The other day I came across a notebook that I brought from Los Angeles but hadn’t looked at in ages. It was a journal of notes that started in 2008 and ended before I moved to Ireland, which was on March 4, 2010. The last few pages are my frantic “to do” lists for my move, which included such chores as burn 10 CDs a day every day to iTunes, go to packing supply store, and don’t forget your PASSPORT!!!

What’s more interesting was a list of goals I’d set for myself back in 2008. They ranged from things I wanted to accomplish that day, like transcribe Tahiti interviews (for a story I was writing for a food/travel magazine) to tasks I wanted to finish within a month like clean up patio and buy plants for it. But further down the list were some life goals:

· I want to write a novel

· I want to be in a committed relationship with a great guy

· I want to buy a condo/house in Pasadena

· I want to travel more or live abroad

· I want to earn $100,000 per year

Looking back on some of these, I realize that even when I wrote them my heart wasn’t in it. Buying a house in Pasadena, for example, was something I put down because I felt at my age I should own something and I already lived in Pasadena so that was as good a place as any. I figured if I could make $100K per year, it would allow me to do more fun things so I could distract myself from the fact that I’d definitely be hating whatever job would actually pay that much money. I knew I wouldn’t make that kind of dough being a freelance journalist, which I was at the time. So I’d have to go back to online marketing, which I’d done for five years before going back to freelance journalism. When I had that marketing job, I was meeting friends for happy hour drinks three times a week and spending lots of money on weekend getaways…all coping mechanisms for the job I detested.

But I felt passionate about writing a novel, meeting a great guy and traveling or living abroad – those were dreams I could stand behind, but they all felt silly and unrealistic. I was way too cynical to believe in such tales as Eat, Pray, Love; in fact, I was always quick to scoff or roll my eyes when such chick-lit inspired fantasies dared cross my mind. Still, I would occasionally strategize on how to make at least one of those ideas a reality, mainly the travel option. It seemed the most accessible since I was dabbling in culinary travel journalism at the time.

When I visited Ireland for a story in mid-2009, I took an additional 10 days to visit some old friends in Collon, a small village near Drogheda. I still can’t articulate exactly what it was about Ireland that inspired me, but by the time I got back to Los Angeles I was researching visas and crunching numbers. I applied for a writer/artist permission and within three months, I was approved. Before I knew it, I was on a plane via a one-way ticket to Ireland to live for at least one year. Thanks to the help of my Collon friends (a big shout-out to the Roche family, without whom I would still be cowering in the corner of Dublin Airport), I had an apartment, a car and the makings of a new life within two weeks of arriving.

What a difference one year makes. I signed with a literary agent three months after moving here. The book deal hasn’t come yet, but it’s a start. A few months later, I met an incredibly kind, wildly intelligent and dedicated man (Mountaineering Man to you all!). We’re approaching our six-month anniversary and I couldn’t be happier. I recently renewed my visa for another year, with an option to renew again. The house in Pasadena is no longer a priority (not that it ever really was) and to be honest, I would be fine making enough money to pay my bills and have a little fun here and there – I don’t need a six-figure income to feel fulfilled.

It hasn’t been easy and of course I miss my family and friends back in America. I’ve had a difficult time finding writing work here and there are days when I throw my hands in the air and threaten to give up (just ask MM!). On the really bad days all I can see is the smeared dog poop on the sidewalks and the bratty little tweens who graffiti my building and I think, “What is this place?” But despite all that and the unrelenting recession and unpredictable and often cold weather, Ireland is my dream come true: a crazy stroke of luck that’s literally changed my life.

One year ago today: A Good Start

When I was visiting my friends in Collon last September (this was the trip that basically got the wheels turning about moving to Ireland), I noticed red and black checkered flags all over the village. Pubs, houses, telephone poles – they were everywhere. I soon found out that these flags bore the colors of the Mattock Rangers, the local Gaelic football club, and that the team was close to securing a spot in the 2009 finals. The anticipation and anxiety of the village was evident in the bits and pieces of conversation I overheard during my visit. It was as if the entire population of Collon was holding its collective breath, careful not to jinx a victory by too much talk while at the same time silently agonizing over the thought of a loss.

I went back to America before the final match but heard from friends that the Mattock Rangers clinched the championship the following month. I saw video and photos of the three-day celebration around Collon village, and it looked absolutely mad. The guys were jumping on tables, the team paraded through the streets on the back of a huge flat-bed truck and it seemed the entire village was out partying for those three days and nights – kids, moms, dads, grandparents, the whole lot. I didn’t quite understand the passion and, most importantly, the significance of the team and what they meant to the community until I saw that evidence. For the village of Collon, the Mattock Rangers represent its hopes and dreams; it’s not just a football team, it’s a way of life for many in the community.

(click to enlarge photos)

Now that I live here and have friends on the team, I’m getting a much better understanding of what the game and the lifestyle means to the players. I recently talked to a few friends on the Mattock Rangers to get a better understanding of the sport. What sets Gaelic football apart from other sports in Ireland is that none of the players get paid and your team/club is determined by where you live. If you live in Collon, you’ll be a Mattock Ranger and that’s that. As team member Niall Callan says, “You don’t pick your club, your club picks you.” This basically means that even if the team is doing poorly, you stick with it. In most other sports, it’d be easy enough to move to a better team but here, you’re in it for better or for worse. “I think it makes the game more honest and people play for pride rather than money,” adds Earnan Roche, who has been with the club for most of his life.

While I’ve never been a big sports buff I have to admit that the dedication and passion the community has for the team is infectious. The games, especially the championship ones, are packed with friends and family donning red and black jerseys. The mothers of the players are the most fanatical; I don’t shock easily but the vulgarities that come out of their mouths when a ref gives a bad call are down-right scandalous! Of course it’s all in good fun and I have to give props to those sassy moms for their absolute enthusiasm for the sport…but if I was a ref I wouldn’t want to meet those ladies in a dark alley. “Gaelic teams represent where people come from and brings pride…it boosts community spirit. People in the area feel the buzz and excitement of the finals and the heartbreak of losing,” explains Mattock Ranger Daniel Bannon.

Because there is no money in the sport, all the players have day jobs. Many have wives, girlfriends and children. They practice every week, rain or shine, they take part in fundraising efforts for the club and they consistently put themselves in harm’s way (in Gaelic there is no padding or protective gear) for the love of the sport. The Italians have a saying, la cosa nostra, which literally translated means “this thing of ours”- the silent but unbreakable loyalty among the men of the mafia. While the Mattock Rangers is no criminal element (at least that I know of, ha!) I liken their devotion, perseverance and commitment to the spirit of this old adage. While many outsiders question why anyone would want to endure all the hardships of being on a Gaelic team, the men of the Mattock Rangers get it. It’s just this thing of theirs and their community and it’s a bond that can never be broken.

*I decided to make some cookies with Mattock Rangers colors for the quarter-finals yesterday. I will admit that, 4 hours into the 6 hours it took to bake and decorate these, I was actually muttering, “They better win!” to myself. They did win (though it was a nail-biter!) and now it’s off to the semi-finals next weekend.

Mattock Rangers Cookies

For the cookies:
1 cup (227 grams) of unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup of granulated sugar
1 egg
½ vanilla bean
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon of salt

For the icing:
4 cups icing sugar
¼ cup milk (more or less as needed)
Red food coloring
Black food coloring

In a large bowl, beat the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add in the egg, the seeds from inside the vanilla pod and the vanilla extract and mix well. Set aside. In another bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. Then add the flour mixture, slowly to the butter/sugar/egg mixture – I usually do it in 3-4 parts. The dough will be a little crumbly in the bowl but will come together if you press it gently with your hands.

Roll the dough out on a floured surface to about ¼ inch thickness – it’s easier to roll out if you do it between two pieces of grease-proof/parchment paper. Then place the dough into the refrigerator for 30-40 minutes until chilled. Cut the dough with a round cookie cutter or whatever else shapes you want to use, then place the cookies on a greased baking sheet. Bake in a preheated 170 C (350 F) oven for 10-12 minutes or until the edges of the cookies are slightly golden. Carefully remove the cookies and place on a cooling rack and let cool completely.

For the icing: Mix together the icing sugar and milk. You want the consistency to be slightly runny but not too watery – it should be easy to spread on the cookies but not too thin. You can add more milk if it’s too thick and more icing sugar if too thin. Take half of the icing and put it into another bowl. Add the red food coloring to one, and black to the other. The amount of food coloring really depends on how deep you want the color to be, so test it out and see what happens. I prefer food coloring pastes, as they are much easier to work with and give off a much richer, deeper color. You can buy them in most baking shops.

Ice one half of the cookies with the black food coloring, and let them dry completely before icing the other side with the red icing. Store in an air-tight container and keep at room temperature. Keeps for about 3-4 days.

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!

I’m not going to lie: Sometimes Ireland gets to me, and not in a good way. Lately I’ve been feeling quite cranky, to be rather polite, and it seems every little thing gets on my nerves. Whether it’s a silly thing like the lack of “plain” clothing I can find (what is up with this country’s obsession with bows and floral patterns?) or something more serious like the blatant sexism I witness on a weekly basis, there are times when I feel like Drogheda itself is squeezing every last bit of sanity right out of my soul. The constant hay fever, the zillions of greenfly in the air and lackadaisical approach to customer service drives me nuts. The other day I had to go to three grocery shops just to find the ingredients for a pretty basic meal. As I searched yet another store for fresh basil, I found myself muttering under my breath like a crazy old bag lady, “What is wrong with this place?!”

The weather doesn’t help either. While we’ve had a relatively mild summer so far, the last week brought monsoon-type rain showers that made everything more difficult. The other day I was walking to the store when another downpour suddenly occurred and I had to struggle to get inside the shop because customers were all standing in the doorway, waiting for the rain to subside. I wanted to physically push them aside but I value my freedom so I refrained. We had 5 days in a row of lashing rain with no letup in sight and even though I was warned about the Irish summers before I came, it’s nearly pushed me over the edge.

I find myself nitpicking at everything and literally throwing childish tantrums…clearly not my proudest moments. My poor friend Niall recently had to listen to me go on and on about all the things that bug me about Ireland (thrilling for him, considering he’s a proud Irishman) and another friend Olga has endured a good few tirades on the sad state of dating in Drogheda. Sinead, who I have known forever and has been nothing but kind to me since I moved here, has been witness to a few stress-related outbursts – unfortunately for her. Last night she ended up on the receiving end of an ill-tempered rant where I raised my voice and cut her off at least a half-dozen times. If there was a show called “Expats Gone Mad” I’d certainly be a candidate.

As anyone who’s moved abroad will tell you, sometimes the cultural differences, major change in climate and numerous modifications to life as you once knew it can build up, but there are better ways of coping than taking it out on those closest to you (apologies to everyone above). As for the bows and floral patterns, maybe I can start shopping online where there are more choices – an easy solution to an insignificant problem. The sexism? Well, that’s a bit harder to get used to but perhaps my focus should be on the fact that there is progress being made in this regard. And the weather, while I can’t do much about it one thing that helps is cooking my favorite summer meals from back home. I recently made a lovely summer salad and fresh corn and tomato tart for a dinner gathering, both of which I used to make a lot back in Los Angeles. It was raining buckets outside but for that evening we had a little taste of LA sunshine in the middle of an Irish summer storm. And God knows I need a little ray of sunshine right about now.

Fresh Corn and Tomato Tart
(Serves 4-6)

1 tablespoon anchovy paste
3 tablespoons of olive oil
4 cups of cherry tomatoes
2 cups of freshly cut corn kernels
1/3 cup fresh basil, chopped
¼ cup fresh chives or spring onion, chopped
2 puff pastry sheets, thawed
2/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat the broiler. In a large bowl, combine the olive oil and anchovy paste then add the tomatoes, corn, basil and chives and toss to coat. Season with salt and pepper and put mixture on a baking sheet, and place sheet in broiler for 15 minutes, turning the mixture with a spatula halfway through. Remove from broiler and set aside.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Take the two puff pastry sheets and put them side by side, using your fingers to create a seam to connect the two. Fold down the sides to create a border along the edges and using a fork prick holes all over the base of the puff pastry. Move to a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or tinfoil then cover the top of the pasty with more parchment paper. Fill the center of the tart shell with dried beans and blind bake in the oven for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and throw away paper and beans.

Turn the oven up to 425 degrees. Sprinkle the Parmesan on the puff pastry and put back in the oven for an additional 15 minutes. Remove from the oven. Put the tomato/corn mixture in the tart shell and put back into the oven for another 20 minutes. Remove from oven and cool for 10 minutes before serving.

 Sunday mornings in Ireland

*In Ireland, you can buy a meat pie…in a can.

*That even though I’ve never been a nationalist, I can get defensive when the Irish slag off America/Americans. It’s the same thing with your bratty little brother; you’re allowed to say whatever you want about the little sh*tbird but when someone else does, it’s on.

*You know you’re turning Irish when you start dropping the “t” off words like what (“wha?”) and not (“noh!?”).

*Really depressing novels, especially ones that center on a former abuse victim who rises above adversity and creates a fulfilling life for him/herself, are very popular here. People go mad for titles like “Ma, He Sold Me for a Few Cigarettes” and “Don’t Tell Mummy.”

*Nudity on network television is no big deal in Ireland. That said, most of the naked people on TV are none you’d ever want to see sans clothing (see popular television show Embarrassing Bodies for many prime examples).

Heartbreak at the Leinster Final last Sunday.

*The Northern Irish accent is about as easy to understand as Swahili (assuming you do not speak Swahili).

*The GAA – the governing body of Gaelic football – really needs to embrace the technology of instant replay (see Leinster Final controversy here).

*That no matter how much I insist I will not end the night at a cheesy dance club, I will find myself dancing away with the rest of ‘em at 3 a.m. the odd Saturday at said cheesy dance club…and loving it.

*It takes four-and-a-half years of separation to be granted a divorce in Ireland. I now understand why so many couples I know prefer to stay “life partners” rather than officially tie the knot.

                                   Nancy and her fabulous pastry

*That on any given Sunday morning, I can drive over to my friend’s house and there will be a fry-up breakfast waiting for me and whoever else happens to show up. This brings me great comfort.

*The pronunciation of traditional Irish names is as comprehensible as a diagram of the space-time continuum. Examples: Niamh = neeve. Aoife = ee-fah. Ailbhe = al-vah. Wha???

*If I keep converting Euros into dollars in my head everytime I buy something, no good can come of it. I do not want to know that I just paid $12 for a tiny bottle of nail polish.

*The Irish are fantastic at pastry. Give any of my friends’ mothers some flour, margarine, water and a wine bottle (for rolling) and she’ll make the best damn pastry crust you’ve ever eaten. Guaranteed.

Friends, of the Irish variety

*At least twice a week, around four in the morning, I’ll hear the drunk parade (singing, crying, fighting, laughing or all of the above) coming out of the nearby bars. Cheers.

*Pouring, lashing rain is normal around here, even in June. And July. And August.

*No matter how hard you try, the mullet is not nor will ever be fashionable. That whole “business in the front, party in the back” look should have died along with leg warmers and the Cold War. Yes, teen Irish girls, I’m talking to you.

Funnycrazynuts: My Irish friends

*That my Irish friends are completely crazy, fully frustrating and entirely endearing at once. I  know I can count on them for anything, anytime.

*The clouds in Ireland are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen anywhere. There’s just something magical about the way they glide across the sky in fantastically fluffy formations.

*And finally: That Ireland is a pretty good place to hang my hat, at least for now.

My snaps of LA life: View of LA hillside; Paris Hilton waiting for her car; Surfers at the beach; Restaurant opening party in Santa Monica

It’s hard to believe that barely three months ago, I was packing up my life in Los Angeles and preparing for a whole new adventure in small-town Ireland. As I’ve hinted in several previous posts, I decided to move because I wanted to challenge myself and to force a change that felt necessary.

LA can be a strange place. It’s a city where residents get to observe celebrities in their natural habitat. It was perfectly common for me to see Drew Barrymore in the grocery check-out line or Orlando Bloom picking up coffee at Starbucks. Most people in my circle of friends have some connection to the entertainment industry whether it’s through work or social circles. My freelance work with a well-known celebrity magazine frequently placed me right in the center of Hollywood parties, red carpets and celeb-driven charity functions. One of my best friends works for Screen Actors Guild and my sister is a managing editor for a celebrity gossip television show. There are also actors, musicians, chefs, and filmmakers in my social group in Los Angeles.

Snaps from Drogheda, Co. Louth, Ireland.

While I enjoyed the numerous perks of my work and friends’ connections, the shiny distraction of the Hollywood scene is nothing more than a temporary diversion from reality. It’s easy to acquire a false sense of importance, as if being at a Hollywood premier party somehow makes you more exciting or appealing. It does not. Though most of the time I simply enjoyed it for what it was (free drinks, fun parties, celeb-watching), I’ll admit that sometimes even I believed that my close proximity to celebrities made me more successful or interesting. It did not.

In LA, it’s typical for people to converse about celebrities as if they were personal friends. “Oh yeah, I saw Jen yesterday at the Chateau Marmont, she looked really sad,” says one women, referring to Jennifer Aniston. “Oh, poor girl, she’s like 40 and still single! I hope she meets someone soon,” replies another. These delusions of grandeur are common in Hollywood. People discuss these types of matters with the same passion that one would discuss politics or war or something that’s actually important. While there’s nothing wrong with an occasional chat about celebrity gossip, the gravity with which people converse about this fluff is just flat-out ridiculous. The sad truth is that I was just as caught up in it as everyone else!

Saturday night dinner party at my place in Drogheda 

In small-town Ireland, this stuff just doesn’t matter. There are no glitzy parties to sneak into on a Saturday night. The farmers in the fields don’t care if you met George Clooney once or have a third-degree connection to Angelina Jolie. The talk around here usually involves the weather – ad nauseam at times – and any gossip discussed is about people who actually live here (just ask my friend Sinead’s mom if you want to know anything about anyone in town!). Yes, we have tabloid magazines and television shows. But people here are far enough removed from that world they’d never kid themselves into believing it actually had anything to do with their lives. It’s refreshing.

Sometimes I miss the fanatical, other-worldly fantasy that is Los Angeles. But most of the time I’m grateful to have a chance to breathe and reflect and live a life away from the constant distractions. It’s not necessarily easier, but it’s real.

There’s nothing like a dinner party to make a new apartment truly feel like home. And though it’s been two months since I up and left the bustling city of Los Angeles for the quiet adventure of Drogheda, Ireland, it was only last Saturday that I finally hosted friends for a home-cooked meal.

I will admit that I geeked out a bit on the preparations: out came the cloth napkins and napkin rings, matching dishware and candles. I cleaned the apartment top to bottom. I even created a playlist on my iPod specifically for the dinner (major nerd, I know!). But when it came to the meal, I made food that could be cooked in advanced so I could enjoy my friends’ company versus being stuck in the kitchen all night.

For starters, we had two different crostini: one with goat cheese with caramelized balsamic onions and the other with a garlic and roasted red pepper spread with fresh basil. Both were very easy to make ahead of time; I caramelized the onions  and whipped up the red pepper spread in a mini food processor with jarred roasted red peppers, garlic cloves, walnuts, smoked paprika, cayenne pepper and breadcrumbs a day ahead of the party. An hour before my friends arrived, I simply toasted the baguette slices in the oven and assembled the crostini (if you do the onions a day ahead just make sure to remove them from the refrigerator a few hours before assembly – they work better at room temperature). Considering there wasn’t a trace of the crostini (42 slices in all!) by the end of the evening, I’d say they were a hit.

For the main course, I made a big batch of chicken cacciatore, a classic Italian comfort dish of chicken, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers and herbs. I made this the morning of the party, and reheated right before dinner. With it I served toasted gnocchi, which was the only item I had to cook while my friends were here. Instead of boiling the fresh gnocchi (purchased at Tesco!), I put a bit of olive oil in a large sauté pan and seared them on each side to a golden brown. I prefer the crispy/chewy texture of sautéed gnocchi over the softer, dumpling-like feel that results from boiling them.

After a few drunken rounds of “guess the celebrity” (you stick a paper on your forehead with the name of a celebrity; everyone else has to give you clues until you guess which celeb is on your forehead, totally unfair for me since I am clueless about Irish rugby players and the like!), I served the dessert of salted butterscotch budino. This is an ultra-rich Italian pudding made with an obscene amount of cream, milk and butter but it’s worth every calorie. The combination of sea salt, butterscotch and cream is, in a word, heaven.

As I sat at the dining room table, laughing and gazing (drunkenly) at my friends, I could feel my new place becoming a real home. There will undoubtedly be more stumbling blocks and frustrations ahead in my time here in Ireland, but with this recent gathering of friends I feel the transition is complete. Now if I could only understand their accents and crazy lingo, I’ll be all right…

Chicken Cacciatore
(Serves 6-8)

4 tablespoons olive oil
1 cup plain white flour
2 teaspoons salt, and more to taste
2 teaspoons pepper, and more to taste
8 chicken breasts
2 small white onions, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1 yellow bell pepper, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup dry white wine
1 cup chicken stock
3, 15-ounce cans diced tomatoes (in their juice)
2 teaspoons dry oregano
2 teaspoons anchovy paste
1/3 cup creme fraiche
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil

Heat olive oil in a large pot. Using a paper towel, pat the chicken breasts until dry. Sprinkle salt and pepper on chicken breasts, then dredge in the flour. Working in batches, sear the chicken in the olive oil until browned on each side (about 3-4 minutes per side). Place on a plate and set aside. To the same pot, add the onions and peppers and cook for 5 minutes. Then add the garlic and cook for another 2-3 minutes or until onions are transcluscent. Add the wine, stock, tomatos, oregano, anchovy paste and chicken and bring to a boil over high heat. After it boils, reduce heat to medium and simmer for 30 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the creme fraiche and basil leaves. Serve with pasta, potatoes or whatever side dish you like!

When Mark Twain said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” he’d obviously never been to Ireland. From what my friends tell me, the last three summers here have been unbearably wet and cold, with weeks of downpours and cloudy skies keeping any semblance of sun from making an appearance.

That is the reason why they all predict we will have a fabulous summer this year (“Ah sure after dem last few summers, we’ll have a great one – we deserve it!”). Of course this makes no logical sense at all; good weather isn’t earned. This type of wishful thinking is just a way to cope with the weather in Ireland, which can be flat-out schizophrenic at times. In a 24-hour period, you can experience lashing rain, sun, gusting winds, hail and cloudless skies. The sheer volatility of the climate here makes it impossible to plan anything outdoors in advance, and often wrecks havoc on such important events as weddings and funerals.

But the Irish are a sturdy bunch. Instead of complaining, they simply accept that they live in a place with less weather stability than the inside of a hyper child’s snow globe. This does not mean, however, that the weather isn’t a constant topic of conversation. Nothing happens around here that isn’t somehow connected to the weather. If you tell someone you’re getting a sore throat, a typical response will be, “Ah, it’s been a bit breezy lately, that’s the reason.” When several shops were vandalized in town recently, I overheard someone say, “It’s the rain, it drives all the young ‘ns mad so it does!” Recent rash of random kind acts? “It’s grand, so it is! The warmth of the sun brings out the warmth in people’s hearts!”

The latter certainly seems to be true these last few days; the weather has been unusually warm and sunny and the effect on people here is palpable. The streets are bustling with activity and everyone seems happier and more alive. I’ve been taking long walks around town and along the Boyne River – I’m well aware that it can all change in an instant so I’m enjoying the sun while it lasts! The brighter weather conditions have positively affected my cooking as well, if that makes any sense at all. And if it doesn’t, that’s OK. I’ll take inspiration over logic any day!

Spuds, Cabbage & Rasher Stack
(Serves 2)

1 large baking potato
2 Tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 leek, washed and sliced into long, thin strips
½ yellow bell pepper, sliced into thin strips
1/3 of a head of cabbage, sliced into thin strips
4 lean rashers, cooked (Irish bacon)
2 eggs, poached or fried
Salt and pepper to taste

Take the potato and cut slits into the skin. Wrap in a paper towel and microwave until tender, about 6 minutes. While the potato is cooking, pour 1 tablespoon of olive oil into a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, leek, bell pepper and cabbage and cook until soft, about 10 minutes, seasoning with salt and pepper as you cook. Don’t stir it around too much; the vegetables may stick a bit to the pan but it’s great for caramelization, which adds flavor. After the potato is cooked, cut it into thick slices and sprinkle with salt and pepper. In another sauté pan (I recommend using the same pan you cooked your rashers in – adds great flavor!), add the other tablespoon of olive oil over medium-high heat. When the oil is hot, add the potato slices and cook for about 2 minutes on each side, or until a crust has formed.

To serve: Divide the potato slices between two plates. Top the potato slices with the rashers, then top with the cabbage/leeks/peppers mixture. Finish by topping with a poached egg. Perfect for breakfast, lunch or dinner!

Mr. Lepruchaun says: “Open yer ears!” 

I’m finding that it’s not always good practice to pretend I understand what someone is saying even when I do not. It’s just that I feel like an idiot when I have to ask someone to repeat themselves again and again because I can’t make sense of their Irish accent. Sometimes it’s just easier to nod my head and act like I know what the person is talking about.

Case in point: Recently I was at the pub with a group of friends. One guy at the table told a sexual joke (half of which I couldn’t even hear). A few minutes later, my friend turned to me and asked me a question. To me, it sounded like this:

 “[blah blah blah blah blah blah] hung?”

The only word I understood from his whole sentence was “hung,” which was clearly a reference to the other guy’s tasteless joke, so I just made a face at him and ignored his question. He pressed on.

“[blah blah blah blah blah blah] hung?”

Now he was just being cheeky, I thought. “F*ck off!” I said, laughing. He looked at me, confused. This time he leaned over and spoke louder.

“DID YOU GET YOUR TOWEL RACKS HUNG?”

I realized then he was referring to some bathroom towel racks I had purchased the previous week. He’d driven me to the hardware store in search of them, hence his interest.

“Oh, uh…no,” I responded, red-faced.

Lesson learned: It’s better to ask than to assume, and it’s not always easy being an American in Ireland!

Dislike: Lack of variety on television…

It’s been a little over one month since my arrival to Drogheda and I’m starting to settle and adjust to my new environment. Things that I thought I’d never get used to, like driving on the left side of the road from the right side of the car, is now second nature. I use my laser card for nearly all my purchases, drink tea about 3-5 times a day and have become quite adept at hanging an entire load of laundry on one clothes horse.

…sigh.

There are some things, however, that I still have a hard time with. And while I realize the following may make me sound a bit like an entitled, spoiled American, I’m just being honest. So, without any further ado, here are some things that drive me pretty nuts:

*Lack of cable channels: I have about 30 channels through the only cable company that services my building, and that is the largest package you can get. About half of these channels are not even on the air 24 hours a day, so often I’ll get an “Off Air” message when tuning in. The other issue is that many of the channels play the same show, over and over, all day long. While I’m no TV-junkie, it would be nice to have a bit more selection for those evenings when I just want to veg in front of the tube.

*Lack of customer service: The manager of my apartment building, which currently has no mailboxes for its tenants, told me a month ago that mailboxes would be installed “in a few days.” As of today our mail gets dumped into a shoe box in the front lobby area. After a long day at work, I’m sure my fellow tenants love sorting through 80 envelopes just to find the one bill or letter addressed to them…I know I do! And remember how I was waiting for my landline to be installed? I’m still waiting…today is day 24. And to add insult to injury, I received my Eircom contract the other day which, according to a bolded statement at the bottom, had to be signed and returned “within 5 business days” else risk my order being cancelled. So I have five days but they can take a month to turn on a damn switch? Grrrrr.

Like: That this is as bad as traffic gets in town. Nothing compared to LA traffic!

*General stuff: I’ve been looking at gyms, and the other day I toured a very posh one. I noticed that on the weight machines, the weight blocks were numbered consecutively: 1, 2, 3…so I asked the trainer what each block weighed. “Oh there is a system,” he said, and brought me over a small sheet of paper. “1 = 20 lbs, 2 = 40lbs, and so on.” But what if I want to lift 25 lbs, or 30 lbs? “Oh…you just can’t.” Bizarre. Another thing I find strange is that there are no electrical outlets in bathrooms here. Nowhere to plug in a hairdryer, electric shaver, etc. No light switches either; they are outside of the bathroom. My friend says it’s to keep people from electrocuting themselves. Call me crazy but I think the practice of keeping your hairdryers and other electric appliances out of a bathtub or sink filled with water isn’t that hard a concept to grasp.

Of course with the bad there is plenty of good, and I can’t write a post like this without mentioning the things I love about my new home. I love hearing the church bells ring every hour in town. I appreciate how easy going people are around here; they may be late all the time but at least they’ll never get mad at me if I’m late. I adore how friendly people are, especially when they find out I’m American. From the checkout lady at Dunnes to the bartender at McPhail’s, they are warm and welcoming. I love driving around the country and seeing little lambs grazing in the pasture and hearing the cows moo in the distance. I get a kick out of how everyone here says “bye” a half-dozen times in quick succession when they’re getting off the telephone (“bye, bu-bye, bye, bye, byeee!”). I think it’s charming how people in Collon pronounce Mathews, a local pub, as “Matt-i-tis” and Watters, another pub, as “Waters-is.”

Like: That everyone here knows how to make good scrambled eggs!

I appreciate how important recycling is here, and that everyone is responsible for taking any glass to the numerous  bottle banks around town (paper, plastic and tin goes into the regular recycle bin at your home, glass does not), and how people here bring their own bags to the grocery store AND bag their own groceries. In that respect, Ireland is way ahead of the U.S. I like that tax is already included in the list price of any item at any store – it costs what it says on the tag. I’m also very impressed by the national health care here, and as a resident I enjoy its privileges. I recently made an appointment with a doctor, was seen promptly by a very good physician and paid 50 Euro for the exam. My prescription was 19 Euro. No insurance, no hassles, no referrals/HMO/PPO red tape.

Like: Weekday entertainment in town like these kids doing a samba performance.

I think that eventually, I will learn to appreciate even the things that drive me a little crazy around here. There are just too many good things and lessons to be learned and life to live to focus on the little annoying stuff, even if they make me want to pull my face off at times. How does that song go? “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life…”