An American in Ireland

I’ve never really had a sweet tooth. Much like my mother, I always preferred salty foods like crackers, nuts and cheese. But as if overtaken by some strange force of Irish nature, I’ve practically become a chocoholic since moving here, which would disappoint my dentist back home.

 Everyone here eats chocolate, all… the… time. Whether it’s in the form of a Flake bar sticking out of a soft-serve ice cream cone or covering a digestive biscuit, chocolate is everywhere. And it’s all good chocolate, not like the grainy, oddly-flavored Hershey’s bars back home. Even the cheap stuff at discount shops is rich, creamy and outrageously good. 

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Mark of shame on my beloved blue car…

Just when you think things are going well, Life has a way of giving you a paper cut topped with a handful of salt and vinegar crisps. And if Life is feeling especially frisky, it will also toss your toast on the floor, jam-side down, before dropping a gigantic piano on your head.

Yesterday was one of those days. It started off well enough: it was only partly cloudy and relatively temperate, and I had a productive morning sending pitches out to a few magazines. I did the dishes, straightened up the apartment and readied myself for a workout. That’s when things took an ominous turn. As I pulled out of the parking garage to go to the gym, a man pulled his car nose-to-nose with mine, trying to get into the parking garage. Since I was already 90% out of the one-lane driveway, I stood my ground as it was HIS responsibility to back up and let me out. He stayed put, and started honking obnoxiously and waving at me to move back into the garage. Flustered, I threw the car into reverse and heard the most God-awful sound as my car scraped the concrete wall of my parking space.  Feck!

Nothing like a hot meal after a bad day

The guy, in all his douchebaggery, failed to notice and just drove into his space with nary a comment or care in the world. I was too angry to get out of the car; though he pressured me and was all-around f*ckchop, technically it was my fault. I drove to the gym, got out of the car and inspected the damage. Two panels, scraped to sh*t and a nice, big dent near the tire. GREAT.

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When Mark Twain said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” he’d obviously never been to Ireland. From what my friends tell me, the last three summers here have been unbearably wet and cold, with weeks of downpours and cloudy skies keeping any semblance of sun from making an appearance.

That is the reason why they all predict we will have a fabulous summer this year (“Ah sure after dem last few summers, we’ll have a great one – we deserve it!”). Of course this makes no logical sense at all; good weather isn’t earned. This type of wishful thinking is just a way to cope with the weather in Ireland, which can be flat-out schizophrenic at times. In a 24-hour period, you can experience lashing rain, sun, gusting winds, hail and cloudless skies. The sheer volatility of the climate here makes it impossible to plan anything outdoors in advance, and often wrecks havoc on such important events as weddings and funerals.

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Patrick and me surrounded by bread; scenes from McCloskey’s main bakery

One of the benefits about living in a small town is that it doesn’t take long to find out where or who has the best of the best. For fish, I’ve heard it’s Kirwan’s Fish Cart; for meat, rumor is that Eamonn James Sampson on Peter Street has the best cuts. And for baked goods, most specifically Irish brown bread, I can personally say that it’s McCloskey’s Bakery.

Good brown bread, according to my Irish friends, should be substantial in texture, moist and a bit crumbly on the inside. Though it’s made with whole wheat flour, it’s nothing like the regular wheat sandwich/toast bread I was used to back in the U.S. This is a yeast-free bread that’s dense and nutty, made in a process similar to Irish soda bread. McCloskey’s signature “Cottage Brown” bread, with its perfect crumb and hearty wheat flavor, is truly the perfect brown bread and has become a staple in my pantry.

So I was thrilled when Patrick McCloskey, Master Baker and Managing Director of the company, invited me for a tour of his main bakery in Drogheda. Patrick and his immediate family are third generation in the bakery, which has become a local institution over the years. The family runs a bakery plant in Drogheda, a McCloskey’s Bakery shop in town plus the Moorland Café, which sells a range of fresh-baked pastries and breads along with a variety of sandwiches, salads and other savory dishes. The name has become synonymous with fantastic baked goods here. Just one taste of any of their products and it’s easy to understand how this family has gained such a positive reputation.

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Perhaps the only beverage the Irish drink more often than beer is hot tea. Whether it’s breakfast, lunch, dinner or a snack break, there will certainly be a teapot filled with the caffeinated elixir nearby.

It’s also what you offer to anyone and everyone when they visit. I think I’ve heard the question, “Would you like a cup of tea?” about a half-million times since I arrived here a month ago. The time of day doesn’t matter; you always ask if your visitors want tea. I’ve also noticed that everyone here has a cabinet (called a “press” here) with dedicated space for a variety of biscuits and cakes that go with tea, and that a good host will typically bring out a plate of sweets for guests. Back home in Los Angeles, I hardly ever kept cookies or cakes in the house, but here I always make sure I have at least two kinds of GOOD biscuits on hand. I suspect there is a hierarchy of biscuits and that if I serve the store-brand kind that’s always on sale, this would be considered a big faux pas. Of course being new here, I have little clue as to what makes a good biscuit so I find myself loitering in front of the cookie aisle at Tesco desperately trying to pick ones that won’t disappoint my friends. My tactic has been to go for the one with the prettiest box, and it hasn’t failed me yet.

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Fresh salmon the way it should be served!

Here’s a recap of a conversation I had last night with one of my Irish friends last night:

Me: “I’m going to have a dinner party soon…what should I make?”

Friend: “Don’t make fish. I don’t like it.”

Me: “But you eat fish and chips, right?”

Friend: “Yes, but it’s fried. I don’t like fish unless it’s fried.”

Me: “Have you ever tried it not fried?”

Friend: “No, because I don’t like it.”

After a few more back-and-forths, it was determined that my friend has never eaten fish in any other form but fried, yet is adamant that he hates it. How does he know he doesn’t like something he’s never tried?

Strangely enough, we live in a fishing town and there is a wide selection of fresh, beautiful fish available at every grocery store in town. There are also several fishmongers who sell seafood that’s literally been caught that day. But from what I’ve observed so far, most people I know here not only prefer the fried variety, they actually like fish that’s had the shit cooked out of it – the complete opposite of what any fishmonger would recommend in regards to preparing fish.

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In Ireland, these cookies are “biscuits.”

The other day, my friend Sinead was telling me about a peculiar town in England that we need to go visit. She said it was a small community full of very strange people.

“They have no teets!” she said.

What???  No teets!? I imagined a town of nipple-less women, walking down the street in slow motion like zombies in a horror film. Was there something in the water that caused this deformity?  How did they feed their newborn babies?  I surmised that bra sales in this region must be low, perhaps even non-existent.

“Why don’t they have breasts?” I asked, still trying to wrap my brain around this bizarre phenomenon.

“What? No, they have no TEET!” she said again, pointing to her mouth. 

Ohhhhhh. Teeth. Right.

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Drogheda sits on the  Boyne River

If you thought that moving to Ireland was going to be all shamrocks and scones, you were kidding yourself. I thought no such thing; some days even an open mind and a world of patience don’t mute the growing pains that come from adjusting to a new country and culture.

Case in point: the Laser card issue. Pretty much everyone here uses a Laser card, which is the Irish equivalent to the ATM/Debit card. It is by PIN code only, as a safety precaution, whereas in the U.S. you can either sign the credit/debit slip or use your PIN. Thanks to the joy that is Irish time, I still haven’t received my laser card from the bank, so I’ve been using my ATM/Debit/Credit card – with lots of issues. Many places will not accept anything but cash or a Laser card, and many a clerk has stared quizzically at my credit card as if it was a fallen piece of a spaceship from another planet (I’m sure it’s a different story in Dublin, but I’m in a small town). Though VISA is supposed to be an internationally-recognized brand, my experience here has made me wonder.

Dryers, as in the kind that you use after the washing machine, are still a new concept here. Some people have them, and I have a dual washer/dryer in one (not the kind that’s on top of the other; this is one machine that washes and dries!), but hardly anyone uses them. With electricity costs at an all-time high, people would rather hang their clothes out to dry…even in Irish weather (read: cold, wet, and freezing). Since I just moved into my new apartment and have no idea how much my first electricity bill will be, I’m afraid to use the dryer. I’ve also been running the heat quite a bit (did I tell you it’s COLD here?), and I’m having a hard time figuring that out. I have storage heaters, which store heat during the night to save energy. There are so many knobs with a zillion numbers that I cannot figure out how to use anything besides the manual position, which no doubt is the most expensive option. The best part? Neither the management company of my building nor the handyman has a clue on how to use them. “You should Google it,” said the building manager. Gee, thanks.

Comfort foods like beans & eggs & toast help in times of trouble!

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Generally speaking, Americans have no idea what a real scone should taste like. We have Starbucks, with its gigantic, triangular mound of cooked dough that strangely manages to be both oily and dry at the same time, to thank for that. Whether it’s the maple glazed or blueberry, these would-be breakfast pastries are better off as door stops, flying weapons or hockey pucks than as a food source of any kind.

In Ireland, scones are as they should be: buttery, soft and a flaky. Just a few days ago, I encountered a scone that I can say, in all honesty, is the best I’ve ever eaten. Allow me to start from the beginning: I went with my friend to a “coffee morning” for charity, hosted by the fab Olga Sherlock at her home in Drogheda. Basically Olga spent the better part of two days baking up a storm, and then invited friends over to eat her baked goods with coffee or tea. Everyone is encouraged to eat as much as he or she would like and stay for a bit of chit-chat. On the way out, patrons leave a donation and Olga donates the proceeds to charity. Really, it’s a win-win situation; you get to pig out on fantastic pastries and a deserving organization gets some much-needed help.

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 Irish bacon, spuds and cabbage

One of the biggest changes in the last few weeks since I moved from Los Angeles to Ireland has been my diet. Actually, let me rephrase for maximum effect: Everything, from what I eat to when and how I eat has been completely flipped on its head.

Back in Los Angeles, I had somewhat of a routine when it came to what I ate on any given day. During the week, I cooked my own breakfast, lunch and dinner – with the exception of a weekday happy hour outing that also included a few drinks and shared appetizers. On weekends, I often hosted dinner parties at my house or went out to nice restaurants with friends. Generally we’d eat and drink a bit too much but it was the weekend, after all. Still, come Sunday morning, the guilt and the promises of a clean start for Monday would kick in.

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