An American in Ireland

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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Though I’m not in Ireland yet, I decided to start posting here to get a jump-start on my new blog. In exactly one month, I will arrive in Ireland, full of nerves, hope and promise (to get the quick story on why I’m moving go here). In the meantime, I am busy preparing for the big move.

One thing I am desperately trying to do is use up all of my pantry food. While I’ll ship a few boxes of spices and maybe even a canned good or two, it’s not feasible to send things like flour, sugar and baking soda so I’m putting them to good use by baking up a storm in my soon-to-be ex-kitchen. Today, I used up all of my agave nectar, a good portion of flour and all three brown bananas that were dying a slow death in my fruit basket.

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