Here I go writing about food again, but how can I resist when Thanksgiving is right around the corner? I have always had an affinity for Thanksgiving.  It may just possibly be my most favorite American holiday. We had the same lovely tradition for so many years of traveling to my grandmother’s house where all of my wonderful extended family would come together on a (usually) pretty snowy day and celebrate with loads of turkey and all the trimmings. The best bit of it all? The PUMPKIN PIE of course!

Now, as far as I can tell, pumpkin pie would not be something that the Irish necessarily love…even though the famed Jack-O-Lantern has it’s roots in Irish lore, the pumpkin does not get the same celebrity status as in the USA.  I’ll never forget the time when Richard and I were still dating and I was visiting Ireland during Thanksgiving. I decided on a whim that I would make Thanksgiving dinner for his whole family. I mean you can’t NOT celebrate Thanksgiving, right? I brought over pumpkin and cranberry and other pantry items to be on the safe side..along with my trusty Martha Stewart recipes that I had chosen for that year. We used a turkey from the farm (don’t ask the details about that) which was lovely and I began making this extravagant meal that I thought everyone would surely love and appreciate. Well okay, maybe I just wanted them to love and appreciate ME.

So. The first thing that went wrong was that I was oblivious to the fact that there would be differences in oven temperatures. Here, we use celsius, not fahrenheit so I had to do some major conversions which drove me a bit mad. Then, the same with the measurements! Everything is in metric so instead of cups I had to work in mls and grams. The last time I used grams for anything I cannot discuss here, but let’s just say it was a long time ago so as you can imagine converting ounces to grams to mls to cups and back again completely did my head in.  Still, somehow I sorted it out and made a gorgeous meal for everyone.

We sat down in the formal dining room and started to eat. I was happily taking in all the compliments and actually feeling a little chuffed when I was posed with the question of “So, Imen, is Thanksgiving a Jewish holiday?”.  Huh?  I told myself not to giggle. I answered eloquently, explaining the history of Thanksgiving (Charlie Brown style, of course) that no,  it was not Jewish, but that Jewish people do, in actual fact, observe the holiday with all the other Americans. They were fascinated and nearly ate every last morsel that I had prepared. Success!

But then came dessert. The famous pumpkin pie. I wish I had videotaped the faces on everyone as they took their first bite of this yummy sweet/savory delicacy that we love so dearly in the USA.  Surprise. Delight. Terror. No expression just fast gobbling. Sheer happiness (me).  And then, out of the blue, a quote uttered by Grandma McDonnell, “Tis Different”.  A phrase which I learned much later had meant “It’s Rotten”.  I find this quite humorous and touching. She actually thought it tasted rotten, but ate it all and never said a bad word to me.

Oh well, it’s still my favorite. And Richard and Geoffrey love it too. (Really!)

Mind Yourself,

Imen

Photo courtesy of Food Network

Tags: family, farm, holiday, ireland, Martha Stewart, Pie, Pumpkin, snow, Thanksgiving, turkey

Whether tis nobler to dredge or to shovel, that is the question… I am so fascinated by the fact they we, as Americans, use our eating utensils differently than almost everyone else in the world. As it was once very eloquently and matter-of-factly described to me by Riccardo, our very stylish Italian foodie friend, “You see, Americans shovel with their forks and Europeans use the dredging technique”.

Gasp. Even though the word dredge isn’t very pretty, it still sounded so much more attractive than SHOVELING. I couldn’t help but think about the hyperbole here…that Americans literally SHOVEL food into their mouths. It actually made me laugh out loud hysterically because I assumed he was making a joke when in actual fact, this is true-to-life lingo in the food/restaurant industry.  I was mortified.

Ok, so we shovel. So what. It’s taken me a lot of time to get my head around this dredging business. I remember the first time I really noticed that Richard used his utensils differently than me. And it genuinely bothered me. For some reason, in all of my previous travels abroad I hadn’t noticed how everyone was eating, but with Richard I took note and it irked me. One of those irky irks that you can’t let go. It was ridiculous of me, but I couldn’t even hold back from mentioning it one night when we were eating at Ristorante Max in Positano, one of the most charming and romantic places in the world. At the time, eating with your fork and knife, i.e. pushing food onto the back of your fork just seemed despicable to me. If you did that at our house growing up, you’d have been dismissed from the table. Alright, we weren’t worldy. If we were we’d probably be eating “Continental Style”, but we weren’t and we ate mainly with our fork only and with one hand in our lap, “American Style”. I was convinced that it must be the way everyone eats on Irish farms. Talk about ignorant. One day, after our romantic trip to Italy, I was back in the States having lunch with my gorgeous Aussie friend Vanessa, when I realized she was “dredging” as well. I asked her about it and she said everyone in Australia eats that way. Whew, it wasn’t just Irish farmers after all!  It was just me being……persnickety! (you can insert any number of expletives there, I’ve chosen to be kind to myself about it).

Now, I’d love to say that I gave it a rest after that, but it still bothered me to see Richard eating this way and for a couple of years I earnestly tried to train him off it because I really wanted Geoffrey to eat “American Style”. We’ve now struck a balance: He dredges, but onto the front of the fork. And I have begun to push food onto my fork with my knife. So now we SHREDGE and we’re even.

Do you shovel or do you dredge? I’d love to know, leave a comment below!

Mind Yourself,

Imen

P.S. As you can see, I’ve made some changes to the blog and made it into a full fledged .com site. I would like to start sharing some more of my favorite Irish tidbits with you which you will begin to find on the new pages listed on the right side. I hope you like the new look!

Tags: American, Australia, Continental, dredge, eat, farmer, foodie, fork, Irish, Italy, Positano, shovel

I was reminded of a funny story when we were out with D & R for dinner here on Saturday night. We started chatting about our beloved dogs–for which there are many round here (We have 2 Great Pyrenees and 1 Airedale; D & R have 2 Harlequin Great Danes; and the farm has 2 Norwegian Elkhounds, 1 Samoyed and 1 lovely old Bernese Mountain Dog) perhaps too many, but the McDonnell’s are huge dog lovers and we have plenty of space so they are very happy pups. Our conversation immediately began to focus on the weekly antics of Ted, our quirky Airedale. There just always seems to be a Ted story. He’s such a comical creature with remarkably strong scavenging instincts and a heart of gold.

You see, Ted is “my dog”. When I first moved over I was completely overwhelmed by loneliness and boredom…having previously been so busy and social virtually every moment of every day, my life suddenly felt like it was at a standstill. I needed some company because Richard left before I woke up in the morning and didn’t arrive home until nearly 8pm each evening. I had always longed for an Airedale Terrier (to name Teddy) and on one teary-eyed Saturday, Richard said he’d found a breeder in Cork and that we would arrange to go pick out a puppy. I was delighted beyond belief.

When we were introduced to the busy litter of pups, Ted stood out to us—sure, he was smaller than the rest, his tail was nearly nonexistent and demeanor a bit timid, but he had the sweetest twinkle in his eye and he just seemed so special. We worried that he wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice and decided immediately that he would be ours. Over the next few months, I played with him, housetrained him, groomed him, cuddled with him, napped with him, danced with him, cried with him (ok, so only I was crying but still). We became the very best of friends. At one point during my pregnancy he became obsessed with resting his scruffy chin on my belly all the time. It was part of his nature, he knew something special was inside. He was completely adorable.

When it came time for me to go the the maternity hospital to have our real baby, I was simply not prepared to leave Ted. I was positively gutted over having to leave him behind while I went to the hospital. He was my buddy, confident and protector. I needed him! I felt so strongly about this that I insisted on having Richard bring Teddy to the hospital every day. Since I was pre-term they basically had me in the hospital (a place out of the 50’s..whole other story..but the staff were lovely) on pseudo bedrest for 6 days before I was induced. Richard would bring Ted and I would sneak out to the jeep (our Freelander. All SUV’s or pick-up trucks are called “jeeps” here) and I would cuddle with him for 10 minutes each day. The nurses/doctor hadn’t a clue. They would have not allowed it whatsoever!

I had totally forgotten that experience until Saturday night and I was so happy when Richard began talking about it. I love it when you are reminded of things that you forgot to remember. ..especially when they are wonderful loving moments frozen in time.

Slainte,

Imen

Tags: airedale, baby, bernese mountain dog, great dane, great pyrenees, ireland, maternity, memories, Mustard Seed, norwegian elkhound, samoyed, teddy

1. See #9.

2. Yes, it gets smelly! How could it not? From the air outside to the scent of our mud room (cleverly designed to be out of sight/smell). Farm animals create odors and that’s just a fact. Some days are better than others depending on what season it is. Somehow I’ve acclimated to this and that “fresh country air” does not affect me at all anymore. The upside? I suppose it is an improvement on polluted city air.

3. Farmers can be stylish. Richard looks just as handsome in a pair of wellies and a fleece as he does in his beautiful Burberry suit.  It’s nice to have variety in a relationship (smile).

4. Indeed, male farmers tend to be “mommas boys”. Is that so bad? I rather like it especially now that I am a mother myself.  In my experience here, all the men I’ve met who grew up on a farm consistently put their mothers/sisters/wives on a pedestal to be respected and admired through thick and thin (literally and metaphorically)

5. Of course, seclusion plays a role in living on a farm. We are miles away from the city and neighbors are a drive so things can get lonely if you’re not staying busy. On the other hand, being alone can boil you down to your very essence and drive your consciousness to another level.  It also forces us to be more creative in the parenting department which can’t be all bad.

6. Daddy farmers are the best. Despite the long hours, if you live on a farm then dad is always right there even when he’s at work. Geoffrey frequently gets to go with daddy on the tractors and to feed the animals which, in his world, is absolutely the cat’s pajamas.

7. Today, most farmers are college educated. Richard has a B.A. in philosophy and is planning to go back for an MBA. Education is absolutely necessary to be successful in farming these days. No longer are the profitable days of dairy, cattle and poultry alone; farming is a business and diversification is key.

8. Farming is extremely dangerous. This is something I hadn’t thought about before marrying a farmer. I just waxed poetically, “oh farming… how lovely….a beautiful, slow-paced, organic life…with horses to ride and a  beautiful garden” Things can get really hectic on the farm and farming accidents occur no matter how cautious a family may be. Much to my surprise, injuries and even death are a part of the work considerations for all farmers.

9. You only marry an Irish farmer for the sake of true love.

Slainte,

Imen

Tags: Burberry, daddy, farmer, horses, Irish