I got my first job when I was 12 years old as a paper girl for the local newspaper, the [now defunct] Temple City Times. Every week the company would drop off 75 newspapers and I’d have to roll each one, secure it with a rubber band and if it was raining, put it into a plastic sleeve. Once they were ready to go I’d put them neatly into my canvas bag and hop on my bicycle to make the deliveries.

The rest of the delivery crew was all boys and they’d sling their big canvas bags casually over the handlebars of their bikes. But I found this too awkward; the weight of 75 papers was just too much for me to be able to balance it on my handlebars. So I had to wear the bag – which was essentially a big parka with a large pouch on each side to hold the papers. Even though the bag was designed to be worn exactly this way, it wasn’t the most stylish accessory and I looked like a complete spaz wearing this potato-sack parka/ bag thing.

One day when I was at the Temple City Times office to pick up my [paltry] paycheck, one the paperboys asked me why I always delivered all my papers. “You know that out of those 75 papers, only 15 are subscribers. The rest are just free papers you have to give out so people will sign up for a subscription.” He then went on to tell me that he only delivered the subscription papers and threw the rest away, because “no one would know.”

Though I knew that the extra 60 papers were giveaways I’d never even considered not delivering them…until that moment. When I thought about it, the free papers were rarely even read or picked up for that matter. I knew this because on my route I’d see most of the free papers still sitting on the front porches, driveways and lawns where I’d tossed them the week before. A few houses sported a mini pile of untouched papers, which would turn into a messy, gray papier-mâché volcano after a few rains. Why should I go through all the trouble to give them something they didn’t want in the first place?

After that day, I’d roll up my 15 subscription papers then promptly hide the other ones in the cabinet above my closet to throw away later (when my parents were sure to be gone for long enough for me to do so). I could now sling the canvas bag over my handlebars like all the paperboys did, and it felt great. Then one day I came home from school to find the cabinet doors wide open, exposing what was probably 500 or more newspapers. Apparently my father went to investigate after he noticed lots of black fingerprints on the white cabinet doors. I was busted!

When my parents asked my why I’d done it, I told them the truth: I was tired of looking like a dork and wanted to fit in with the paperboys. It was so important that I’d completely overlooked the fact that I was stealing and totally ripping off my employer. While I never again did anything illegal in an effort to feel included, I wasted many more teenage and adult years worrying and trying to fit in with a number of people, places, trends, etc. Why do we put ourselves through the stress? I guess that’s the million dollar question!

Since moving to Ireland, I’ve learned to let my insecurities go. Being a foreigner in a new country will do that to you! I STILL don’t get most inside jokes, I am utterly clueless about all things Irish music/celebrities/pop culture, have a hard time understanding most regional accents and there’s still a lot of confusion over social and cultural traditions here. For all intents and purposes, I’m a square American peg in a round Irish hole, and that’s perfectly fine. My friends and co-workers accept and even embrace our differences and so do I.

And I’m much happier for it.

Leftover Breakfast Frittata

You can really use anything in this frittata – the only must-haves are the eggs and cheese. In this case we had one potato and one small fillet of sea bass so that’s what I put in. But you can use sausage, other veg – anything you want! The point is to be flexible and go with the flow !

1 teaspoon olive oil

1/2 red bell pepper, diced

1/2 white onion, diced

1 potato, cooked and cut into 1/4-inch thick slices

1 cooked sea bass fillet, cut into small pieces

4 eggs

Few splashes of milk

Salt & pepper

Handful grated cheese

Handful torn fresh basil

In a medium-sized sauté pan, heat up the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add in the bell pepper and onion and cook for about 5 minutes, or until soft. Now add in the potato and the sea bass fillet and stir with the onion and peppers and cook for about 2 minutes or until warmed through. Make sure the ingredients are evenly spread out over the pan.

Turn on the oven to the grill setting at 180C. In a bowl, whisk the eggs and milk together and add a dash of salt and pepper. Pour the mixture over the pepper/onion/potato/sea bass into the pan – it should still be over medium-high heat. Let it cook without touching it for 3 minutes. Top with the shredded cheese then put under the grill (broiler) for another 3 minutes or until the egg has set. Remove from the oven and top with the fresh basil.

While some people find cooking to be the most stressful chore in the world, I find it relaxing and therapeutic. It’s something that sets me at ease and reenergizes my spirit, at the risk of sounding melodramatic! To me, there are few things in life more enjoyable than dabbling in the kitchen with some piano music in the background (Dustin O’Halloran is a new favorite, thanks to my friend Aoife for the recommendation!) with a glass of wine in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Life has been quite hectic for Mountaineering Man and me lately; it seems every weekend is booked with long-standing plans or some sort of obligation so it was a much-welcome relief when we found ourselves with no plans last Sunday. We went to Chapters Bookstore for a bit of browsing and then stopped into a cafe for coffee. For dinner we thought we’d hit one of the Mexican places in town, but found all four of them to be closed! So we did one better and hit the supermarket where we gathered some avocados, tortillas, tomatoes and a few other bits and headed home to cook.

While MM read the paper (which for him is necessary and blissful R&R time) I happily doddled around the kitchen, chopping and working away at creating a soul-satisfying Mexican meal. I started first by making homemade salsa, which isn’t so much difficult as it is time consuming. But again, I find standing at a cutting board for an hour to be relaxing so it was perfectly fine with me. Once you’ve tasted homemade salsa you will never buy store-bought again. Homemade salsa is fresh and bright and bursting with flavor – there’s no comparison to the tinny tomato taste of the jarred variety.

The salsa is also an essential ingredient in my guacamole, which I make by mashing avocados and then adding a couple of spoonfuls of the salsa. Throw in a bit of sea salt and a squeeze of lime and it’s ready to go. For our main course I simply cooked up some chicken and bell peppers with a packet of fajita spices I got at Marks & Spencer. Normally I’d make my own spice mix but I was at MM’s apartment and as he has no spices I would’ve spent a good 20 Euro on cumin, chili powder, etc. to make my own mix. In this case, a bit of cheating is fine!

To sit down to a table of hot tortillas, spicy chicken and peppers, guacamole, salsa and natural yogurt (I use this in place of sour cream) at the end of a leisurely Sunday was the perfect conclusion to an idyllically lazy day, and much nicer than eating out.

*There’s really no recipe for the chicken; I simply cut up some chicken breast and red and yellow bell peppers and cook them in a pan with a bit of olive oil and the packet of fajita spices.

Fresh Tomato Salsa

4 medium tomatoes – must be red and ripe!

1 small white onion

1 large garlic clove

1/2 jalapeno pepper

Handful of fresh coriander

1 tablespoon fresh lime juice

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

Sea salt for seasoning

Chop the tomatoes and onion into a small dice and put into a medium-sized bowl. Mince the garlic into fine bits and throw in. Carefully cut the jalapeno pepper and scrape the seeds and veins out, unless you want your salsa super spicy! Mince finely and add to tomato/onion mix. Roughly chop the coriander and toss in. Add the lime juice and olive oil and mix all together, add the sea salt to your taste and let sit in the fridge for at least one hour and up to 5 hours.

Dealing with any government agency or office in the United States, at least in my experience, is an absolute nightmare. If you’re calling on the telephone, forget the naïve notion that you’ll actually get a human being on the other end; the truth is you’ll end up going through a series of automated communications designed to never, ever connect you with anything other than a taunting, recorded message. It’s like the digital equivalent of a garden maze, except there is no exit.

And don’t even get me started on the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles), where people go to slowly spiral into mental insanity from excruciating waiting periods and the miles of red tape it takes to do simple tasks like getting a driver’s license, renewing your vehicle registration or filing paperwork to sell your car. People who work at the DMV are a whole other species as well. Generally they are intentionally rude, pissed-off types who seem to take great pleasure in toying with their hapless victims customers.* If you have to accomplish anything at the DMV you need to block out the entire day because you’ll be there under those Vitamin D-draining fluorescent lights, listening to an automated voice calling out numbers (none of which will be yours) all…day..long.

Here in Ireland, it’s a completely different story (again, this is in my experience). I recently had to get a PPS number, which is the Irish equivalent of a social security number. I braced myself for the long waits and frustrations that would surely accompany such a task but was pleasantly surprised to get through the entire process in less than 30 minutes. When I rang the office to ask about its operating hours, someone (as in an actual, living breathing human!) answered the phone after two rings – TWO RINGS!! When I went to the office in Dundalk I was given a number and was called to the counter after waiting a whole 5 minutes. The woman who helped me was friendly (*gasp*), even telling me about her Japanese language classes after she realized I was born in Japan. By the end of the visit I was approved for my PPS number.

Whenever I email the Department of Justice, which is the agency that deals with immigration, I get a response within 48 hours. And it’s not an automated email, it’s one written by a real person with clear and helpful answers to my questions. Last week I was granted a renewal for my Specific Crafts Business Permission (basically a visa) and was told to go to my local garda (police) station to get the renewal stamp for my passport. I called for an appointment, got one for the following morning and was soon sitting having a nice chat with Dennis The Immigration Officer. I got my new ID card and stamp in about 10 minutes.

The only glitch was that when I was trying to leave the garda parking lot, my car got stuck in the snow. Dennis was happy to help. He wedged a wooden board under one of my tires, rolled up his sleeves and began to push my car as I put it into reverse. Suddenly he yelped out in pain and started hopping around in the snow, gripping his leg. I was absolutely horrified; had I run over his foot? Apparently the board had flown out from under my tire and struck him in the shin. He told me to sit tight and then hobbled back to the station to get more guys to help. Soon enough I was on my way, unstuck, embarrassed and feeling very guilty. I’m not sure how bad it is but I’m guessing Dennis is still limping a bit…he was hit pretty hard.

So today I am going to drop off some holiday treats (Apple Butter, Maple & Cinnamon Granola, and Potato Crisp Shortbread) to Dennis. To be honest I wish I could do the same for the nice folks at the PPS office in Dundalk and the Department of Justice Immigration Services in Dublin, because I am eternally grateful for all their help over the last year. Never in a million years did I think I would ever have a pleasurable experience working with a government agency, but here in Ireland all of my gov-related dealings have been positive. There’s been a lot of bad press on government agencies and officials here lately, but there are plenty of good ones out there as well. This holiday season I’d like to give them the recognition they deserve.

*Of course not all DMV employees are like this, just the ones I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with!

Maple & Cinnamon Granola

3 cups oats

¼ cup hazelnuts

¼ cup pecans

½ cup marcona almonds

¼ cup sunflower or pumpkin seeds

½ cup dried blueberries

½ cup dried cranberries

½ cup light brown sugar

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

½ cup honey

¾ cup real maple syrup

Pinch salt

Preheat your oven to 170 C degrees. In a large bowl, combine all of the ingredients and stir together, making sure the oats/nuts/fruit is well coated with the sugar, honey and syrup. Spread the mix onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for 40 minutes, removing from the oven half-way through baking to mix the granola. Cool and pack into jars. Perfect on top of yogurt or with some milk. Enjoy!

Potato Crisp Shortbread Cookies

8 oz unsalted butter at room temp

½ cup granulated sugar

1 ¾ cup flour

1 cup crushed salted potato crisps

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 170 C degrees. In a bowl, combine the flour and the crushed potato chips, set aside. In another bowl, cream together the butter, sugar and vanilla. Incorporate the dry ingredients into the butter/sugar mixture until just combined. Using a teaspoon scoop out the dough and roll into a ball with your hands. Roll the balls into granulated sugar, then place on the parchment-lined baking sheet. Press each ball down lightly with your fingers. Bake for 12 minutes or until the edges are nice and golden. Store in airtight container.

Waking up to see a winter wonderland outside your window is something us Angelenos only dream of, so when it happened the other day I was as giddy as a kid at Christmas. As I pulled back the curtains I could see that everything had a good dusting of lovely white snow and as the sun rose the powder sparkled like flecks of sparkly diamonds. I actually gasped at the sight. Of course as I came to find out in the coming day, marveling at the snow from the comfort of my hotel room is totally different than the reality of being in and dealing with the cold wet stuff outside.

This way to a mega-challenging climb; His & Hers hiking boots.

I was in Westport, County Mayo, for a weekend getaway with my boyfriend when the snow fell in the middle of the night. From our breakfast table, the view was breathtaking, but I soon realized that I would be out there and up there because we had plans to climb Croagh Patrick that morning. While I hiked plenty in Los Angeles, this mountain would be a major effort on a nice day, but in the snow? As my mountain climber partner ogled the peak with visible excitement (he scaled the Alps on his last holidays) I did my best to contain my nervousness. I’m always up for a challenge, I told myself, and I refuse to be the wimpy American girl in this scenario (amazing the crazy things you’ll do for pride…and for love). I laced up my hiking boots, bundled up my goose down jacket and told him I was ready to face Croagh Patrick.

X marks the spot: The ridge I managed to scramble to, as pointed out by this fabulous illustration.

The first half-hour was relatively smooth, despite the craggy, loose rocks underfoot. But when we hit the really steep and snowy part things got a bit rough…well, for me. Even with a pole I slipped a few times, though I somehow managed to catch myself before falling flat on my butt. I’ll admit there was a certain amount of complaining and maybe even a whine and perhaps even a foot stamp or two (while his back was turned, naturally) but somehow I managed to climb up to the ridge between the two peaks before he realized the only way he’d get me to the top was to strap me on his back and carry me. It was so cold I couldn’t feel my face and so windy that the hot tea we poured from the thermos into the cup just blew away and turned to ice particles (OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a touch), but the view at the ridge was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Blue skies, snowy peaks and Clew Bay glistening in the sunlight. It was truly mind-blowing to say the least.

In a lot of ways, the climb mirrored my journey here in Ireland. When I moved here 9 months ago, I was wide-eyed and a little nervous but purely optimistic. As you’ve read yourself, I quickly realized how difficult adjusting to a whole new culture could be and I think it’s safe to say there’ve been some tantrums along the way (remember my whole “quay” pronunciation rant?). There have been more than a few sleepless nights and even a meltdown or two. But now that I’ve crossed the hump, I know it was all worth it. And even with Ireland’s economic crisis and the bitterly cold winter, all I see is blue skies ahead. It’s truly mind-blowing, to say the least. 

Alfajores

These Latin sandwich cookies, Alfajores, are the perfect winter treat with a cup of tea. The dusting of powdered sugar makes them look like little snow biscuits, and the lovely dulce de leche center (with a hint of orange) is sweet and gooey and delicious. Makes a great gift. Enjoy! Recipe adapted from the one by the lovely and talented Matt Armendariz.

360 grams all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

165 grams unsalted butter, room temperature

250 grams granulated sugar

2 large eggs, room temperature

200 ml milk

50 ml freshly squeezed orange juice

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 teaspoon grated orange zest

1 can condensed Milk

1 teaspoon of orange liqueur

Powdered sugar, for serving

Preheat oven to 177 degrees C. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or nonstick baking mats; set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt; set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together butter and sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes. Add eggs, one at a time, and continue mixing until well combined, about 1 minute. Working in batches, add flour mixture; mix until well combined. Add milk, orange juice, orange zest and vanilla; continue mixing until a dough forms, 1 to 2 minutes. Using a tablespoon or a small ice cream scoop, drop dough onto prepared baking sheets, about 2 inches apart. Transfer to oven and bake, rotating baking sheets halfway through baking, until golden, 10 to 14 minutes.

Transfer cookies to a wire rack until completely cool. In the meantime, make your dulce de leche from the condensed milk: Remove the label from the can and poke two vent holes at the top of the can. Place the can into a pot of water (hole side up) with the water coming up to about a quarter inch of the top of the can. Put pot on stove and turn on the heat and let the water simmer gently for about 1.5-2 hours, adding more water as necessary. When finished let it cool and then open the can, then stir in the orange liqueur. When cookies have cooled completely, spread the bottoms of half of the cookies with dulce de leche; sandwich together with remaining cookies. Store in an airtight container for up to 2 days. Just before serving, lightly sprinkle with confectioners’ sugar, if desired

When I visited friends in this area October of last year, the idea of actually living here was barely a twinkle in my eye. I’d wanted for some time to move abroad, and as a travel journalist doing a fair amount of globetrotting I was always considering the various places I visited as a potential place to land.

About half-way through my 10-day visit, it dawned on me that maybe Ireland could be the place. After all I have a good number of friends here (when I was in college in San Francisco I lived with a gang of Irish and we kept in touch all these years), it is an English-speaking country and it’s in Europe. It was a beautiful, sunny autumn day and I was sitting with my friend Sinead on the lovely patio of her cosy Irish country house when the idea first sprang to life. Maybe I could move here, continue my freelance writing, and get a little apartment in town…my brain buzzed with the excitement of possibilities.

The very next night, it started to rain. I remember being in the back of my friend Trevor’s Land Rover as he sped through the dark, country road in the lashing rain and feeling physically scared. It wasn’t his driving; it was the eerie darkness that enveloped us as we drove. There were scraggly tree branches hitting the windshield and nothing but pitch blackness all around. The wind howled and there was no trace of life or light anywhere on that road. It was as if God himself had snatched the stars out from over us and the whole vibe reminded me of the scene in An American Werewolf in London right before the two hikers get savagely attacked by the beast in the countryside. I remember thinking there was no way I could ever drive these roads. Too dark, too narrow, too isolated and driver side too right and driving side of road too left!

Later that night as I tried to get to sleep in Sinead’s guest room, I felt doubt and anxiety set in. I peered out from under the covers and tried in vain to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness but I could see nothing – it was that dark. It was jarringly quiet…the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the ringing in my ears, which was starting to sound a bit like a shrill, menacing soundtrack to a slasher film. Being from Los Angeles I was used to the sound of helicopters swirling overhead, traffic noises and the muffled sound of neighbors’ talking and walking around their apartments. I always found these noises to be of great comfort to me as it made me feel I wasn’t totally alone. Here, I felt I was the last person alive after a world-obliterating natural disaster. Well, the last person along with the ax-wielding psycho who was going to burst through the door at any moment and turn me into mincemeat.

Of course nine months into living here, I effortlessly navigate the shadowy country roads that I now know like the back of my hand. And while I ended up in an apartment right in the middle of town, I thoroughly enjoy the undisturbed quiet and inky darkness of a country night and have experienced some of the most peaceful sleeps of my life when I stay at Sinead’s or at my friend Imen’s, who also lives out in the countryside. It’s hard now to imagine the fear I felt then. What seemed so unfathomable only one year ago is now my life, and as the American Thanksgiving holiday approaches I just want to say how grateful I am for that.

Two Thanksgiving Recipes: Uncle Richard’s Sweet Potato Pie & Amy Vanderbilt’s Oyster Stuffing

This is the first Thanksgiving that I’ll be away from home in many, many years, so I was thrilled to get an invitation from my friend (and fellow expat) Imen to celebrate an early Thanksgiving feast at her house in Limerick. My contributions were this sweet potato pie, which is adapted from a recipe by one of my favorite bloggers, Homesick Texan. It’s incredibly easy to make and is made with very available ingredients. I think the Irish would love it too – after all, it’s made with potatoes! The other dish was a favorite at my family’s Thanksgiving, which is Oyster Stuffing (my dad makes it every year!). It’s also quite simple but absolutely delicious – IF you like oysters!

Uncle Richard’s Sweet Potato Pie

15 ounces of mashed cooked sweet potatoes (without the skin)
3 beaten eggs
3/4 cup brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1/2 tsp cloves
1/4 tsp nutmeg
3/4 tsp salt
12 ounces of evaporated milk

Preheat oven to 190 C degrees. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and whisk until smooth (it’s OK to have a few bits of sweet potato, this actually makes it better!). Pour mixture into one, ten-inch pie shell (I use a basic shortcrust recipe, feel free to use whatever you’d like).Bake 55 minutes. Remove from oven and cool before serving. Garnish with whipped cream as desired.

Amy Vanderbilt’s Oyster Stuffing

15 fresh, shucked oysters or frozen and thawed oysters plus at least 1 cup of oyster “liquor” (the liquid that the oysters come in)
8 large slices of crusty white bread, pulsed in a food processor until chunky (you may need more so have some handy)
1 ½ tbsp melted butter or margarine per cup of oysters
2 tablespoons milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 165 C. Combine the bread chunks with a sprinkling of salt and pepper in a large casserole dish (15 inches or so). Add melted butter, oysters, oyster liquor and milk and toss with your hands until the bread is nice and wet but not overly soggy. Add more milk/liquor if too dry and more bread cubes if too wet. Bake for 45 minutes and serve immediately.

With Ireland teetering on the brink of economic collapse, it’s hard to stay positive around here. Some worry, others blow it off as a phase and a few actually want the ax to drop. At least then we can all stop holding our collective breath in anticipation for the worst.

Still, people around here are surprisingly cheerful and it seems there is a concerted effort among folks to keep their chins up. I think for a lot of Irish there’s just really nothing else to do but be optimistic in the face of overwhelming negativity…it’s just how they’re made. All of this reminds me of a story I wrote about New Orleans, which I visited shortly before moving to Ireland, and I thought now would be as good a time as any to re-post it here.

It’s undeniable: There’s just something special about New Orleans. Even before the will of its people was tested by “The Storm,” as locals call it, even before being completely abandoned by its government and nearly forgotten after the other storm (the one of the media variety) died down, it was something else. And after all that? To say that the hardships endured by this city and its loyal residents brought out a kind of character and might and determination that us outsiders didn’t think existed would be an understatement.

I visited New Orleans recently for the first time and was fortunate enough to see the kind of resolve and optimism I’d heard so much about. Just as the city was starting to see the light at the end of the hurricane’s barrel, the recession hit – because, you know, sometimes life just kicks you when you’re down. Last summer, according to many chefs and waiters I spoke to, was one of the worst. Dining rooms were empty and even Bourbon Street remained relatively quiet.

But when I was there late last year, the city was bustling and business was starting to pick up. As I walked through the French Quarter with my colleague Kendall, a food writer born and raised in New Orleans, I could feel a buzz in the air. The sun was shining, street musicians tooted their horns and clapped their hands in celebration and the restaurants were spilling over with customers. In Jackson Square, we saw a flurry of brides in several separate weddings going on at the same hour on the same day. When we ran into a shop owner that Kendall knows, he proclaimed that the worst was over. New Orleans had gotten its groove back, and they’d beaten this recession just as they had all the other attempts at keeping this city down.

God only knows they’d been trying their damndest to weather the economic tempest of the last year. Restaurants tried out special prix fixe dinners and weeknight discounts, and hotels rolled out unbelievable deals to tourists. But what I think got New Orleans through this most recent hurdle was something that seems to be pretty easy to find among the folks around here: Gumption. Everyone I met, from the fast-talking Chef Anthony Spizale of the Rib Room to the legendary Dickie Brennan (of the famed Brennan family of restaurateurs), there was never a question or a doubt that they and their beloved city would rise again, and, with their sleeves rolled up and chests heaved forward, they did whatever it took as they always had.

The excitement and renewed sense of vigor is most apparent in the food. Spizale excitedly talked about all the new specials he’s been trying lately, like his well-received “Fried Chicken Tuesdays.” At Chef John Besh’s new Domenica restaurant, the good ol’ Southern boy is cooking up spectacular Italian dishes with a local flair like Black Pepper Fettuccine with Oysters, Saffron and Cream. And Sal, of the famed P&J Oyster Company, eagerly showed off the first official P&J cookbook that’s now flying off the shelves.

No one is holding back, no sir. That’s gumption for ya.

It seems in Ireland, grannies play a pretty important role in the lives of their grandchildren. For a lot of my Irish friends, their Granny was an integral part of the household, living with them and their parents and helping with everything from cooking to homework. And for a few of my friends here, especially those who were the first-born son, Granny was more a mother to them than their Mammy. She took them into her home and essentially raised them from infancy to adulthood.

Although I didn’t grow up around my grandmother or Obaachan, as I would call her (that’s Japanese for “grandmother”), I have great memories of the brief period I lived in Japan as a child and of the visits we’ve had over the years. I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately as last Saturday she turned 101 years old. It’s really mind-boggling to think of all she’s experienced in that time: her marriage to my grandfather, which lasted for 73 years until his death; giving birth to five children, two of whom she has outlived; witnessing the transformation of her beloved city of Osaka from a quiet town to a bustling, modern city; leaving her house of 50-something years to move into an elderly-care facility and learning, later, that it had been torn down.

Her home had a very specific smell, a mix of fragrant, ashy incense and musky wood. It was an old-style Japanese house with a tiled roof, an ofuro bathtub and a very rickety, steep staircase that led up to the tatami rooms on the second floor. I recall the time my sister and I stayed when we were about 20 years old. Both of us smoked cigarettes at the time, something we thought we hid from our grandparents (we’d sneak off down the street and take our puffs in some little alleyway, far from the view of her front garden). One night, as my Obaachan got our beds ready in the tatami room, she said, “You can smoke up here. Ojiisan (“grandfather”) hasn’t been up here in over 10 years so he won’t know!” My Ojiisan was too old to climb those steep stairs and had been confined to the downstairs part of the house for some time. We were both shocked at her canniness; somehow she’d found out about our habit (I’m guessing a nosy neighbor) and despite the fact she didn’t approve handled it in her usual accommodating fashion.

Like a lot of grannies do, my Obaachan spoiled my sister and me. Whenever we’d visit, she’d ply us with gifts. I remember she had this cabinet under her staircase where she kept a variety of presents she’d received over the years, many still perfectly placed in boxes or even wrapped in fine oriental paper – all things she’d decided would be better suited for someone other than herself. Within minutes of our arrival she’d be opening that cabinet and pulling out something for my sister and me. We would both try to politely decline the gifts but she was stubborn and insisted we take whatever she gave us. When we accompanied her to the open-air marketplace near her house, my parents would instruct us not to so much as look at anything in fear that my Obaachan would sense our desire for it and insist on purchasing whatever it was we fancied (which she often did!). It wasn’t that she was trying to buy our affection; I think she genuinely took pleasure in giving.

These days she doesn’t do too much; she’s relatively healthy for her age but is in a wheelchair and requires assistance with the basics of daily life. But she’s still pretty sharp and she takes great pleasure in food, something that hasn’t changed one bit all these years. Every day she enjoys her favorites like rice, grilled fish and seaweed and I think mealtime is something she really looks forward to. Last time I saw her I was amazed at how skilled she was at picking up the most slippery pickled cucumber with her shiny, lacquered hashi (chopsticks). It gives me great comfort knowing that, despite the fact that all of her friends are long gone and that we are far away, she still appreciates the little things in life like a good meal.

Cucumber Sunomono

This vinegary cucumber salad is a very popular dish to serve with sushi or even with a simple bowl of rice. You’ll find variations at nearly every Japanese restaurant; sometimes the cucumber is sliced uber thin, sometimes there will be a bit of seaweed mixed in. But I prefer it simple with the cucumber slices a bit thicker for more crunch. Enjoy!

1 English cucumber

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

2 teaspoons caster sugar

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons toasted sesame seeds

To prepare the cucumber: Slice the cucumber lengthwise. Then, using a small spoon, scoop out the seeds. Now slice the cucumber so they are like little half-moons. In a small bowl, combine the rice vinegar, sugar and salt and stir until completely dissolved – about 5 minutes. Add in the cucumber and sesame seeds and stir. Place in an air-tight container and let refrigerate for at least four hours. Serve with a sprinkle of extra sesame seeds on top.

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

Really hilarious drunk girl I met while out in Dublin one night; the root of all that is good and evil in Ireland.

The other night I tuned into the magical hour of television programming that is Boozed Up Irish Abroad. As the title quite obviously reveals, the reality show follows a group of young Irish tourists who party their way through the nightclubs of Majorca, the Spanish destination popular with a variety of white-trash European holiday seekers. The program highlights the fighting, vomiting, blathering and sexual exploits of these young Irish as they see who can achieve liver failure and/or get arrested first. It’s a real gem of a show really, and gives even the worst American reality shows (Real Housewives, Tiaras and Toddlers, etc.) a run their money.

With the exception of a small group, it’s not exactly a positive or accurate portrayal of the Irish. The show got me thinking about what my notions of Ireland and Irish people were before I moved here, and if particular media portrayals gave me certain expectations of what I would find in this country. I suppose since my introduction to the Irish happened many years ago when I lived with a group of them (read about them in this post) back in San Francisco, I felt relatively familiar with the culture and attitudes of Ireland before coming here. So I had to go further back than that…did I have any preconceived ideas before I met them?

I do recall a popular television ad in the ‘80s-‘90s for a soap called Irish Spring. There were several ads but the one I remember took place at some sort of horse show and featured an Irish man and woman talking about the benefits of the soap. At one point the man uses a pocketknife to cut a slice of soap (this was standard in all the Irish Spring ads) revealing its green and white striping, which represented the two deodorant scents in Irish Spring. The tagline was, “Clean as a whistle!” and it was stated several times in a much-exaggerated Irish accent. It didn’t give me any specific impression of Irish people, other than that they were clean and relatively happy. Keep in mind I was about 8 years old when these ads were popular.

Another ad from that same era was for a cereal called Lucky Charms. It was a kids’ cereal that consisted of plain, unsweetened pebble-type bits and colorful marshmallow candies (basically we would pick out all the marshmallows and leave the healthy bits behind). An animated “Lucky the Leprechaun” would list off the marshmallow candies in the ads: Pink hearts, orange stars, yellow moons, green clovers, blue diamonds and purple horseshoes and claim that the kids in the ads were “… always after me Lucky Charms!” He’d devise some scheme to get away from them but in the end the kids would get the Lucky Charms. The tagline was, “They’re magically delicious!” The only impression it left on me was that Lucky the Leprechaun wasn’t that smart as he could never outfox the kids.

When I was interviewed recently by journalist Brian O’Connell for his story on foreign women’s perception of Irish men, he asked me if I had any preconceived ideas of what Irish men would be like based on movies, television, etc. I couldn’t think of any when he asked me, but now I recall American actor Chris O’Donnell in “Circle of Friends,” which in retrospect was probably a good representation of life in a small Irish village back in the 1950s but it didn’t make a strong impact as far as Irish men were concerned. I do remember enjoying the storyline where the hot guy was attracted to the “fat” girl (I put that in quotes as I didn’t think Minnie Driver was necessarily fat in the movie, just quite curvy). However “The Commitments,” which in my opinion is a near-perfect film, left me with the impression that Irish men are fond of the drink (which, so far I’ve found to be true), fond of women and not afraid to show it (again, true) and pepper everything they say with four-letter words (both the “F” and “C” varieties, and yes I’ve found this to be true with everyone here, not just the males).

But just as I hope the Irish don’t judge Americans on what’s portrayed of them in the media (Jersey Shore, anyone?), I certainly don’t believe that all, or even most Irish are anything like what is presented of them on television and movies. Then again it certainly wouldn’t be a bad thing if real people similar to the cast of those Irish Spring ads, in all their chipper, freshly-scrubbed and attractive glory, actually existed here. I’ll let you know if I find them.

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.