An American in Ireland

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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Your little bed!

Welcome to the world, Little Shamrock (I don’t know your name yet, sorry!). I was just thinking today that we are both new to this place that is now your home. I guess the only major difference is that you’ve been here for about an hour, and I’ve been here a month today. So, let me just say from experience that you are a very lucky little baby to be born Irish in Ireland, because – as I have witnessed myself – you lot are quite special.

I wonder what kind of little Irish boy you will grow into; right now you are just a newborn and it’s overwhelming to think of all the different ways you’ll grow and change over the years. Will your hair be blonde, like your mother’s? Or dark brown like your daddy’s? Maybe you’ll develop a love of cars, just like your daddy (though I’m not sure how much more car stuff your mom can handle!), or perhaps you’ll cultivate a taste for sweets like your mammy. You’ll probably earn a nickname or two over the next several years…your mom used to call everyone “Chicken” as a term of endearment, and I’m willing to bet she’ll be calling you all sorts of cute names. She’s really sweet and motherly like that.

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A typical Saturday  night

There’s a reason why the Irish are known for drinking, and it’s because they do, in fact, LOVE to drink alcohol. To say they work hard at earning this world renowned reputation would be the understatement of a lifetime.

Back in Los Angeles, it was typical for my friends and me to go to a bar, have a couple of drinks, and then call it a night. Sure, we would go a bit nuts occasionally, perhaps once every couple of weeks (more during the holiday season). But because in LA you have to drive everywhere, or pay a ridiculous sum for a taxi, we’d often keep it relatively quiet.  

Here, drinking is a commitment and one that is taken very seriously. Most of my friends do not just go out for a few drinks, they go all out. When planning an outing, a typical conversation goes like this:

Me: “So who’s all going?”

Friend: “Well, me and Aoife, who’s drinking cos she’s off work tomorrow. Earnan and Bushman have a match tomorrow so they won’t come. Roisin’s off the drink for Lent. Sinead can drive. I think I’ll be drinking as well since I can have a lie-in tomorrow.”

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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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Me, just after waking up. I know you are sooo attracted to me right now!

Ever since I moved to Ireland, my hair has been less than cooperative. Gone are the soft, touchable locks of my LA days; here my hair is unmanageable and constantly tangled.

The reason is the hard water that is prevalent throughout Ireland. According to this map, I live in an area with “moderately hard” water (I can just imagine those poor folk who live in the “hard” areas!). For pipes this means lime scale buildup. For hair, it means disaster. The water here makes my hair very sticky, and by that I don’t mean sticky like honey or melted marshmallows. The best way to explain it is by comparing it to spaghetti. When you first drain cooked spaghetti, it’s loose and easy to toss with a fork. But if you let it sit in a bowl for five minutes or more, it starts sticking together. If you stick a fork in it, you’ll get clumps of spaghetti instead of nice, individual strands. My hair = five-minute old spaghetti. Fork = my hairbrush.

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