I kid, I kid! Even with all the political turmoil and recession depression, I love it here. But I still find myself mired in figuring out the little things. While in some ways I’m quite settled, there are new discoveries almost every day. I’m still trying to distinguish between regional accents that everyone else seems to recognize and I’m struggling to wrap my brain around the culture of Irish Travellers. Whether it’s a type of bread I’ve never heard of (Mountaineering Man recently introduced me to barmbrack – yum!) or political parties (it’s Gaelic but I find it amusing that the main party has the word fail (Fáil) in its name, so appropriate!) it’s trying to understand all the details of daily Irish life that consumes my time.

Driving in LA is just a whole different experience than driving in Ireland!

Recently I was driving with my friend Grainne and as we drove down a wide road the motorist driving the opposite direction blinked his headlights at me. I was baffled: He wasn’t behind me, so he couldn’t be signaling for me to speed up and it was daylight so he couldn’t have been telling me to turn on my headlights. In Los Angeles, urban legend has it that if you blink your headlights at a gang member’s car, that’s reason enough for them to shoot you so I generally never blink my headlights at anyone. I turned to Grainne and asked her what it meant and without missing a beat she said, “Oh there’s probably garda down the road checking people’s speed and that guy was warning you to slow down.” I’m wondering how on earth she got all that from blinking headlights, but I slowed down and sure enough, just down the road there was a police officer pointing his radar at passing motorists. I was absolutely taken aback by this kind gesture from a complete stranger who undoubtedly saved me from a traffic ticket and utterly puzzled that this vague transmission via headlights is common knowledge to the Irish.

MM reading the paper, a daily ritual.

I still embarrass myself on a regular basis and will probably continue to do so as this seems to be a skill I’ve enhanced while living in Ireland. A few months ago I woke up early on a Saturday morning, changed into my trainers and workout clothes and drove to the gym. It was about 7:30 a.m. so I knew the gym would be empty; when I arrived there were only two cars in the parking lot. I walked in and stood at the check-in counter, waiting for one of the gym staff. No one appeared so I went into the locker room, put my stuff in the locker and went upstairs to the cardio room only to find it dark without a soul in sight. Puzzled, I went back downstairs and ran into a very stunned-looking woman who nearly bashed me over the head with her broom. She was the cleaning lady and told me the gym did not open until 10 a.m. on Saturdays…that’s practically the middle of the day! In Los Angeles, there would be an absolute uproar if the gym didn’t open by 5:30 a.m., even on weekends. Here people aren’t as obsessed with working out, which is actually quite refreshing to be honest.

There are many little things that still mystify me, like the (mis)spelling of certain words. I still do a double-take every time I see the word tyre, which is the way Irish spell tire. I recently saw a pull-quote in the Irish Times and smugly told MM that there was a HUGE spelling mistake: the word skeptical was spelled sceptical. “That’s how it’s spelled, hon,” he said, chuckling. Turns out he’s right, but to me it looks so wrong and it drives me – an American writer educated in journalism at a U.S. university – absolutely crazy! Another bizarre discovery: the Irish don’t seem to like Jacuzzis or hot tubs, which is odd because it is so cold here. I’ve been to two spas and have researched numerous others only to find that NONE have hot tubs. During a visit to a luxe hotel spa in Co. Mayo, I was thrilled to see what the hotel called a “hydro pool,” which looked like an oversized Jacuzzi. One toe dip in the water let me know it was not the case; the water was not quite cold but it was very cool and nowhere close to warm…argh! When I asked MM how this could be, he said something about hot tubs being “full of germs.” Full of germs or not, I spend many a cold Irish night dreaming of a long soak in Jacuzzi.

Spicy Sweet Potato and Red Pepper Soup

For my birthday, MM gave me a kitchen gadget to love: the Cuisinart Soup Maker. Think of it as a blender/food processor with a heating element. I can chop my veg, throw in a bit of olive oil and sauté directly in the container of the Soup Maker, add my cold stock and seasonings and boil/simmer and blend it all up into a smooth soup. Crazier still is that it also makes pastry dough, pastes, salsas, etc. However I wrote the recipe so this soup will be easy to make even without this appliance. This spicy and sweet soup will warm you all the way down to your toes, and comes in at a close second behind the hot tub soak.

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, chopped roughly

1 garlic clove, chopped roughly

2 medium red bell peppers, seeded and chopped

1 red chili, seeded and chopped

2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed

800 ml of chicken or vegetable stock

Salt and pepper to taste

Fresh coriander for garnish

In a large soup pot, heat up the olive oil over medium heat. Throw in the onion, garlic, bell peppers and chili and sauté for about 5 minutes or until the onions are a bit tender. Toss in the sweet potatoes and stir for 2 minutes, then pour the stock over the veg and bring the whole thing to a boil over high heat. After it comes to a boil, turn the heat down and simmer for 30 minutes or until the vegetables are soft. Using a hand blender or a regular blender (if you use the latter, make sure to do it in batches being very careful as mixture will be HOT) and blend until smooth. Season with salt and pepper to taste and garnish with fresh coriander leaves. If you’d like, add in a dollop of natural yogurt to add creaminess. Enjoy!

Today I went into a big-box sports shop in town looking for a pair of running shoes. I saw a few pair I liked and stood near them, waiting patiently for one of the two sales clerks who loitered nearby to assist me. After a few minutes of being stared at, I did a little hand up gesture, the polite and non-verbal “oi” to let them know I needed help. No reaction. One of them, a young woman, walked over to me (or so I thought) but then passed and started arranging shoes on the very shelf I was standing next to. “Excuse me,” I said. She turned, pretended not to hear me (there was just no way she didn’t unless she was legally deaf) and walked away. She then strolled over to a boy, no more than 10-years-old who stood about 5 feet away from me and asked him, “You doin’ all right there?” She then turned again and started to walk toward me, and again I said, “Hi, excuse me…” but my words hung in the air like one of those cartoon bubbles of text as she passed me by, again ignoring me.

I’ve touched briefly on customer service (or the lack, thereof) in Ireland before, but I think it’s time for a full-blown rant. To be frank: I’m fed up. Even after over 10 months of living in Ireland, I’m still taken aback by the blatant disregard for customers around here. For a country in the depths of a dismal recession, I’m surprised that businesses are still ignoring the need for better customer service. The big-box stores are especially guilty of this. Almost every time I’m in the check-out line at Dunnes, I’m standing there, waiting while two register clerks exchange weekend gossip, completely ignoring the fact that there are numerous customers waiting to get on with their lives. Thankfully Tesco offers a self-checkout line, which I always use as I am over the slow and often rude service there.

Speaking of Tesco, a while back I went looking for an alternative to corn syrup – a common baking ingredient in the United States. I found a bottle of glycerin in the baking isle, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. I asked a clerk and got only a puzzled look and an “I don’t know.” It was clear the clerk wasn’t going to assist me further, so I asked if there was someone else there who might know. “You can ask her,” he said, pointing to another clerk half-way across the store. I asked her, and got the same, “I don’t know.” When I asked her if anyone there would know, she laughed and said, “I don’t know. You should Google it.” Believe it or not, this was the second time in Ireland where I’ve been told to Google something by someone whose job description requires them to know something about the products they sell. I wanted to retort, “Why don’t YOU Google it, you miserable cow!” but of course I didn’t.

Earlier this week I went to buy a calling card at the bookstore where I purchase one nearly every other week. That day, they were out. And no one knew when they’d get more in and no one offered to check. When I asked if someone could find out, the answer was a shrug and a “no one knows.” An exasperated glare from the salesclerk was enough to let me know that this was the end of the line for my inquiry. What’s amusing about the sad state of customer service in Ireland is that everyone acknowledges it’s a problem; my Irish friends readily admit that this country has a reputation for lazy, incompetent customer service. Stranger still is that most people just accept it as something they can do nothing about. WRONG. To business owners and managers: There are a lot of out-of-work people in Ireland who would be happy to take the job of an insolent, inept employee that’s currently doing nothing for your business. Providing good service to clientele is a simple, cheap and effective way to increase profits. To consumers: Don’t be afraid to speak up. Demand better service. File a complaint. Choose to spend your hard-earned money at places where you’re treated with care and respect.

As for those running shoes I needed, I went to a local shoe store and was assisted by a very honest and friendly saleswoman. I bought the shoes, even though they were €12 more than the price of the big-box store. Let me tell ya, it was the best €12 I ever spent.

I used to be afraid to say the words, “I don’t know.” One of my biggest fears was admitting I didn’t know something, whether it was how to scuba dive or where St. Charles was located or how to properly light barbeque charcoals. For a long time I got away with a confident nod and a smile, which would deceive people into thinking I knew what I was talking about when in fact, I had no idea.

There was a particular period in my life where this whole charade became utterly exhausting and more trouble than it was worth. It was shortly after I graduated from college and I was living with roommates in a very hip part of San Francisco called Hayes Valley. Within a few months of living there I befriended a number of people in the neighborhood and became good friends with a couple of guys who lived down the street. Both exuded this almost tangible sense of cool; one had a very exotic and odd Finnish name, even though neither he nor his parents (or grandparents, for that matter) were from Finland. The other was tall and lanky and played guitar and spun records on his Technics 1200s in his spare time. Together they were the hipster poster boys for our stylish little ‘hood: all vintage threads, Swedish minimalism and wispy indifference. All the hipster girls in the neighborhood vied for their attention.

To be fair, they were quite nice and always treated me with care and respect. But they had a very exasperating (while unintentional) habit of dropping obscure literary titles or yet-to-be-discovered band names or TBA gallery openings. I always felt pressure, self-imposed perhaps, to nod knowingly or reply assuredly as they seemed to put people into two categories: Those In the Know, and Everyone Else. So when they mentioned the new German filmmaker whose celluloid study on the perplexing effect of kitten fur on left-wing polyglots was making waves in the indie film circuit, I’d smirk knowingly. Had I heard about the glitter-art party at the no-name speakeasy owned by that guy who runs the Polka record store in Connecticut but keeps a converted warehouse loft for autumn fashion shows in San Francisco? Why yes, yes I had! Keeping up appearances became an arduous task and the worst part about it was that I was effectively making myself more ignorant by pretending to know things I did not.

The thing about saying “I don’t know” is that it’s usually followed by an education, or an explanation at the very least, on the thing you don’t know about. Admitting that I do not know everything is something I had to acknowledge quite publicly after moving here to Ireland, because I literally did not know much about anything Irish when I landed and I had a very short time to figure it all out! Besides being aware of the funny accents and a penchant for potatoes, I was basically clueless about life in this country. Embracing and almost advertising that fact has been a great help in adjusting to life here, and lucky for me Irish people are always eager to help and to fill me in on all that I don’t know. From television licenses and PPS numbers to muppet and Ledgebag, I’m learning…thanks to three simple words: I don’t know.

Miso-glazed Sea bass with Spicy Sesame Buckwheat Noodles

Talk about a case of the I-Don’t-Knows! I recently went shopping for fish with Mountaineering Man and opted to get some locally-caught sea bass at a fish stand at the Moore Street Market in Dublin (inspired by Hugh’s Fish Fight). The fish was whole, and when the woman asked if I wanted the heads cut off, I said yes but felt too intimidated to ask her to fillet them (a case of not speaking up when I should have). When we got back to MM’s apartment and unwrapped the fish, I realized I had NO IDEA how to fillet fish or even where to start. I spent the next 30 minutes sawing away at the poor sea bass (and cursing the whole time) until I had two, very pathetic fillet-type pieces and a handful of fish bits. Thankfully this miso glaze makes even fish bits taste good. Next week I’m going to my local fishmonger for a lesson in filleting fish…stay tuned!

Sea bass:

2 sea bass fillets

1 tablespoon miso paste

1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar

Noodles:

2 teaspoons vegetable oil

½ red bell pepper, sliced into thin strips

4 ounces cabbage, sliced into thin strips

8 ounces buckwheat noodles, cooked and drained (drizzle a bit of sesame oil on it to keep from sticking together)

1 tablespoon sesame oil

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 small red chili, minced

1 teaspoon freshly grated ginger

1 teaspoon minced garlic

2 spring onions, diced

Handful of fresh coriander, torn into small pieces

Preheat oven to 160 C degrees. On a baking tray lined with foil, lay out the sea bass fillets. In a small bowl, combine the miso paste and rice wine vinegar to make a thin sauce. Spoon over sea bass fillets and place in the oven, cooking for 10-12 minutes or until cooked through. Do not overcook!

In a large sauté pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the bell pepper and cabbage and cook for about 7-10 minutes or until tender. Add in the noodles, sesame oil, soy sauce, chili, ginger, garlic and spring onions and toss together in the pan. Cook for 3-5 minutes or until heated through. Remove from heat and add in the fresh coriander. Plate the noodles and top with sea bass fillet.

I guess it comes from our innate need to be accepted and to fit in, but as I got older I realized the only person I was hurting by pretending to know when I didn’t was me.

There are some things so precious you want to keep them all to yourself, safely tucked away from prying eyes and inevitable opinions and questions. There’s safety in keeping something secret; it’s a preservation method, a way to keep something protected and allow space for growth without influence or distraction.

But this is a blog about my life here in Ireland, and it would be unfair to readers and downright untruthful to hold back on something as significant as this any longer. While I did slip in a little mention a couple of posts back, I have yet to elaborate. So here goes [*takes deep breath*]: I’m in love with an Irish man.

Before meeting him, I’ll admit I had almost given up on the idea of love. Keep in mind I’d been living in Los Angeles for many years prior to moving here, and dating in LA is about as enjoyable as pouring iodine on a paper cut. After dozens of first dates, ranging from OK to down-right terrible, I started to wonder how anyone actually connects with anyone. Though I saw couples all around me who obviously found each other somehow, it was starting to feel like the planets had to be aligned just so in order for two people to come together, find each other attractive, get along AND start an actual relationship. It’s kind of like staring at a word on a page too long; after a while, it starts looking foreign…and wrong. I’d examined the concept and ideology of dating so much that it was starting to morph into something I didn’t even recognize anymore.

And then, a mere 5 months after landing in Ireland, I met him. There was the great first date, one that started at the Bank Bar on College Green and ended with a hurried wave “goodbye” as I ran toward my train at Connolly Station. The absence of a kiss goodnight left me wondering if he was interested. A text before I even got home let me know he was. This was followed by many wonderful dinners out in Dublin (where he lives) and in Drogheda (where I live) and trips to galleries and walks around the city and many long conversations over many glasses of wine. There’ve been wanders around the second-hand section at Chapters bookstore, rambles on the beach in Bettystown and hikes up to Djouce (he is an avid mountain climber who took me to get hiking boots on our fourth date). And then there are times when we simply sit quietly and read the paper over cups of coffee. They say a test of a good relationship is when you can just sit with someone and say nothing and be OK. I know now what that means.

In him I’ve found a true partner; someone I can be myself around without apology or need for self-deprecation. While we have some major commonalities (we’re both journalists, for one), he also brings whole, new perspectives to the relationship. If you would have told me six months ago that I’d be climbing Croagh Patrick in the snow, I would’ve given you the subtle but you-so-crazy eye roll of disbelief. It’s not that I’d just follow my boyfriend up a mountain because I want to impress or please him. Being with someone who pushes himself in that way and who is as disciplined as he is inspires me. He inspires me to be better, to push harder and make more effort in every aspect of my life just by being who he is: a hard-working, patient man with a rock-solid character.

You’ll be hearing more about him in upcoming posts, but in an effort to respect his privacy (after all, it wasn’t his choice to write a tell-all blog!) I will refer to him as Mountaineering Man (MM) in future posts and keep his face hidden in photographs. But I wanted to share this much for now, as he’s been an important and big part of my life for the last few months and I have no doubt he’ll continue to be.

I guess this whole moving-to-Ireland craziness has worked out quite well!

Coconut & Cranberry Oat Bars

For me, there are few things more enjoyable than cooking for someone else. And now that I have someone to cook for, I’m doing a lot of it. MM really likes his food (thank GOD as I don’t think I could date a picky eater) so I’ve always got an eager and grateful taste-tester for all my recipes. Recently he mentioned a craving for coconut, so I whipped up this recipe for healthy but delicious Coconut & Cranberry Oat Bars. Enjoy!

180 grams whole rolled oats

125 grams wholemeal flour

200 grams brown sugar

80 grams unsweetened flaked coconut

170 grams dried cranberries

½ teaspoon baking powder

140 grams of melted unsalted butter, cooled slightly

2 eggs

4 fluid ounces real maple syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 170 C degrees. In a large bowl, combine the oats, flour, sugar, coconut, cranberries and baking powder and stir until well mixed. In a smaller bowl, whisk together the butter, eggs, maple syrup and vanilla. Pour mixture over the oat mixture and stir until combined. Press into a foil-lined baking pan (I used a rectangular pan about 13x9x9) and bake for 20 minutes. Cool completely in the pan and then cut into squares.

*Sushi at Z’s: Straight from the airport to my sister’s for a shower and then right on to Z’s Sushi, my family’s favorite sushi spot in LA. Best salmon sushi I’ve ever had (the secret is the little slice of clear seaweed that tops each piece of salmon).

*Dinner at my sister’s: My dad and sister worked together to make these delicious oxtail ravioli, which was served in a very simple sauce and topped with good parmesan. NOM!

*Christmas Eve at my folks’ place: When we were younger my parents asked my sister and me what we’d like for a traditional Christmas Eve dinner. For some unknown reason, we replied “Steak and lobster!” I’m guessing we probably just saw a television ad for a lobster restaurant because we were quite young (and we didn’t grow up posh so it wasn’t our nature to suggest such things!). In any case it has been a tradition for years and I absolutely love it. Steak, lobster, broccoli and baked potato!

*Lazy Ox Canteen: I’ve been a fan of Chef Josef Centeno for a few years now and there was no way I could skip a visit to his year-old restaurant in downtown LA on this trip! His polenta tacos with Mexican slaw was to die for, as was his lamb neck hash with egg and roasted winter squash with ham hock. Everything this guy makes is simply irresistible!

*Brunch at BLD: Oh how I miss the brunch scene in LA! It was a weekend ritual for my sister, her hubs and me to go out for a long and lazy Sunday brunch, and in LA there are a million choices. From eggs benedict and tofu scrambles to French toast and silver-dollar pancakes, LA restaurants offer up a variety of breakfast/lunch dishes to satisfy any taste. I love BLD as they have a great mix of vegan, vegetarian and meat-loving fare. I opted for the huevos rancheros, made with three different types of beans and topped with a lovely poached egg, salsa and sliced avocado. Served with a French press of rich coffee, there’s nothing better!

*Christmas Day at my folks’ house: Christmas Day is a relaxed affair when my parents invite over family friends for an afternoon feast. Using the leftover lobster from Christmas Eve, my father makes his famous lobster bisque, which is part of a buffet that also includes roasted pork sandwiches, a rabbit terrine (made by my sis), salmon gravlox, homemade apple pie and cheesecake and lots of bubbly and wine.

More Ireland stories coming your way and HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Though the Irish tend to wax ad nauseum about the weather, they don’t let it get them down. They don’t avoid going outside when it’s freezing cold or when it’s raining because if they did, they’d never leave the house. Irish people just put on a bigger coat, whip out the umbrella and get on with their lives.

Strangely enough, I’ve noticed as the temperature goes down people seem to get more chipper around here. In Dublin last weekend it was probably about 4 degrees Celsius (that’s 39 degrees Fahrenheit for all my American friends) and I witnessed the most cheerful exchange between a visibly shivering elderly man and a store clerk. The clerk asked, “How’s it going?” and while the old man could’ve gotten away with a smarmy remark he answered, “Ah, not a bother at all! Not a bother!” complete with a huge grin and a boisterous cackle. I think I was in the middle of whining about how cold I was when I caught that little burst of positivity. Then I passed the guy whose sole job is to stand in the driveway of the car park and wave cars in and out. For hours, he stands out there in the freezing cold, sporting his high-vis jacket and a genuine smile.

Admittedly, adjusting to my first autumn and pending winter in Ireland hasn’t been easy. In balmy Los Angeles, November still sees temperatures in the 90s (that’s the 30s for my European friends). Christmas is typically anywhere between 60-65 degrees Fahrenheit (16 C) and no matter how many films portray the “surprise” LA holiday snowfall it’s never happened in my lifetime. In fact, the last recorded snowfall in LA was on January 22, 1962 and it was so light it evaporated before touching the ground. Last year it rained a little, which we thought was nice as it made Christmas feel more “festive.” Here, I feel cold to the bone and all I want to do is curl up in a Snuggie (despite its universally-dorky rep), read Robert Frost poems, drink hot tea, and feel sorry for myself.

But as I witness more random displays of positivity in Ireland, my attitude is shifting. Today as I schlepped down the main street in town, I let out a big, depressing yawn. “Get home and take yourself a nice nap, pet!” called out a male passerby, all smiles. “You deserve it!” It actually made me laugh out loud and immediately jolted me out of my gloomy mood. While a comment like this would be highly unusual coming from an Angelino (with the exception of drunk vagrants and liquored-up douchebag hipster types, of course), it’s really not that uncommon around here. Strangers often say “hello” to me as I walk down the street, and it’s perfectly normal for someone behind me in the grocery line to strike up a friendly conversation. Even when there’s plenty to complain about, like the feckin’ cold weather!

Winter Warmer Spaghetti Bolognese Sauce

Nothing comforts me in cold weather more than a huge bowl of pasta, especially when it’s spaghetti Bolognese. My mother used to make hers with the tiniest, most perfectly-cubed vegetables like carrots and onions – I remember they looked like little jewels in the pot as she sautéed them. Though most “spag bol” includes beef, I made mine with minced dark-meat chicken. It’s my submission for the Irish Foodies monthly cook-along, as this month’s theme is Winter Warmers!

3 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons of olive oil

1 large carrot, peeled

1 medium white onion

½ red bell pepper

½ green bell pepper

2 cloves of garlic

1 lb. dark-meat chicken (legs/thighs) mince – ask your butcher!

2 cans (142 grams each) tomato paste (called “puree” in Ireland)

1 ¼ cup of dry red wine

Water

4 twigs of fresh thyme

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon red chili flakes

1 beef bouillon cube

½ cup finely grated Parmesan cheese

5 fresh basil leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

In a food processor, chop the carrot, onion, bell peppers and garlic together until they are a very fine dice (you can also do this by hand). In a large pot, heat up 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat and then add the vegetables. Cook until almost “melted” or very translucent and soft, about 15-20 minutes. Spoon the cooked vegetables onto a plate and then add the other 2 tablespoons into the same pot and add the chicken mince. Brown the chicken, stirring regularly, for about 15 minutes. Add the vegetables back into the pot with the chicken and stir together, seasoning generously with salt and pepper. Cook for an additional 15 minutes – it’s all about building flavor here!

Add in the two cans of tomato paste and mix together with the veg/chicken and cook for 4-5 minutes. Add in the red wine and stir until well incorporated. Bring to a simmer then lower the heat to medium-low and let the wine reduce by ½ (10 minutes or so). Now add in about 2 cups of water, or until the water goes to about 1 inch above the meat/veg, and add in the leaves from the thyme stems and the bay leaves, chili flakes and beef bouillon cube. Bring to a boil and then reduce the heat to low and let simmer for about 1.5 hours or until the sauce becomes thick. Remove from heat and stir in the grated Parmesan cheese and tear the basil leaves and throw them in as well. Serve with your favorite type of pasta and enjoy!

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.

If you would have told my parents a year ago that they’d spend their next vacation visiting me in Ireland, they’d have laughed it off as an amusing but silly joke. To be honest, I probably would have as well. Funny how quickly life can change.

Last week my parents came over and got some insight into my new life here and what it all means. They partook in some of my now-daily routines, like breakfast of sliced McCloskey’s Cottage Brown Bread with a medium-boiled egg served in an egg cup (something not at all popular in the U.S.). They did their laundry in my tiny washing machine/dryer combo, and managed to hang everything properly on my indoor clothes horse and realized it would take approximately 24 hours for those clothes to dry. And after a few searches in the dark, they grasped that the bathroom light switch in Ireland is always, always outside the bathroom! And they experienced all little things that used to drive me crazy, like the nonsensical pricing scheme of Irish Rail tickets (Dad: “How is it 12 euro for one way to Dundalk when it’s 14 euro to go all the way to Dublin and back!?”). It was fun to watch them adjust to all the oddities I struggled with upon my arrival here. It reminded me of just how settled I feel now.

On day two of their visit, they got some real local culture in the form of the local GAA championship match between Collon’s Mattock Rangers and the Cooley Kickhams. I spent the first day of their trip explaining just how obsessed Collon folk are with the team and with the championship cup; luckily I had written about the Mattock Rangers before and they’d read it, so they had some idea. Still, I’d say they were surprised to hear my expressed guilt over ordering the “Cooley Lamb” off the menu at Fitzpatrick’s Restaurant, where we’d gone for dinner the evening before the match. They were probably more surprised to hear me tell our waitress, who proclaimed herself as a Cooley fan (and even sported their colors under her waitress apron!) that she’d better be bracing herself for a loss the next day. Of course it was all in good humor but me, the LA girl who normally could care less about sports publicly defending the Mattock Rangers to a perfect stranger? I was shocked to hear the words coming out of my own mouth!

Come game day they got to experience the nail-biting, neck-in-neck match between the two teams live and in person. They observed all the pomp and circumstance of the pre-game festivities, heard all the impassioned, profanity-laced yelling from the spectators and got a detailed run-down of the rules from my friend Aoife. They witnessed the sheer madness when the Mattock Rangers won (do you really think I’d admit publicly to ordering Cooley lamb had they not?), when everyone in the stands spilled out onto the field, screaming and spraying champagne and jumping for joy. Afterward we went down to the village pub and they experienced the post-match, drunken debauchery of the team and all their fans. In true Irish fashion, they were bombarded with free rounds and bear hugs and my mom even danced with my very drunk friend Bushman to some traditional Irish music.

We did all the historical sites like Newgrange, Knowth and Millmount, and they did the Guinness tour and visited Dublin Castle and saw the Book of Kells and all that other cultural stuff. But what I think impressed them most was the Irish hospitality. When our taxi driver in Dublin got lost on the way to our destination, he refused to take any money for the entire cab ride – even though he’d eventually gotten us to where we were going. Every time we’d walk around town, we’d get a wave and a “hello” from my local butcher, fishmonger and coffee shop barista. When we went to Collon for a big country walk, my friend Sinead baked up her famous apple tart just for them (my dad said it was the best apple tart he’d had in recent memory). My friend Keith, who used to be my flatmate in San Francisco over a dozen years ago and hadn’t seen my parents since, called in to just to say hello and spend some time catching up with them.

Though I’d told them all about life here on the phone and via email, I think being here made them see that what started off as a trial experiment has transformed into a real life. And how, a mere seven months after moving here, I’ve fallen in love with this incredibly beautiful, often maddening and always gracious country of Ireland.

Mussels in Garlic and Tomato Broth

On my parent’s last night in Ireland, I decided to cook dinner at my apartment so we could relax and enjoy a chill night at home before they flew back. We went to my local fishmonger (Kirwan’s Fish Cart in Drogheda) and got a bag of mussels for this super quick, easy but wonderful dish. Serve with some crusty bread and a salad and you’ve got the perfect dinner!

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 white onion, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
½ teaspoon red chili flakes
½ cup of dry white wine
1.5 cans of chopped tomatoes
4 lbs mussels, cleaned and de-bearded
3 tablespoons of butter
Flat-leaf parsley
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large soup pot, heat up the olive oil over medium heat. Add garlic, onions and shallot and cook until soft, about 5 minutes. Add in the thyme and red chili flakes and cook for an additional minute. Add in the white wine and tomatoes and bring to a boil, adding salt and pepper to taste at this point. Add in the mussels. Cook until all the shells have opened (discard any where the shells remain closed). Remove from heat and toss in the butter and stir until melted, then top with chopped parsley. Serve in a large bowl.

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.

Nancy (right smack in the middle!) with her siblings at a recent birthday celebration for her brother.

Being from Los Angeles, I have a pretty specific definition of the Independent Woman. She’s single or dating someone (or a few people!), has a successful career, rents a nice apartment or perhaps even owns a condo or house and has a social calendar that involves lots of fabulous restaurants, bars and friends. She not only brings home the bacon (or maybe some organic chorizo), but she can fry it up in a pan, toss it on a bed of farmers’ market vegetables and have it all ready for an impromptu Friday-night dinner party for a few of her closest pals without breaking a sweat.

Suffice it to say, I was that Independent Woman living in Los Angeles. And though now I live in Ireland, I’ve worked hard to maintain that IW lifestyle – though it’s not always easy. I do rent a fabulous apartment and have maintained my writing career but there are not a lot of great restaurants or bars in the town of Drogheda, where I reside. However I still have my dinner parties and nights out and I’ve made some incredibly fabulous friends. But the more time I spend here in Ireland, the more I’m realizing that there is a whole other type of independent woman out there, and she is the polar opposite of me.

My friend’s mother Nancy is in her 60s. She’s raised seven of her own children plus three nieces and nephews who lost their mother at a young age. She left school early to help out around her family’s farm. Nancy is the backbone, the main caretaker, the confidant, and the foundation of her family and though she’s never had a professional career or a high-fashion wardrobe, she is as strong as any female CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Though Nancy has been married for over 39 years, it is she who does the bulk of the heavy lifting – both physically and metaphorically. I don’t know how many times I’ve dropped by the house to see Nancy out in the yard, pushing the lawnmower up and down her enormous back garden. If she’s expecting special visitors (like out-of-town relatives), Nancy is outside with a can of paint and a brush, literally touching up the exterior of the 200-year-old family farmhouse she’s lived in her whole life. Her hands are cracked and weathered from years of wrestling piles of laundry in and out of the washing machine and fighting the oft-blustery wind to get the washing hung outside. At least a couple times a week, she’s out there in a sudden downpour, frantically removing socks and sheets and towels from the clothesline. She cooks a homemade meal nearly every night of the week and is sweeping and dusting every other day. She once showed me how she literally sweeps dirt under the kitchen rug, and then vacuums it up at the end of the week. Efficient and enterprising – it’s genius!

But despite all the cooking and cleaning and consoling and counseling that fills her itinerary every week, Nancy still takes care of herself in a way that would make even Carrie Bradshaw proud. Every Saturday morning, she goes to the hair salon in the town center to get her locks shampooed and coiffed. Right after her appointment, she walks across the way to her favorite little café and orders a salad sandwich on white bread and a pot of tea with lots of milk. She sits alone, savoring every bite of her sandwich and every sip of tea but mostly she takes pleasure in the peace of just having a little time to herself. Since I live in town and knew she ate alone every week I used to pop into the café for a chat, but ever since she told me how much she relishes this precious hour to herself I’ve stopped coming by. Anyone who actually enjoys eating alone in a restaurant truly embraces the spirit of independence, and far be it for me to intrude on Nancy’s small but valuable bit of personal freedom. I admire that she takes this break every week; every independent woman understands that having a little time for herself only makes her a better mother, wife and friend.

If you’d have asked me six months ago if I would ever consider a mother of seven with no professional career an independent woman, I’d have laughed at the idea. But a big part of living in a new country and adjusting to a new culture is recognizing that my narrow-minded idea of something can actually have more than one form or meaning. An independent woman isn’t always the career-minded singleton with loads of Jimmy Choos in her closet; sometimes she’s a stay-at-home mother in the Irish countryside.

Crispy Chorizo Salad
(Serves 2)

50 grams of spicy chorizo, sliced thin
3 cups of little gem lettuce
1 carrot, sliced thin
½ yellow bell pepper, sliced thin
½ red bell pepper, sliced thin
½ cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1 spring onion, sliced thin

Dressing:

Leftover drippings from chorizo
2 tablespoons good balsamic vinegar1 teaspoon anchovy paste
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
Salt and pepper to season

In a shallow pan, cook the chorizo over medium heat for about 5 minutes or until a lot of the fat has cooked off into the pan. Set aside and let cool while you prepare the salad.

Divide the lettuce, carrot, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes and spring onions onto two plates. Carefully remove the chorizo from the pan using tongs, and divide evenly on top of the salads. To make the dressing, pour the chorizo drippings into a plastic container, then add the remaining dressing ingredients. Secure the lid and shake for a few seconds or until the ingredients are combined. Season with salt and pepper.

Drizzle the salad with the dressing and serve!