While there are many benefits to living in such a place (people are friendly, there’s little traffic, it’s easier to get to know your neighbors, etc.) there are a few drawbacks as well, one of which is finding certain ingredients at the grocery shops in town. For example, it’s impossible to find chocolate chips here. For that, I’d have to go to Dublin.

Recently I was on the hunt for ricotta, a pretty basic Italian soft cheese that most people use in lasagnas. I hit all the shops in town and no one had it. I then remembered someone once telling me it was fairly easy to make, so I went home, did some research on the Internet and got a few recipes. Not only is it easy to make yourself but it tastes about a zillion times better than the store-bought variety. The stuff from the shops is grainy and slightly sour; homemade ricotta is fresh, rich and perfectly smooth. All you need is some milk, cream, sea salt, lemon and cheesecloth (or muslin cloth, which you can find here in the baby section of Tesco).

Though I made the ricotta for dinner party appetizers (see recipes for those here), it was so good I had to reserve a bit for myself. About an hour after it set, I had it with my croissant for breakfast. Let me tell you: the still-warm, creamy ricotta spread atop a lightly toasted croissant is absolute HEAVEN. I can honestly say that I will never, ever buy ricotta from the shop again.

Another ingredient that I made myself recently is the flour tortilla. While I can find them in the shops here, they only come in burrito size – too big for me. I suppose I could cut them into smaller sizes but in about the same amount of time I made my own tortillas, exactly in the size I needed. I was making madras curry for dinner and wanted them as a side; sometimes I find naan bread too stodgy so I figured tortillas would be a better choice. I simply mixed together some flour, salt, oil and water and rolled out a few small discs and cooked in a dry pan on the stove top. They were gorgeous and the whole process took all of 10 minutes!

My old rule used to be, “When all else fails, do it yourself!” Now that’s changed to, “Just do it yourself!”

Homemade Ricotta

2 quarts whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
2 tablespoons lemon juice

Line a large strainer with a layer of cheesecloth/muslin cloth and place it over a large bowl.

Slowly bring the milk, cream and the salt to a boil in a large heavy pot over medium heat, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching. Add lemon juice. Reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring constantly. The mixture will start to curdle, meaning the milk starts to separate into little bits and pieces. Continue stirring for about 2-3 minutes.

Pour into the lined strainer and let drain for 1 hour. After discarding the liquid, chill the ricotta, covered, though you can eat it straight away – it’s SO good while warm.  It will keep in the fridge for 2-3 days.

Homemade Flour Tortillas

180 grams white flour

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

50 ml vegetable oil

80 ml warm water

Sift together the flour and sea salt. Add the oil and water and mix until a dough forms. Tear off a small handful of dough and using a rolling pin roll out to desired thickness (you can also just use your hands to pat it down). Heat a dry pan over medium setting until hot – place the tortilla in the pan and cook for about a minute on each side or until little brown bubbles start to form. Serve warm or store for 2-3 days in an airtight container.

It’s made me think a lot about the nature of the Irish…who are they, really? For the first several months I lived here I took note of the superficial things like the funny accents and quirky slang and the national obsession with chocolate. But as I spend more time here I’m starting to get a feel for the sociological and psychological traits of Irish people. Of course I’m no expert; I simply know what I’ve observed.

OK so maybe the Irish aren’t always so polite!

One thing I’ve noticed about the Irish is that they are generally quite private and polite when it comes to personal matters. I recently met a very close friend of Mountaineering Man, and after our meet I asked MM what the story was with his friend’s glass eye. MM replied that he’d never inquired about it, which I thought was very odd as they’ve known each other for over 11 years. While I can understand the sensitive nature of the subject I was shocked that in 11 years it had never come up. I can’t speak for everyone but most Americans would get to something like that within a few weeks of knowing someone, it is in our nature to be inquisitive (or nosy, depending on how you look at it!). I ended up speaking with MM’s friend about his eye, and he kindly told me the story and wasn’t offended at all. But he did note that he has many long-term friends who have never asked and that it is quite a normal, Irish thing not to inquire about something as potentially-sensitive as this.

With most Americans, one of the first question they’d ask on your birthday is, “So, how old are you?” I can say this with absolute confidence as I’ve experienced it many times myself. I was pleasantly surprised when none of MM’s friends asked my age when the mention of my birthday came up last month. Or when a friend ends a romantic relationship, it’s natural for an American to ask, “So, what happened?” But recently when I asked the sister of a friend who’d ended a 10+year relationship how she was doing, the sister replied, “Oh I haven’t asked her. She’ll probably get depressed talking about it so I don’t bring it up.” Polite and thoughtful, yes, but to us nosy Americans quite mindboggling…wouldn’t something like that be the elephant in the room until it was addressed?

From what I’ve seen, it seems the Irish have mastered the art of restraint when it comes inquisitions of a personal nature. Protecting someone’s feelings takes priority over satisfying one’s own curiosity, which really is the way it should be. But coming from a place where people are generally quite blunt, it’s something I’m still getting used to. Of the Japanese, a tall Caucasian friend of mine once said, “Nothing makes me feel more like a big, awkward oaf than being in Japan.” She was referring to the elegant and graceful features of Japanese women. Being an American in Ireland, I sometimes feel like a big, loud-mouthed, nosy Yank in a country of polite whisperers!

Blueberry and Raspberry Hand Pies

I love these little hand pies. Unlike big, gangly regular-sized pies, these are cute and small and polite, if you will. And unlike a regular pie, which requires one to cut a slice, you can easily sneak one of these and eat it quietly in a corner and on one would know the better.

For the pastry:

110g plain flour

40g self-raising flour

15g sugar

1/2 tsp salt

120g chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1-cm pieces

120g chilled vegetable shortening, cut into 1-cm pieces

50ml iced water

For the filling:

90g sugar

130 grams fresh blueberries

130 grams fresh raspberries

1 tablespoon corn starch

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

For pies:

Egg yolk, lightly beaten

Turbinado or sparkling sugar for dusting

In a food processor, blend together flours, sugar, and salt. Add chilled butter and shortening and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal. Sprinkle water over flour mixture and pulse until dough forms moist clumps. Gather dough together and divide into 2 equal rounds. Flatten dough into disks and wrap in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for about 45 minutes.

For the filling: Put sugar, berries, cornstarch and vanilla in a saucepan and heat over medium high until the mixture is bubbling. Turn heat down to low and let simmer for 20 minutes, remove from heat and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

When you are ready to make the pies, remove the pastry dough from the refrigerator and let sit for 20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 190 C. Roll out the dough to about 0.5 cm thickness, and then using a cookie cutter or knife cut out 10 cm circles. Place a tablespoon of the fruit mixture in the center of the circle, brush the edge with the egg mixture and close, sealing by using a fork to make indent marks around the edges. Brush with the beaten egg mixture and sprinkle with the sugar, and then cut little slits on the top.

Place on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for approx 18 minutes, or until pastry is golden around the edges. Let cool on a wire rack and serve.

Being on set with all the cameras and lights and rigs was a thrill and when the actors came out we giggled with excitement. The biggest star of the film was ‘80s child actress Alyssa Milano, who at the time was trying to break her good-girl image. I remember she wore a skimpy outfit and smoked cigarettes and made out with one her male costars in between takes. That male costar was a very wet-behind-the-ears Ben Affleck, sporting a bitchin’ Vanilla Ice hairdo. (It should be noted that many years later, we realized the cast was actually quite impressive: Matt Damon, Matthew McConaughey, Brendan Fraser – all of whom were complete unknowns back then – as well as the late, great Spalding Gray were all in the movie). We soaked in the atmosphere and did everything we could to get an understanding of the storyline, but because we were just extras no one told us anything. We had no idea what the movie was about but we didn’t care. We were just happy to be there.

For this scene, Cat and I walked behind the cast holding stuffed animals that we’d supposedly won at a carnival game. It took over a dozen takes for the cast to get their lines right!

 Because the scenes being filmed that day were at the boardwalk (a beachside amusement park), Cat and I were placed on a Ferris wheel along with a dozen other extras. We were given fake boxes of popcorn to hold. The instructions were to pretend like we were eating popcorn and to NOT look at the camera. Going around and around on the wheel, we had a great view of Alyssa and Ben doing their big romantic scene a few feet away from the ride. At first it was enjoyable; we had the wind in our hair and a fantastic view of the ocean. But after the 20^th take, which was about the 1000^th turn on the Ferris wheel, our initial excitement started to dissipate. We felt confused and pointless…without an understanding of the big picture we lost interest. The view was starting to blur and my head hurt. Finally another extra in the seat above ours yelled out, “I’m gonna f*cking HURL!” which prompted the director to stop the ride and replace us with a new set of extras. Green in the face and disillusioned, we filmed one more scene and then ditched the set and went home before the day was even over.

Sometimes life in Ireland, as a foreigner, can feel a bit like being an extra in a film. At first there’s all this excitement at the newness and strangeness of it all, followed by a long learning process that presents a new challenge every other day. There are so many things I’m still clueless about, like the current election candidates and their political parties and what they represent and how the whole process even works. Trying to wrap my brain around all of it has been a struggle. Even something as seemingly insignificant as Irish and British celebrities can be frustrating at times; I peruse the magazine stands and have no idea who these people are (more often than not, I will not know any of the five contenders on “Celebrity Come Dine with Me”). It’s just weird living in a place where so many things are still unfamiliar to me. At times it feels like I’m back on that Ferris wheel, squinting and struggling to get a Big Picture grasp on things.

But I’m not going to ditch Ireland and go home. The ride can make me a bit green in the face at times, but I’m nowhere near disillusioned. Like that movie with Alyssa Milano – called Glory Daze – the cast here in Ireland (MM, my friends, fellow bloggers, etc.) is pretty amazing and despite the frustrations I’m not going anywhere – you’re stuck with me. Maybe soon I’ll move up from being an extra to a supporting player…we’ll just have to wait and see!

“You’re a Star!” Apple Tart Tatin (adapted from the Barefoot Contessa)

This cake requires confidence and gusto; because it requires you to turn it out onto a plate 15 minutes after removing from the oven, there’s no room for hesitation or fear. And if some of the apple or caramel gets stuck to the baking dish, you have to figure it out quickly. It’s difficult but when you turn it over and it comes out cleanly, you’ll feel like a star! When I made this for MM’s parents, I had to do a little patch-work job on the few bits that were left stuck to the dish but it all worked out in the end!

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus extra for greasing the dish

1 1/4 apples, peeled and sliced into 12 pieces

350 grams granulated sugar, divided

2 extra-large eggs, at room temperature

82 grams non-fat natural yogurt

1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

120 grams plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Icing sugar

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C.

Generously butter a 9-inch glass pie dish and arrange the apples in the dish, cut side down.

Combine 200 grams of the granulated sugar and 80 ml water in a small saucepan and cook over high heat until it turns a warm amber color, about 185 degrees C on a candy thermometer. Swirl the pan but don’t stir. Pour evenly over the apple slices.

Meanwhile, cream the 6 tablespoons of butter and the remaining granulated sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, until light and fluffy. Lower the speed and beat in the eggs 1 at a time. Add the yogurt, zest, and vanilla and mix until combined. Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt and, with the mixer on low speed, add it to the butter mixture. Mix only until combined.

Pour the cake batter evenly over the apple slices and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until a cake tester comes out clean. Cool for 15 minutes, then invert the cake onto a flat plate. If an apple slice sticks, ease it out and replace it in the design on top of the cake. Serve warm or at room temperature, dusted with icing sugar.

I am always impressed at how close my Irish friends keep their childhood memories; whether we’re drinking at the pub or taking a spin around town, the entertainment is often tales from their childhood, always told with smiling eyes and a kind of pure giddiness that’s usually limited to children themselves.

Most of my friends here grew up in the country, so theirs was a childhood of wild adventures created on even wilder imaginations. They didn’t have the constant distraction of video games or Barbie’s new summer line. Many shared their bedrooms, toys and clothes with at least a few siblings. Their main job, besides helping with a handful of chores around the house, was to stay out of the way, because the adults had plenty to keep themselves occupied what with keeping food on the table for a half-dozen kids and a roof over those little buggers’ heads. There was plenty of mischief; Sinead recalls the time her cousin Barry playfully tied her and their other cousin Ciara to a fence and then got a gang of other cousins to come over and make fun as the two girls tried in vain to free themselves. That one kept the whole lot entertained for at least a few hours.

My childhood in Los Angeles was very different. It was just my sister and me, as our cousins all lived several states away. And being constantly exposed to a barrage of flashy distractions like MTV, motorized kids’ cars and enormous backyard swimming pools at friends’ houses (our parents wouldn’t allow such things at home) didn’t exactly inspire us to be creative with our free time. Don’t get me wrong; my parents tried in vain to emphasize the joys of simple, childhood activities and though we’d show an initial interest, our friends’ shiny toys and the desire for such things would win out every time. I remember one summer my father gave me a book on string art, and I did make a couple of pieces: one was a big, brown mushroom and the other was a sign for our window that said, “The Kleinedlers.” I sanded and stained the pieces of wood, hammered in the nails and carefully strung the yarn myself (though half-way through working on the second piece I was cursing my long last name). It was satisfying, I learned something new and I had a tangible result from my efforts, but I’m pretty sure I went right back to pining away for cable television shortly after I completed the projects.

But one of the activities I thoroughly enjoyed as a child was cooking, and though my parents included it in our list of chores I never saw it as work. Whether it was rinsing frozen peas for my dad’s famous tuna casserole or whipping egg whites with our little hand-held mixer, I loved every minute of the process and many of my happy childhood memories revolve around the kitchen. Whenever my mother made gyoza, a type of pan-fried, Japanese potsticker, it was my duty to sit and help her fill and fold the little dumplings. I’d take one of the round wonton skins in my hand, place about a teaspoon of pork/shrimp filling in the middle, dip my finger in a bowl of water and drag it across one side of the wonton skin and then gently fold and seal the gyoza. I would then take two fingers and create little scallops around the top. After we finished my mother would cover the whole platter of freshly-made gyoza with a damp cloth to keep them from drying out. When she wasn’t looking, I’d peel back the cloth and marvel at all at those perfect little gyozas with their perfect little creases. Maybe it was the anticipation of eating the gyoza or the pride I felt for helping create them, but I’d sneak a peek under the cloth a half-dozen times before my mom took them to the stove to cook.

Pork and Shrimp Gyoza
(Makes about 55 gyoza)1/2 pound raw minced pork

3/4 pound raw prawns, peeled and deveined
1 large tablespoon grated ginger
1 large tablespoon minced garlic
1 cup finely diced cabbage
3 spring onions, sliced thin, white and green parts
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon dark toasted sesame oil
2 teaspoons corn starch or potato starch
2 packages of round wonton skins, also called dumpling pastry (you can get this frozen in most Asian markets). Each package usually has 40 skins.
Vegetable oil
Hot water
Soy sauce for dipping/serving

First, chop the prawns into very tiny pieces – almost like a mince. Sometimes it’s easier to use two knives for this. Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine the pork, prawns, ginger, garlic, cabbage and spring onions and mix well using a wooden spoon or clean hands. Then add in the soy sauce, sesame oil and corn starch and mix thoroughly.

To assemble, you will need a small bowl of water, a tray for the gyoza and a damp cloth to cover them with. Take one wonton skin, put about one teaspoon of the filling in the center, and then dip your finger into the water and drag it across the inner edge of one side of the wonton skin. Fold it together into a half-moon shape and make sure it is sealed (the water will act as the glue). Using two fingers create little scallops or creases and pinch. Or you can just leave the edge flat if you prefer.

To cook you will have to do this in batches, so preheat your oven to 100C as you’ll need to keep these warm after cooking: Heat up about one tablespoon of vegetable oil in a large, shallow sauté pan that has a lid. Heat the oil up on medium-high heat until it is very hot but not smoking. Carefully lay one layer of gyoza into the oil – leaving at about a ½ inch between each one. Do not move them around – this process will give one side of the gyoza a nice, golden crust. Cook for about 1-2 minutes, checking to see if a crust as formed. As soon as you see a deep, golden crust on the underside, take about ¼ cup of hot water, put it into the pan with the gyoza and immediately put the lid on the pan – be careful, the water will simmer wildy so keep the lid handy. This steaming process will cook the gyoza completely. Let steam for about 2 minutes. Remove from the pan and place on a baking tray and keep warm in the oven. Do another batch the same way, starting off with the oil (you will need to add oil every time). Serve with little dipping plates of soy sauce. I add a bit of chili oil to my dipping soy sauce but that is up to you! Enjoy!

*Photo credit of little girl: Image: Tina Phillips / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A while back, I wrote a blog post about What I’ve Learned since moving here to Ireland. Now, on the six-month anniversary of my move here, I’d like to present what I love about Ireland and about living here.

*High visibility jackets: I know you think I’m crazy right about now. OK, I don’t really love the high visibility jacket in and of itself, but I love what it represents. About a month into my relocation, my friend and I took a walk down a country road sometime in the early evening. It was still quite bright outside, but as we walked we were stopped by four separate people asking us why we were not wearing high visibility jackets. These people literally pulled their cars over, rolled down their windows and gave out to us (as they say here).

“You’ll get hit by a car!” said one. “The sun is going down and it’ll be dark soon, what are you thinking?” asked another. Even a week later my friend’s cousin, who was one of the people who’d stopped us, scolded me again saying, “I still can’t believe yous (<– slang for you girls, you guys, you people) were out on the road with no high vis jackets!”

I found all this fretting about high visibility jackets touching, really. Out in rural Ireland it gets really dark at night and therefore everyone who lives there owns one of these jackets. It’s as essential to the country wardrobe as Wellies and rain slickers. Whether you’re walking your dog or changing a flat tire, if it’s anywhere close to dusk you’ll be sporting one. In Los Angeles, the only people wearing high visibility jackets are road crew workers and night-time cyclists. I’ve never owned one (or even uttered the words “high visibility jacket”) my entire life. I remember that was the day I understood I was in a totally different place.

Singing of the Irish national anthem at pubs: I only recently discovered that at the end of the night, the band at a lot of pubs plays the Irish national anthem. I was at Mathew’s about a month ago when, seemingly out of nowhere, everyone stood up and started singing (well, let’s be honest, most of them didn’t know all the words and were just slurring random stuff really). It turns out this is a tradition around these parts and a cool but somewhat bizarre one at that. No one seems to know why they do it; they just do it because they’ve always done it. The thought of Americans singing their national anthem at a bar makes me laugh out loud but somehow, here, it works.

Random Irish kids at a football match (not sure if these kids are bold but they sure are cute!)

Bold Irish kids: There’s something about little freckled-faced, toe-headed Irish kids that always makes me smile – especially the bold ones. My friend’s niece, who is only three years old, was recently put into the “naughty chair” for being bad. When her father removed her from the chair and asked her if she had something to say for herself, she replied, “Yeah, f*ck off!” I know this isn’t really anything to be proud of but for some reason I found this response to be typically Irish and therefore hilarious. Tom, the 9-year-old kid my friend watches after school, is the classic bold Irish kid. He’ll hide my friend’s handbag, set all kinds of reminders on the television (so they’ll pop up during my friend’s favorite shows, interrupting the program) and basically run amok the whole time. Once, he seized some chocolate from the kitchen that was meant for someone else, ran into one of the bedrooms, locked the door and ate all the chocolate – all while my friend was pounding on the door, demanding he come out with the candy. Afterward he opened the door, face covered in chocolate, with a huge, unapologetic grin on his gob.

Enterprising spirit: Though Ireland is experiencing one of the worst recessions in its history, people in my town aren’t afraid to plow ahead with new businesses. I recently visited Cake Couture, a cake decorating shop on West Street that sells all kinds of frosting tips, food coloring pastes and other tools for professional and home bakers. Then there’s Traders, the lovely coffee shop I’ve written about before, which serves incredible coffee drinks and handcrafted sandwiches and desserts. Opening such niche businesses during a recession may seem insane to some; you might wonder who would spend 15 euro on a cake decorating kit or 2.50 euro on a cup of coffee during these trying times. But these businesses took a chance and are doing well. Most importantly, it gives the community and the economy a much-needed boost. The Irish have gone through many hardships in the past and the result is a fearless survival instinct among its people, which I truly admire.

IrishFoodies: I’m grateful and happy to be part of the IrishFoodies, a community of food bloggers in Ireland that formed about a month after I moved here. I have made many wonderful friends through this group and once a month we have a themed cook-along, where everyone makes a dish based on the theme and shares it on Twitter and their blogs. The theme this month is vegetarian (#vegetwarian on Twitter), so I came up with these Curried Butternut Squash Patties on Rocket.

Curried Butternut Squash Patties on Rocket
(makes about 8 medium patties)

1 medium-sized butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes
3 tablespoons + ¼ cup olive oil
1 red bell pepper, minced
2 shallots, minced
½ green bell pepper, minced
1 tablespoon curry powder
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon garam masala
4 tablespoons wholemeal flour
1 egg
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 180 C degrees. On a baking tray, spread the butternut squash cubes out into one layer. Drizzle with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake in the oven for about 20 minutes, or until the cubes are easily pierced with a fork. While the squash bakes, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a sauté pan over medium heat. Add in the bell peppers and shallots, and cook until caramelized – about 15 minutes. Don’t stir it around too much; this will help quicken the caramelization process. Remove from heat and stir in the curry, turmeric and garam masala. Season with salt and pepper.

In a large bowl, mash the butternut squash cubes with the sautéed pepper/onion mixture. Add in the egg and mash until incorporated, then add in the wholemeal flour and mix until blended. In a shallow sauté pan, heat the remaining ¼ cup of olive oil over medium-high heat. Using a spoon, scoop out about ¼ cup of the squash mash and drop into the hot oil. Leave enough room between each patty to allow them to spread a little and do not overcrowd the pan. Cook on each side for about 2 minutes or until golden brown; careful as you flip them!

Put finished patties onto paper cloths to drain. Assemble the rocket and top with the butternut squash patties. I dressed my rocket with basic olive oil and vinegar but you can use whatever dressing you like.

Whenever my friends and I go to the pub, something strange occurs. Though we all go there together, the second we arrive there is a separation of the sexes: the women sit at one table and the men at another. It’s kind of like the Red Sea, but instead of Moses it’s a peculiar, old-fashioned standard that parts us.

I suppose no matter the culture, women have their bond with other women and men with men but I still find this automatic, consistent division very hard to understand. While I’ve never been one to pay much attention to social expectations or opinions, I feel self conscious when I move over to the men’s table (and I find I’m almost always the first to make the crossover!). As the evening goes on people eventually mix but there’s always the core male table and female table enforcing the divide with talk of football on one side and babies, handbags and clothes on the other.

This morning I had coffee with my friend Trevor and I realized that he is the only male friend who I spend time with alone. I’ve been friends with both Trevor and his girlfriend for over 13 years, so it’s no big deal for us to spend time together without other people. I do have other male friends in town, but for some reason I think they’d find it strange or perhaps even get the wrong impression if I invited them out because as far as I can see, nobody around here does that. Granted, most of these men are in relationships but back in Los Angeles I had plenty of male friends, married or in serious relationships, that I spent time with – either with them and their partners or just on our own. It wasn’t an issue with the women (they all know and trust me and are secure in their relationships) and none of my guy friends would think anything untoward if I extended an invitation to grab a drink or a bite to eat. I don’t need to preface an invitation with, “Don’t get the wrong impression…” when asking if they want to hang out.

I’m not exactly sure why this would be considered taboo around here, but I have a few ideas. We live in a small town where rumors spread quicker than a bacterial colony in a warm Petri dish. There’s a palatable hunger for gossip around here, and even the most innocent gesture can be misconstrued and broadcast for all to judge. It’s totally possible that my friends worry about this, and I can’t say I blame them; this anxiety is catching and it has affected the way I approach such matters. The other night I was in the neighborhood of a male friend’s apartment, and I thought I’d drop by and see if he wanted to pop into the local pub to grab a beer. But as quickly as the idea came to me it was seized by a rash of concerns: Would people in the pub think we were on a date? Will he think I am asking him out on date? What if someone got the wrong idea and told others? By the time I reached his street I was so frazzled with all the potential misinterpretations of an innocent drink between two friends that I just kept driving, ultimately deciding it just wasn’t worth the trouble.

I suppose it could also have something to do with the fact that I’ve only known these people for six months, which isn’t really that long. But at the same time this is exactly the point where I’m feeling the desire to cultivate these friendships further, which requires time beyond the big group outing where it’s nearly impossible to have a real conversation with any one person. With the women it’s fine; it’s nothing to ring a girlfriend on a Wednesday night for a quick bite and a catch-up. With the guys, there’s a lot of potential for misunderstanding thanks to this old-fashioned but prevalent social convention. Since that’s not going to change any time soon, I know I need to ignore my fears and just do as I normally would. A lot easier said than done.

*Illustration credits: jscreationzs/FreeDigitalPhotos.net; Filomena Scalise/FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

In a place like Los Angeles, most Irish bars try especially hard to capture the essence of a real pub in Ireland. There are the dark wood accents, the Guinness on tap and the thick-accented Irish bartenders (or at least struggling actors pretending to be Irish). It’s a bit like the theme restaurants at Disneyland; while they’ve manage to capture the look and feel it lacks the  spirit of a true Irish watering hole.

There’s probably no Irish drinking establishment more authentic as the auld country pub in Ireland, and I’m lucky enough to have found one where I’m becoming a semi-regular [cue the theme song from “Cheers”]. The place is Mathews, which is bewilderingly pronounced “Mat-te-tis” and it’s an old pub in the middle of tiny Collon village, about a 15-minute drive from my place. On any given Friday or Saturday night, I know that my friends Bushman and Richella will be behind the bar, and that at least a few people I know will be wearing holes into the old barstools. On the weekends there will be some choice covers (think Garth Brooks and Air Supply) performed by a well-meaning and painfully earnest musician and by the end of a long night there might be a drunkard or two being thrown out on his ass by James, the barman you just don’t f*ck with.

What I love about country pubs and especially Mathews is that people of all ages come here. From 18 all the way up to probably 90 years old, everyone mixes together and enjoys the craic – as they say. My friend Sinead’s mom is always there on Saturdays and Sundays, sipping her vodka and white lemonade. Her husband Niall is there every night for his three pints. There are the young fellas with their cheap gold chain worn over their upturned shirt collar (not a good look, lads), the older women in their Sunday best ready for a few pints after mass and the odd elderly pervert who needs a slap on his groping hand. Country pubs don’t discriminate based on age, but if you’re a stranger you may get a few suspicious stares and a moment of tense silence when you first walk in.

The pub itself has all the characteristics of a well-worn Irish tavern. The enormous, dual-sided wooden bar is marked with beer stains and faded patches from years of elbow grease. Pints of cascading, inky Guinness settle on aluminum drains under the beer taps. The clinking of freshly-washed glasses plays against a symphony of patrons’ chatter, both of which grows louder as the night wears on. There are low tables with cushioned chairs sectioned off by partitions of frosted glass and wood, perfect for containing hushed gossip. The pool table has seen better days but still attracts a steady stream of players, all anteing up for a shot at a few quid.

Of their recent visit to Ireland, my sister and her husband said our night at Mathews was the highlight. We were a gang of about 20 or so that night and I’m pretty sure the pub stayed open a bit later than usual for us (then again, I did have a lot to drink so who knows?!). That’s the thing with country pubs; sometimes the clocks magically stop ticking and the drinking continues into the wee hours. But you didn’t hear it from me.

If the Mattock Rangers have a match or if Louth is playing, there will be a sea of red jerseys in Mathews after the game – win or lose. In Collon, it’s the place to celebrate victories and drown sorrows and you can be sure there will be support from the patrons either way. But it’s not always crowded in here. If a local has a wedding out of town half the village will be away for the celebration, which means a slow night for Mathews. Or during the summer a good few folk may go away for bank holiday weekends, leaving plenty of seats at the bar. As my friend Sinead always says, “We’re just a wee little village!” And the heart of this village, like Rovers Return in Coronation Street, is Mathews pub.

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.

Working from home is a luxury I thoroughly enjoy, though sometimes it has its drawbacks. There are days when I’ll look up from the computer and realize an entire 10 hours has passed, and I’m still in my pajamas, my neck stiff from sitting in the same position all day and my eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. I’ll go days without interacting with a single person. Sometimes a necessary errand to buy milk is a welcome excuse to exchange pleasantries with another human being. A bit sad, really.

Back when I lived in Los Angeles, I had a choice of several cafes where I could buy a decent cup of coffee and spend a few hours doing work away from home. In Drogheda, there was no such escape…until now. As I walked home from a bar in town recently I noticed a new shop front, and as I peered in the window I saw a bona fide espresso machine and a few tables and chairs. A real coffee shop in the Drog?! EUREKA!

The café is called Traders, and though it’s only been open for a couple of weeks I’ve been there four times already. It’s a proper coffee shop with good espresso and coffee drinks and a selection of handcrafted sandwiches, cakes and biscuits all sourced locally. A neighborhood couple, Eoin and Niamh, opened the place because they, too, were desperate for a *real* coffee shop. Though Drogheda has a few pastry shops that serve coffee and tea, the vibe of these places is more cafeteria than café and I can say from personal experience that none have truly good coffee. Traders offers a cozy space with a laid-back vibe and a selection of simple but high-quality light fare. You could easily place it in a café-centric city like San Francisco or Seattle and it would fit right in.

Needless to say I am thrilled to have Traders within walking distance from my apartment and it’s quickly become my home office away from my home office. Some days I’ll sit with my laptop and do some writing for a good few hours; other days I’ll just read and have some much-needed quality time with a good book. I adore the Irish cheddar and salad sandwich on freshly-baked artisanal bread and I can’t seem to get out of there without at least two Americano-style espressos. It’s also a little haven for creative types; I recently met a fellow American writer who works at the café and her Irish filmmaker husband.

I hesitated to write about Traders because I’d like to hoard this wonderful little place all to myself, but that would be entirely too selfish. Just be sure to leave a sandwich and a little spot in the corner for me!

Traders is located on Laurence Street at West Street Junction, across the road from Kirwan’s Fish Cart.

My friend Earnan enjoys the sun and horseplay with his nieces and nephew at a country barbeque

From reading this blog, you probably get the impression that I am a city girl through and through. After all I’m always going on about the differences between the place from where I came (Los Angeles) and where I landed (Drogheda, Ireland). It’s not always the cultural dissimilarities that shock and confuse; it’s the stark contrast between city life and small town country living that often leaves my head spinning.

So you may be a tad surprised by the confession I am about to make: I haven’t always been an urban city dweller. Sure, I was born in Tokyo and spent my formative years in Los Angeles and went to college in San Francisco. But there was a short period of my life where I lived out in the country, and when I say “country” I’m talkin’ authentic, down-home sticksville. When I was five years old, my family moved from Tokyo, Japan to Cherokee Village, Arkansas. Of course you’ve never heard of the place, and why would you? It’s tiny. It’s country. It’s the sticks.

The unofficial country hat club of Collon

We were only there two years before we moved to Los Angeles, but I have wonderful recollections of the place. My childhood there was similar in many ways to that of my friend Sinead, who grew up in Collon (about a 15 minute drive from my apartment in Drogheda). There was plenty of room to play, and I have vivid memories of running around fields of green chasing friends, collecting kindling for the fire and swinging from a tire that hung from a huge tree in our yard. Winters brought many feet of snow, the sticky kind that clung to my knitted mittens; Spring saw perfect blue skies and a constant crisp breeze; the sweltering summer nights shone with lightning bugs; and Autumn brought the most vibrant shades of red and gold I’d ever seen. My sister and I used to capture caterpillars and put them jars so we could watch them grow cocoons. Some would turn black and rot away but a good few transformed into butterflies. That’s the kind of stuff kids do to pass time in the country.

My friends’ kids love the fresh air and greenery of the Irish countryside

One of the benefits or drawbacks – depending on your perspective – of living out in the sticks is that you are far away from the modern comforts of civilization: grocery stores, clothing shops, restaurants, etc. You have to be prepared when you live out in the middle of nowhere. Make sure your pantry is well-stocked at all times, especially during the winter; you never know when you’ll be snowed in for a few weeks. Keep an eye on the car’s gas gauge because if you run out on the side of the road somewhere, there’s a good chance you’ll walk several hours to the nearest petrol station. You learn to be resourceful out in the country. Once, we accidentally hit a deer that sprang out onto a dark road near our house. My dad tied it to the roof of the car and we took it to our local butcher. We ate venison steaks and sausages for months.

Sinead has her “culchie” childhood stories too and there’s one tale in particular that I can especially relate to. When she was about 11 years old, she was carrying her sister piggyback style when she tripped over the dog and broke her nose on the side of a coffee table. For most city folk, this unfortunate incident would be followed by a quick car ride to the hospital. But for Sinead, this meant having to wait – indefinitely – to get it checked out. She was probably given a bag of ice and a few reassuring words for her troubles. Though she can’t recall exactly what caused the delay, it most likely had to do with the proximity of the hospital to her house and/or the weather (maybe too much snow). By the time she made it to a doctor her nose had already healed – crooked, but healed nonetheless.

Me, in a Highland Elementary School dance production in Cherokee Village, Arkansas

My country injury incident didn’t leave any lasting scars but it’s just as dramatic. It was winter and I was sledding with my sister and a few friends. On one of the downhill runs, I was seated in the front of the sled and my friend was in the back, which meant she controlled the brakes. As we flew down the snowy slope at a ridiculous rate of speed, I realized we were heading directly for an enormous tree. Though I was screaming “GET THE BRAKES!” over and over, we crashed smack-dab into the lower trunk of the tree. My friend, cushioned by my body, was fine. I, on the other hand, stood up and then immediately fell stiffly back into the snow, the way someone trying to make a clean snow angel would, and my ankle was throbbing. To add insult to literal injury, I peed in my pants from the shock of it all. Not an unusual reaction for a frightened 6-year-old but humiliating nonetheless, especially when my sister yelled out, “Clare just peed herself!” to the whole group.

That night, as I watched my ankle turn five different shades of purple and balloon to double its normal size, I assumed my parents would take me to the hospital. I had visions of a clean, white cast that my friends would decorate with squiggly signatures and bubble hearts. I was dismayed when my dad brought over a Ziploc bag full of snow and his hiking stick from his climb of Mt. Fuji. The way my parents saw it, it was too snowy and the hospital too far and the only thing the doctors would do was tell me to take it easy – nothing they couldn’t tell me themselves.

At the time, I was furious at their seeming lack of concern for what I thought could have been a broken ankle, but in retrospect I completely understand. When you live out in the country, you just have to learn to roll with the punches. Not a bad life lesson if you ask me.