When I first meet people in Ireland and they find out I didn’t move over for a job, they ask the inevitable question, “Did ya move here for a fella?” Considering most American women I’ve met here did in fact follow their Irish husbands back to the homeland, I can understand why people would assume such a thing. When I tell them there is no fella and that I moved here to experience a new adventure, they usually ask if I A) want to meet a man and B) if I want to have children.

Of course it would be great to meet a fabulous, intelligent, handsome, funny, adventurous, foodie-type who loves to travel and is well-versed in current events/literature/etc. (or at least someone who possesses a few of these traits!). As for the kids question, my answer typically elicits a double-take of shock and disbelief, as if I was a three-headed alien or a talking dog. I don’t know if I want to have kids and to be honest I’m pretty sure that I probably don’t though I’d never say never. Most Irish people I encounter cannot seem to wrap their brains around the concept that a woman might not want to bear children, and I’m getting used to retorts like, “Oh you’ll change your mind – just you wait!” or “But of course you do, you just haven’t met the father!” Once, an acquaintance introduced me as, “Clare, and she says she probably doesn’t want children – can you believe that?”

The thing is I’m not a woman who was born knowing she wanted to be a mother, and I’m very lucky to have parents who never pressure me about having kids. I really like and even love [most] children and truly believe there is nothing in the world that compares to having them. I sponsor a child in Vietnam and am very dedicated to her happiness and well-being. But right now having my own children is something very difficult to imagine, perhaps because I’m well aware that my goals in life aren’t necessarily conducive to having kids. I love to travel and enjoy having the freedom to do so even on a whim. I relish having a lot of time to myself and cherish my personal space. If I do end up getting married, I want to be married without kids for a reasonable amount of time. Considering I’m in my mid-30s now and am single at the moment, it’s hard to imagine where kids fit in. I am very open and would even prefer to adopt over having my own child, but again there are many factors to consider before I can say for certain.

The topic of kids is also becoming an issue as I start dating here in Ireland. Many men I meet are absolutely certain they want to have children and the fact that I’m unsure makes me an undesirable candidate. To each his own, and I respect everyone and anyone’s choices in this department, but I have to say that some of these men are kidding themselves (no pun intended). I recently met someone in his mid-40 who, for all intents and purposes, is a bona fide player. He insists he wants to have kids “one of these days.” Let’s suss out the situation: You’re 44 years old, play the field like a teenager and hit the clubs every weekend – not exactly the picture of stability and responsibility. While I understand age isn’t as big a factor for men as it is for women, showing a bit of maturity would be a good place to start if you’re going to use the kid card as a deal breaker. Sorry to burst your bubble, but women who want to have children are not going to be seeking out a middle-aged playboy for their future BabyDaddy.

Life is unpredictable and anything can happen, even something as wild as me having a baby one of these days. But for now, I think I could be perfectly happy with a husband/long-term partner and a couple of dogs and I hope people can be OK with that idea. It doesn’t really matter whether others approve or not; this is where I am in my life at the moment and no amount of peer pressure or outside expectation is going to change how I feel. I’m fine with not knowing, and though this makes dating in Ireland a bit more difficult I can live with it. I suppose the right “fella” will be one who is able to live with that as well.

The odd time I get my dinner from one of Drogheda’s many Chinese takeaways, I always request it “extra EXTRA spicy” as I find most food here to be too mild. Regardless of my vocal emphasis on the second “extra,” any spiciness is barely detectable. At the risk of offending my beloved new friends here, I will say that a lack of zing, fire, heat – whatever you want to call it – was, in my perception, true of the culture here in Ireland as well.

The Italians have beautiful olive skin and seem to be blessed with a natural swagger; the Spanish are known for their unapologetic bravado and incredible sun-drenched beaches. Ireland, while home to one of the world’s best beers and an undeniable passion for football, isn’t exactly the sexiest country in the world. The constant gray skies, cool temperatures and an obsession with one of nature’s homeliest vegetables (round, dirty, covered with craters) doesn’t add up to the most erotic of equations.

So I was pleasantly surprised to see a different side to the Irish when the Samba Festival came to Drogheda this past weekend. When I first saw the ads for the festival a few weeks ago, I will admit I was skeptical. Irish doing the samba? But as the town came alive with the sultry and risqué beats of samba music so did its people, and all weekend long I witnessed the locals literally kick off their shoes and let down their hair and dance and drum and play with wild abandon. Observing the crowd at McPhail’s Friday evening, I could tell some people didn’t even realize they had it in them; at first, they sat nervously, maybe just tapping one toe while watching the band. But many were eventually coaxed to their feet by the hypnotic beating of drums, and before long the whole crowd was moving and it was one, big party.

It wasn’t just an air of sensuality that the Samba Festival gave to Drogheda. It also brought pure, true joy. In front of St. Peter’s on Saturday afternoon, a samba group played for a crowd sitting on the church steps. A small child,  probably all of 2 years old, broke away from her mother and ran out in front of the band and threw her hands up and skipped around – her overwhelming delight was palpable. Later that day from my balcony I watched another group march up and down my street, pounding their instruments and encouraging people to join in their mobile celebration. This spontaneous parade was like one, big magnet; they emanated an electricity that literally drew people in and the small formation of musicians quickly stretched out into a rhythmic snake of dancing people, slithering down Dyer Street. In the evenings the streets were radiant with smiles and a sense of exhilaration filled the night air. Someone I met at the festival said simply, “Samba makes me happy.” I think it’s safe to say the entire town shared his sentiment.

It’s always the quiet ones that surprise, and this is true of the Irish. This year’s Samba Festival certainly proved that the Irish packs as much heat as the rest of ‘em!

*Here is one of my favorite super spicy recipes, a simple one-pot dish that’s also quite healthy. It’s not Brazilian but is my own take on beans and rice, which is a staple in Brazilian cuisine. Enjoy!

Extra, Extra Spicy One-Skillet Quinoa & Beans

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup chopped celery or green or red bell peppers, depending on your taste
2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
2 teaspoons chili powder
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1 cup quinoa, washed thoroughly
1, 14-16 oz. can of pinto beans
1, 4-oz can of diced jalapenos (or if you prefer less spicy, use mild green chilies)
1, 14-16 oz can of diced tomatoes
1 cup water or chicken or vegetable stock
Sliced avocado and chopped cilantro (coriander) for garnish

Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and celery (or peppers) and cook for about 8 minutes or until onions start becoming translucent. Add garlic, chili powder, oregano, salt and pepper, and cook for another 3 minutes. Add in quinoa, pinto beans, jalapenos (or chilies), tomatoes and water (or stock). Stir all ingredients together, lower heat to medium low, cover pot and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 25 minutes or until all the liquid has been absorbed by the quinoa. Serve with sliced avocado and chopped cilantro (coriander).

If you were to ask most people to describe me, I think one of the first adjectives they’d use is independent. In the literal sense, I am single, live alone and have no kids or pets. Very independent. In compliance with the larger meaning of the word, I don’t often require the help of others, have and show a deep desire for freedom and rarely look to others’ opinions for guidance in conduct.

Sometimes my independence is a good thing; I’m very proud of the fact that in most situations, I can rely on myself. I can stitch a hem, operate a weed wacker, drive a stick shift, throw a mean left hook, identify a crescent wrench, and bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. But there are times when being a self-governing island creates a feeling of isolation and indifference. And as difficult as it is for me to admit, it can also make me feel less…like a woman.

Since settling down in Ireland, that sense of inadequacy has faded thanks to the chivalrous nature of Irish men . While they may have a reputation for being drunken louts a bit much at times, they can be quite gracious otherwise. For example, my male friends always get up and allow us girls to take their seats when we are at a pub or party; I have not once witnessed one of my guy friends sitting down when a woman is standing. They’re quick to open doors and buy rounds and bring in the coal (for the fireplace) and perform heavy lifting when required. Their chivalry is instinctual; rarely do they need to be asked to assist in such matters.

My group of friends includes a number of guys, and though they have jobs and girlfriends and kids and social lives they’ve been incredibly kind and helpful to me. One put together a book shelf that was way too awkward for me to deal with; another patiently endured a shopping trip for home goods only to carry all my heavy purchases to and from the car; yet another took me car shopping (which I’m sure he can attest was exhausting at times!) and negotiated a much better deal than I ever could have. I observe many of the men in town carry out random acts of chivalry on a daily basis. Little do they realize that these small and seemingly insignificant gestures actually mean a lot.

There’s a lot of emphasis on being an independent woman, especially in a place like Los Angeles where I’m from. But it’s also important to acknowledge that sometimes, nothing compares to the feeling of being treated like a woman, and part of that includes accepting help from a man. For the past several years I’ve been so busy exerting my self-sufficiency that I’ve forgotten what that’s like. I’m grateful to the chivalrous men of this small town for helping me to remember.

I made these Tuxedo Brownies for my well-mannered friends, who [dutifully] volunteered for the photos above. Thanks to Trevor, Earnan and Niall for being such good sports!

Tuxedo Brownies
(Makes about 15)

1 cup unsalted butter
2 cups sugar
1 vanilla bean
4 large eggs
1 1/3 cups cocoa powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 cups of chopped milk chocolate (or chocolate chips)

Ganache Topping
8 ounces dark chocolate, chopped
1 tablespoon heavy cream

Tuxedo Topping
4 ounces white chocolate, chopped
1 teaspoon heavy cream
Chocolate sprinkles

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a saucepan, melt the butter over low heat. Add the sugar and the seeds from the vanilla bean and stir to combine. Pour the butter mixture into a large bowl and let cool for 5 minutes.

Stir in the eggs, one at a time until fully incorporated. Stir in the cocoa powder, salt, baking powder and vanilla and mix until thoroughly combined. Stir in the flour until just combined, then add the chopped chocolate pieces. Pour into a 9×13 baking pan, lined with tinfoil, and bake for 30-35 minutes.

While the brownies bake, make the ganache. Simply melt the dark chocolate and heavy cream together in a saucepan over low heat. If the mixture is too thick, add more heavy cream. In another saucepan, do the same thing with the white chocolate and heavy cream, also adding more cream for a thinner consistency.

Remove the brownies from the oven and cool for 15 minutes. Using a small cookie cutter, cut rounds out of the brownies and set on a cooling rack over paper towels. Spoon the dark chocolate ganache over each brownie round, allowing it to drip down the sides. Then drizzle with the white chocolate mixture and sprinkle with chocolate sprinkles. Refrigerate to let cool.

 

I hopped into a taxi in town the other day, and in the back seat was a gigantic bouquet of long-stemmed roses.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have!” I proclaimed. The driver laughed and told me that the flowers were for his wife. He’d been “a bad boy” the evening before and said his wife would certainly forgive him after being presented with such a bouquet. Though he didn’t specify exactly what he did, he mentioned something about a lads’ night out and that he’d been in trouble before. “But if I know my wife, these will do the trick!” he said, with complete confidence.

I notice this dynamic – the misbehaving lad and the nagging wife/girlfriend – is a very common one here in small-town Ireland. In any given group of lads at any given pub, there will be talk of the girlfriend or wife who will inevitably be upset with the boyfriend or husband who is a) drinking too much; b) flirting too much with other women; c) staying out too late; or d) all of the above. If one of the lads gets a text or phone call from his partner, the rest of the group will uproariously pressure him to ignore the call. If he actually takes the call, he will be chastised for the rest of the evening and worse, the girlfriend or wife who is calling will be branded as a nag.

While out to dinner with a female friend recently, she pointed to all the couples in the restaurant and said, “Look at all of them. The girls make the lads take them out for Sunday lunch; otherwise the lads would be watching football or out with their friends all weekend.”As I looked around, I saw a sea of beleaguered boyfriends begrudgingly eating their meals as their better halves sat alert, ready to shoot down any attempt to cut short the obligatory date night. Perhaps my perspective was tainted by my friend’s vocal sentiment but I did see some hard evidence. The guy at the table next to us was in sweatpants (tracksuit bottoms), a ratty t-shirt and flip-flops while his girlfriend was in a nice dress and full make-up. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this but it seemed as if the lad had been forcibly removed from the couch and taken against his will to the restaurant.

This sort of Neanderthalian behavior seems to be perfectly acceptable and even encouraged around small-town Ireland. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the phrase, “Men will be men” as an excuse for bad conduct (actually it should be “boys will be boys” because there’s nothing manly about this type of immaturity). This need to identify with these traditional but outdated gender roles seems common around here, though there are occasional glimmers of progress. In a recent “Man on the Street” column in the local paper, people were asked to name the one thing they could not live without. Among the typical answers like “chocolate” and “beer” was the surprising response of “my wife” from a local man. I can just imagine the fallout from such a statement; I’m certain this man endured weeks of teasing from his mates and maybe even earned himself a new – and unflattering – nickname.

My small-town Ireland: Drogheda

However, all this posturing doesn’t necessarily reflect what goes on behind closed doors. Much like the taxi driver, these disobedient boyfriends and husbands have no problem groveling for forgiveness or being the doting partner – so long as no one else is watching. These private shows of submission are undoubtedly what make the public displays of defiance easier to accept…or at least that is what I choose to believe. Logically it would save time, effort and emotional turmoil if relationships were approached as a partnership rather than a stint in purgatory (men) or an overwhelming fix-it project (women). But these roles seem almost instinctive; they appear to be as much a part of the Irish small-town fabric as pubs and farms. Whether this is good or bad is a matter of opinion, but truth be told it doesn’t make the idea of dating here very appealing to this outsider. Still, I am well aware that there are always exceptions to the rule.