder at a hot pan could be so stressful?

But I made it. Flailing across the finish line, I was squeezing the lemon onto the pan (the icing on the cake, or the coup de grace, depending on your point of view) as An American In Ireland walked in.

She smiled. She took a picture. And when she sat down she even cleaned her plate.

I may just do it again.

MM’s Lemon/Garlic/Chili Chicken with Wholegrain Basmati

Add 1.5 cups of basmati rice to four cups of boiling water and a stock cube. Simmer for 25 mins and then strain. Put back into the pot and cover to keep warm.

Slice up two largish onions, put in large saute pan with olive oil, cook at lowish heat for 10 mins.

Slice up two large chicken breasts, add to onions, season, cook for 6-8 mins.

Chop up 4-5 cloves of garlic, one whole chili, add to pan, cook for additional 5 mins.

Add in a quarter cup of sweet corn, 5-6 tablespoons of soy sauce, two teaspoonfuls of sugar. Stir it up.

Drain rice and serve chicken over the lot.

Strangely enough it’s the small stuff, like perusing books together at Chapters or watching a movie at home, that hold the most significance for me. I think the Knight in Shining Armor is the easy bit; any guy can buy roses and do the whole candlelit dinner scenario (and to be fair any woman can do the I-wake-up-looking-this-perfect act, at least in the beginning!). It’s harder to find someone who, despite seeing all your imperfections, still thinks you’re pretty damn perfect – and vice versa.

Before meeting MM it was difficult for me to imagine meeting an extraordinary guy to do ordinary things with, if that makes any sense. It wasn’t a decision I’d made consciously or even something I’d acknowledged to myself, but looking back I was definitely at a place where it just didn’t matter anymore. I was relatively happy but exhausted with dating; perhaps I was simply resigned to living on my own and didn’t have the energy to really try and change what I thought was my inevitable future. In retrospect it makes me sad that I didn’t care, though at the time I felt fine with it. Despite knowing a good number of couples, at times it was hard to fathom how two people ever got together – with so many variables in the equation, it felt impossible. I used to joke to friends that I’d better start collecting cats so that I could live out that age-old cliché of the Crazy Cat Lady later in my life.

Turns out I was wrong, which in this case I’m more than happy to admit. In MM I’ve found a partner and best friend, someone I can be myself with and who gives me a sense of peace. He puts up with my love of Food Network (though he’s recently admitted to becoming a fan of Barefoot Contessa) and I tolerate his croaky Tom Waits impersonations (it’s enough to make dogs howl with pain!); I pretend not to notice that he always puts the cutlery back in the wrong drawer and he accepts that I cannot follow a map no matter how many times he reviews it with me. It’s a happy yin and yang, the two of us.

In a few weeks I’ll be taking MM home to meet my family and friends in Los Angeles, yet another big step in our story. Honestly, I can’t wait.

Happy Anniversary, Mountaineering Man. xo

Fabulous Pain Perdu

When I mentioned earlier that MM has become a Barefoot Contessa fan, I wasn’t joking. Though he makes fun of Ina Garten’s at-times comical television life – the fabulous gay friends like model T.R., florist Michael and decorator/photographer Miguel; her husband Jeffrey’s obsession with chicken; everyone’s overuse of the word “fabulous!” – he’s always asking me to make dishes he sees on the show. [Editor’s note: Personally I’d give anything to lunch with Ina and her gay posse. Ina, if you’re reading this CALL ME!] He recently became obsessed with Ina’s pain perdu, which she made for her fabulous friends in one episode. I made an adapted version of it a couple of weeks ago and ended up making it for FOUR days in a row as MM just couldn’t get enough of the stuff. (I should note that we had an entire loaf of brioche bread to use up so it was no bother). It’s the perfect sweet-treat brunch dish!

(Serves 2)

1 egg

2 tablespoons heavy cream

5 tablespoons milk

Juice from half an orange

Zest from half an orange

1 teaspoon honey

1 teaspoon caster sugar

4 slices of brioche bread

Couple of handfuls of slivered almonds

Butter

Strawberries or whatever fruit you like for topping

Icing sugar

In large shallow dish, whisk together the egg, heavy cream, milk, orange juice, zest, honey and sugar until thoroughly mixed together. In another shallow dish, add the silvered almonds and set aside.

Now you’re ready to make the pain perdu. Melt a couple of teaspoons of butter into a large sauté pan over medium heat. Take a slice of brioche, dip both sides into the liquid mixture and then dip one side into the silvered almonds. Place the bread almond side down in the hot pan and cook for a few minutes or until the almonds start to turn golden. Flip and cook for another few minutes on the other side. Depending on the size of your pan, you can do 2-3 or even four slices at once. If you’re doing them one by one, simply place in a warm oven (100 C) while you’re finishing the rest.

To plate: Put two slices on plate, top with strawberries (I macerated mine in some orange juice and a bit of sugar) or whatever fruit you like, then sprinkle with icing sugar. Serve immediately.

It was an adjustment but that year in Drogheda was a good one. I learned to navigate narrow country roads with ease; I got used to seeing people I knew around town; I found ways to deal with the lack of variety when it came to restaurants and food shops. But even though I’m now back in a big city, it’s still a world away from where I originally came. 

Dublin, in all its metropolitan glory, still offers something completely new to my LA-bred self. And my new neighborhood is its own little microcosm all together. On breezy days the nutty scent of roasted barley from the Guinness factory – located just around the corner – wafts through the apartment window. For every 50 cars on our road there is a horse-drawn carriage, still a popular mode of transport with some of the Travellers in the area. At least once a day I hear the hollow clop of horse hooves hitting the pavement below and though some see the carriages as a nuisance it is an audible and pleasant reminder of where I am; a place very far from home but one that is almost a fairytale.

Where else can you gaze upon thousands-year-old stone churches from the modern convenience that is the LUAS street tram? Nowhere I’ve ever lived. Just walking down the road is an adventure. Yesterday, on my short stroll around the nabe, I walked down a cobblestone street under a sparkling ray of sunshine one minute and was rushing across a major four-lane thoroughfare under spring showers the next. During my walk I passed a vintage clothing shop, four horse-drawn carriages, a contemporary row of apartments, a fish-and-chip van, and a tiny, well-worn pub that looked like it had served its fair share of pints. There is so much variety condensed into such a small space here and the randomness is something I find quite appealing.

I always had lofty and quite typical dreams to live abroad, most of which were based on images I saw in films or scenes I read about in books. You know the scenario: A cute little Parisian apartment overlooking the Seine. Me, sitting on my balcony sipping a cappuccino and reading a book…or even better, writing my book. I’d have intimate dinner parties with my international posse of friends and make food from produce bought exclusively at outdoor markets and protein purchased only at the local fishmonger or butcher shops. Oh and of course there’d be romance with a dashing suitor. I don’t know what it is, but we women have a tendency toward these live-abroad fantasies and I was no different.

The other day Mountaineering Man and I walked along the beautiful River Liffey, had lunch at a cute cafe on the waterfront and ducked out of the rain to spend some time at our favorite local bookstore, Chapters. We came home and had a dinner party for two; a little avocado pesto pasta made with fresh, organic produce and some lovely blushed Rosè. We then met up with a couple of pals at the launch party for a friend’s new cookery show (PLUG: Kitchen Hero on RTE 1, Mondays at 8:30 pm!) and had a few glasses of wine and a lot of fun chat before heading home in a taxi. The next day we walked to IMMA and shared quiet time over cupcakes and coffee at the museum cafe before viewing the Frida Kahlo/Diego Rivera exhibit. It ain’t Paris, but life in Dublin is even better than any fantasy could ever be…because it’s real.

Avocado Pesto Pasta with Peas and Spinach

250 grams of whole wheat spaghetti

8 ounces frozen spinach

5 ounces frozen peas

1 ripe, medium-sized Haas avocado

3 cloves of young garlic or 1 clove regular garlic, minced finely

2 teaspoons olive oil

2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

Cook spaghetti according to package directions. While spaghetti is cooking, place spinach into a bowl and cover with boiling water and let sit for a few minutes. Drain and squeeze out excess water once it is cooled down. To defrost the peas, either do the same (without squeezing!) or just run in a sieve under hot water. Set spinach and peas aside. After pasta is cooked, drain and set aside.

In a medium-sized bowl, mash together the avocado and garlic using a fork or potato masher. Add salt and pepper to taste. Heat up the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat and add the mixture and spaghetti and toss together. Add in the spinach and peas and mix and cook over low heat just to warm through. Remove from heat and add the Parmesan cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 2 people.

To make this vegan, simply omit the cheese and use vegan pasta!

Remember a while back when I introduced Mountaineering Man on the blog? It’s hard to believe it’s been almost eight months since we started dating but it has, and now we’re taking the next step: cohabitation!

So yes, I’m moving in with MM. Though we were initially going to look for a two-bedroom place we’ve decided to move into his one-bed until that gets sorted. A lot of couples have their starter apartment and this will be ours, complete with a major lack of closet space and one, small bathroom.

Despite the tight quarters, I’m really looking forward to it. While it’ll certainly be more convenient (I’ve been living out of a suitcase half the week for the last several months, commuting between my Drogheda digs and his Dublin apartment), that’s just one small benefit. I’m excited about taking the next step with someone I not only love but really like; I genuinely enjoy spending time with him. Whether we’re lounging around and reading the paper or hiking up in Wicklow, it just feels…easy.

By easy I don’t mean perfect, but I never wanted perfection (and thankfully for me, neither does he!). What I mean is there’s no major drama, which is something I grew quite accustomed to in past relationships. Sure, we have our little battles – most of which are typical and almost laughable: I am certain that every time I walk into the bathroom, the toilet seat will be up, and he can say without hesitation that he’s not fond of all the hair I leave behind after my daily blow-dry routine. He reluctantly but respectfully puts up with my mania for kitchenware shops and I support his preoccupation with all things mountaineering. I tolerate his penchant for playing Tom Waits way too loud and he accepts my love of Come Dine With Me and even watches with me every Sunday night, though I know he’d rather have his head in a book.

There’s a good deal of balance between us and we both carry an even but different distribution of weight, if you will. I cook, he cleans. He’d rather walk in the rain, I’m all for a taxi and we’ll end up on the LUAS. He’s relatively private and I blog very publicly about my (and now our) life. Naturally we also have a lot in common: We’re both a bit OTT with planning and organization; we adore weekend getaways; we tend to lean toward sarcasm when it comes to our senses of humour; and we share a mutual dislike of anything twee. And, thankfully, we both love food.

I don’t think that I could be truly compatible with a picky eater. My last boyfriend saw food merely as something that resolved hunger – he had no appreciation for a good meal and was perfectly happy with a granola bar for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But MM really enjoys food, has a wide range of tastes and – perhaps most important of all – is very open to trying new things. For our second date he chose Yamamori, because he knew I love sushi. And though back then he struggled with his chopsticks and didn’t have a clue what he was eating he’s now quite skillful with the hashi and is mad for scallop sushi and the soft-shell crab roll. He is a willing guinea pig to my cooking experiments and always complimentary of the dishes I create (well, except for the time I made an ill-fated hash of beetroot, asparagus and under-cooked potato).

At the risk of sounding a bit Suzy Homemaker, I’m really excited about the meal planning and cooking I’ll be doing in our apartment. But moreover I’m thrilled to be taking this leap of faith with my MM.

Rustic Onion and Kohlrabi Tart

I made this recently when we housesat for MM’s parents in Wexford and MM loved it so much I’ll definitely be making it again very soon. I use a deep pie dish – actually I just bought one of those throw-away pie tins – because then you can fold down the crust to make it look like the one in the photo. To do this simply put the pastry in like you would a regular pie – all the way up the sides of the tin. Pour the filling in, which only fills it up about half-way, then fold down the pastry crust and pinch the creases to create this rustic look. I served this as a main course with a side of farmer’s market greens and roasted purple sprouting broccoli.

Pastry dough from your favorite savory shortcrust recipe

1 kohlrabi, sliced thinly

3 medium onions, sliced thinly

2 teaspoons olive oil

1 large egg

12o ml heavy cream

Salt & pepper to taste

Pinch of nutmeg

Roll out your pastry and place in a deep, 8 or 9-inch pie dish or tin. Using a fork, prick the bottom of the pastry and put into the refrigerator.

Preheat oven to 170 (fan) or 190. In a large sauté pan, heat up the olive oil over medium heat. Sauté the kohlrabi and onions until tender, seasoning with salt and pepper as you cook. Set aside. In a large bowl, beat the egg and cream and add a pinch each of salt, pepper and nutmeg. Stir in the kohlrabi/onion mixture until incorporated and pour into the pastry. This will only fill the pastry about half-way, so fold down the sides of the pastry and pinch to make creases. Brush pastry with egg wash (one egg beaten and a bit of water, or just brush with leftover cream or milk).

Bake for 35 minutes or until pastry is a golden brown.

There are some things so precious you want to keep them all to yourself, safely tucked away from prying eyes and inevitable opinions and questions. There’s safety in keeping something secret; it’s a preservation method, a way to keep something protected and allow space for growth without influence or distraction.

But this is a blog about my life here in Ireland, and it would be unfair to readers and downright untruthful to hold back on something as significant as this any longer. While I did slip in a little mention a couple of posts back, I have yet to elaborate. So here goes [*takes deep breath*]: I’m in love with an Irish man.

Before meeting him, I’ll admit I had almost given up on the idea of love. Keep in mind I’d been living in Los Angeles for many years prior to moving here, and dating in LA is about as enjoyable as pouring iodine on a paper cut. After dozens of first dates, ranging from OK to down-right terrible, I started to wonder how anyone actually connects with anyone. Though I saw couples all around me who obviously found each other somehow, it was starting to feel like the planets had to be aligned just so in order for two people to come together, find each other attractive, get along AND start an actual relationship. It’s kind of like staring at a word on a page too long; after a while, it starts looking foreign…and wrong. I’d examined the concept and ideology of dating so much that it was starting to morph into something I didn’t even recognize anymore.

And then, a mere 5 months after landing in Ireland, I met him. There was the great first date, one that started at the Bank Bar on College Green and ended with a hurried wave “goodbye” as I ran toward my train at Connolly Station. The absence of a kiss goodnight left me wondering if he was interested. A text before I even got home let me know he was. This was followed by many wonderful dinners out in Dublin (where he lives) and in Drogheda (where I live) and trips to galleries and walks around the city and many long conversations over many glasses of wine. There’ve been wanders around the second-hand section at Chapters bookstore, rambles on the beach in Bettystown and hikes up to Djouce (he is an avid mountain climber who took me to get hiking boots on our fourth date). And then there are times when we simply sit quietly and read the paper over cups of coffee. They say a test of a good relationship is when you can just sit with someone and say nothing and be OK. I know now what that means.

In him I’ve found a true partner; someone I can be myself around without apology or need for self-deprecation. While we have some major commonalities (we’re both journalists, for one), he also brings whole, new perspectives to the relationship. If you would have told me six months ago that I’d be climbing Croagh Patrick in the snow, I would’ve given you the subtle but you-so-crazy eye roll of disbelief. It’s not that I’d just follow my boyfriend up a mountain because I want to impress or please him. Being with someone who pushes himself in that way and who is as disciplined as he is inspires me. He inspires me to be better, to push harder and make more effort in every aspect of my life just by being who he is: a hard-working, patient man with a rock-solid character.

You’ll be hearing more about him in upcoming posts, but in an effort to respect his privacy (after all, it wasn’t his choice to write a tell-all blog!) I will refer to him as Mountaineering Man (MM) in future posts and keep his face hidden in photographs. But I wanted to share this much for now, as he’s been an important and big part of my life for the last few months and I have no doubt he’ll continue to be.

I guess this whole moving-to-Ireland craziness has worked out quite well!

Coconut & Cranberry Oat Bars

For me, there are few things more enjoyable than cooking for someone else. And now that I have someone to cook for, I’m doing a lot of it. MM really likes his food (thank GOD as I don’t think I could date a picky eater) so I’ve always got an eager and grateful taste-tester for all my recipes. Recently he mentioned a craving for coconut, so I whipped up this recipe for healthy but delicious Coconut & Cranberry Oat Bars. Enjoy!

180 grams whole rolled oats

125 grams wholemeal flour

200 grams brown sugar

80 grams unsweetened flaked coconut

170 grams dried cranberries

½ teaspoon baking powder

140 grams of melted unsalted butter, cooled slightly

2 eggs

4 fluid ounces real maple syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 170 C degrees. In a large bowl, combine the oats, flour, sugar, coconut, cranberries and baking powder and stir until well mixed. In a smaller bowl, whisk together the butter, eggs, maple syrup and vanilla. Pour mixture over the oat mixture and stir until combined. Press into a foil-lined baking pan (I used a rectangular pan about 13x9x9) and bake for 20 minutes. Cool completely in the pan and then cut into squares.

When I first meet people in Ireland and they find out I didn’t move over for a job, they ask the inevitable question, “Did ya move here for a fella?” Considering most American women I’ve met here did in fact follow their Irish husbands back to the homeland, I can understand why people would assume such a thing. When I tell them there is no fella and that I moved here to experience a new adventure, they usually ask if I A) want to meet a man and B) if I want to have children.

Of course it would be great to meet a fabulous, intelligent, handsome, funny, adventurous, foodie-type who loves to travel and is well-versed in current events/literature/etc. (or at least someone who possesses a few of these traits!). As for the kids question, my answer typically elicits a double-take of shock and disbelief, as if I was a three-headed alien or a talking dog. I don’t know if I want to have kids and to be honest I’m pretty sure that I probably don’t though I’d never say never. Most Irish people I encounter cannot seem to wrap their brains around the concept that a woman might not want to bear children, and I’m getting used to retorts like, “Oh you’ll change your mind – just you wait!” or “But of course you do, you just haven’t met the father!” Once, an acquaintance introduced me as, “Clare, and she says she probably doesn’t want children – can you believe that?”

The thing is I’m not a woman who was born knowing she wanted to be a mother, and I’m very lucky to have parents who never pressure me about having kids. I really like and even love [most] children and truly believe there is nothing in the world that compares to having them. I sponsor a child in Vietnam and am very dedicated to her happiness and well-being. But right now having my own children is something very difficult to imagine, perhaps because I’m well aware that my goals in life aren’t necessarily conducive to having kids. I love to travel and enjoy having the freedom to do so even on a whim. I relish having a lot of time to myself and cherish my personal space. If I do end up getting married, I want to be married without kids for a reasonable amount of time. Considering I’m in my mid-30s now and am single at the moment, it’s hard to imagine where kids fit in. I am very open and would even prefer to adopt over having my own child, but again there are many factors to consider before I can say for certain.

The topic of kids is also becoming an issue as I start dating here in Ireland. Many men I meet are absolutely certain they want to have children and the fact that I’m unsure makes me an undesirable candidate. To each his own, and I respect everyone and anyone’s choices in this department, but I have to say that some of these men are kidding themselves (no pun intended). I recently met someone in his mid-40 who, for all intents and purposes, is a bona fide player. He insists he wants to have kids “one of these days.” Let’s suss out the situation: You’re 44 years old, play the field like a teenager and hit the clubs every weekend – not exactly the picture of stability and responsibility. While I understand age isn’t as big a factor for men as it is for women, showing a bit of maturity would be a good place to start if you’re going to use the kid card as a deal breaker. Sorry to burst your bubble, but women who want to have children are not going to be seeking out a middle-aged playboy for their future BabyDaddy.

Life is unpredictable and anything can happen, even something as wild as me having a baby one of these days. But for now, I think I could be perfectly happy with a husband/long-term partner and a couple of dogs and I hope people can be OK with that idea. It doesn’t really matter whether others approve or not; this is where I am in my life at the moment and no amount of peer pressure or outside expectation is going to change how I feel. I’m fine with not knowing, and though this makes dating in Ireland a bit more difficult I can live with it. I suppose the right “fella” will be one who is able to live with that as well.

The first Irish guy I really noticed was a barman named Martin. It was 1996, and I had just moved to a grungy apartment above a carpet store on Clement Street in San Francisco’s Richmond district. My local pub became the Front Room, which was conveniently across the street from my front door and where Martin happened to work. His dark eyes, adorable Dublin accent and mischievous grin instantly drew me in. My best friend Cat and I became fixtures on the pub’s weathered barstools every Tuesday and Thursday, Martin’s nights behind the bar. I don’t remember how many times he “lost” our ever-growing bar tab, which was fine considering I was living on student loans and barely able to make ends meet.

It was all very innocent. Although he was an outrageous flirt, he didn’t make a move for a very, very long time. Some would say he acted more like a protective big brother than a romantic suitor but I fell hard nonetheless. Finally one evening he walked out from behind the bar and took the empty stool next to mine. I don’t remember what we were talking about but at one point he reached over, cupped my face with his hands and gave me a long, slow kiss. The room seemed to go quiet and my cheeks turned scarlet. I barely had enough time to savor the moment when Basil, the other bartender on duty, leaned over and whispered, “That’s Martin’s girlfriend sitting on the other side of him!” As if in slow motion my gaze swept over to my left to see Martin, who’d already turned his back to me at this point, holding hands with a blonde woman I’d never seen before. By some small miracle she hadn’t witnessed his betrayal. As my vision grew blurry with tears I slipped out of the bar and vowed never to return. I found out later that his girlfriend had been in Ireland and had recently moved to be with him. Funny, he’d never mentioned her before.

Some months later, I moved to a house a few dozen blocks west. On moving day, I was introduced to an Irish couple who would be my new roommates. We became fast friends and soon I was part of their group of Irish expats, all of whom were coupled up – with the exception of one guy, Robert. I don’t think either of us was all that interested in the other but probably due to the underlying pressure to be a pair in a group of couples, we engaged in a brief on/off pseudo-dating-type-thing (there’s really no better way to describe it). It ended for good the day I got a $400 phone bill, the result of Robert secretly calling his ex-girlfriend back in Ireland from my phone. He dutifully paid the bill and we remained friendly acquaintances for a while. It was more fade-out than heartbreak, really.

You’re probably wondering where I’m going with all this. As my friend Aoife so eloquently stated, “There are assholes of all nationalities.” As someone who has traveled quite a bit, I can say with all certainty that her statement is true. But there seems to be a common theme with the Irish guys I’ve been involved with [it should be noted that most of my relationships have been with non-Irish men, in case you thought I had a type]. After Robert there was a brief affair with another Irish guy – what can I say, we hung out at a lot of Irish pubs! – who, despite his claims to the contrary, was found to be in a serious relationship with another woman. Clearly, I was doing something wrong and my radar needed a bit of tweaking. Was it the accent that threw me off? Perhaps. Though I can pick out an American bonehead from across a crowded bar, throw in an Irish accent and the warning signals get all jumbled in the transmission. Remember the character of Colin Frissell from the film, “Love Actually?” It’s a bit like that, though not nearly as comical.

As you can imagine, navigating the dating game in Ireland hasn’t been easy. Last weekend, I met a seemingly nice guy at a friend’s party. After over an hour of conversation, he asked for my number and I obliged. I won’t bore you with the details but by the end of the party I found out he not only has a girlfriend but a baby as well – it appears my judgment is getting worse with every passing day! Despite this recent disappointment I don’t think all Irish men are weasels, and I know this for certain as I have plenty of wonderful male friends here who are dedicated boyfriends and husbands (though they’d all cringe at that description – learn to take a compliment, lads!). Right now I’m somewhere between guarded optimism and wild cynicism on the subject of Irish men. But all I can do is to proceed with caution and keep an open mind.