For years gardening simply eluded me. Try as I might, I just could not get my head around the so-called greatness of gardening. I really thought it was a bunch of hooey…much ado about nothing…something to brag about when you’d nothing more exciting in your life. I certainly didn’t see the benefits of having something that tied you to home and made you get down and work on your hands and knees during those vital weekends off after a horrendous week at work.  Sure, those days were for lounging at the pool, going to the cinema, shopping with your besties; not digging in the dirt all afternoon. Now, don’t get me wrong, I did have potted herbs scattered about the terrace of my high-rise apartment that were tended to when needed. Still, while my basil, thyme and catnip could have quite possibly earned me the grand title of “urban gardener” one would have never put me in with the green-thumb group, that’s for sure.

Five years on, gardening has underhandedly penetrated the passion lobe in my brain with such gusto that I just can’t get enough of it. It is truly astonishing. Ever since we planted our first vegetable garden this Spring {an organic cornucopia of the tried and true: potatoes, cabbage, onions, leeks, and the more colourful: pumpkins, sweet little Paris Market carrots, red and white radishes, lambs lettuce, mache, yellow squash, radicchio and loads of gorgeous fragrant herbs} I have fallen in love and to put it bluntly, I have become a total HOE.

Hoeing has done something for me that I never dreamed possible. You see, working in our garden has replaced something that was nearest and dearest to my heart: my beloved Sunday morning routine. When I first moved here one of the most unsettling bits was that my Sunday ritual became basically unattainable. My previous Sunday’s in the city = getting up around 10AM then meeting a friend for brunch at my favorite bustling café, chatting and pouring over the New York Times Style & Arts sections whilst nibbling on an egg white omelette with warm sourdough bread and sipping the best hand roasted coffee in town. For me, it was a feast for the senses and utterly satisfying on every level of my consciousness. It grounded me. Each Sunday I did this without fail…if I was out of town, I’d improvise, but I would always have the basics: a fabulous café, The NY Times and good coffee.  I lived for it, longed for it and looked forward to it week after week.

Needless to say, I was absolutely crushed to find out that I couldn’t get the New York Times newspaper here in print much less conjure up a fab new friend or a nearby cafe in which to have breakfast. I simply could not get over the fact that I would never be able to obtain a copy of my favorite Sunday paper while living in Ireland! Eventually had to take the plunge and do the inevitable: switch to NYTimes.com, have breakfast at home by myself (hubs in the farmyard + pre-baby) and start drinking instant coffee.  Devastating.

Then, as serendipity would lend itself, it just so happened that the very same feeling of fulfillment drifted back to me as I began hoeing our new garden one fine Sunday morning. That absolute Zen feeling of contentment, joy and security all in one…a feeling that you just want to nurture and hold onto for dear life came flooding back. I fully took stock of this sensation and paused for a moment to take it in. And with that, on a gorgeous day in the Irish countryside, I found my new beloved Sunday routine.

And I am not letting it go.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Much to the delight of my husband, I have chosen potted crab for this week’s post. Inspired by adventures in Dublin last week with my new L.A. comrade Clare K. {of the fabulous and thought-provoking “An American In Ireland” blog} we excitedly found ourselves in Stoneybatter at the newly opened and much anticipated gastropub/craft brewpub: L. Mulligan Grocer along with various other Irish foodies and creative types.

We shared the most divine pot of crab to start, which led to an incredibly tender and succulent rib-eye naughtily smothered with creamy and sweet Kilbeggan Whiskey butter.  A single perfect crunchy latke-like potato cake was nestled right in there as well.  But the crab…oh, the crab–I was enamored.

For days I kept thinking about potted crab and how on earth I’d never experienced it before moving to Ireland. I remember having it in Kenmare at an amazing little place called the Lime Tree however, on a recent visit, potted crab was off the menu and the food simply didn’t translate the same…the cook? the kitchen? don’t know. Avoca’s potted crab is fresh and lovely..but they take the delicate meat out of the sealed container before serving so that it’s all light and fluffy which isn’t really the proper way of serving…at L. Mulligan it was served up properly in the sweet little vintage jar in which it was tenderly preserved. And it was heavenly.

Potted crab calls for clarified butter, which is butter that has been cleansed of the residual milk proteins and liquid. It can be heated to high temps without burning and is magnificent to use for pan-frying fish if you are so inclined. Pouring this layer of clarified butter over potted crab, fish or shrimp is a time-honoured Irish method of short-term preservation from the days before refrigeration.

For me, this is a perfect summer dinner…made with West Cork crab and served with toasted thick sourdough bread or Irish soda loaf. Remove the solid butter seal and it is absolutely light and fulfilling when accompanied by a mixed salad of flavourful greens such as watercress, rocket or mache and a glass of crisp, cold Sauvignon Blanc, Unoaked Chardonnay or Pinot Gris.

Enjoy.

Irish Potted Crab (serves 6)

400 g very fresh crabmeat (West Cork crab is wonderful)

150 unsalted butter

1/2 teaspoon mace

1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

pinch of salt

about 100 g clarified butter

6 small bay leaves

Pick over the crabmeat to make sure there are no shell fragments.

Warm the butter just enough to melt and stir in crabmeat, fennel seeds, mace, cayenne and a little salt. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Pack the mixture into a single dish or divide equally into six small pots or ramekins. Cover and chill until firm-about an hour.

Heat clarified butter just enough to melt it and pour over the surface of the potted crab to seal it. The amount of butter needed will depend on the size and number of pots. Top with a bay leaf, cover and chill.

Give crab at least 24 hours in the refrigerator to allow flavours to mingle and develop. Serve with toasted, buttered thick bread.

Clarified Butter:

500 g unsalted butter

Melt butter in a heavy pan on low heat. Bring it to the gentlest of simmers and hold at this temperature, without stirring (yes, it will kill you), until all the sediment has fallen to the bottom of the pan and the liquid butter is clear. This will take 30 minutes or more.

Use a fine sieve with a layer of cheesecloth and strain the liquid butter into a bowl or jar, leaving sediment in the pan. Allow butter to cool completely before covering and storing in a cool place.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photo by Imen McDonnell. With assistance by Master Geoffrey McDonnell.

The first time someone saluted me on the road it actually startled me. You see, it was one of those pointy, fingertip salutes whereby the person wags their finger a wee bit as if, in my mind, to say, “hey, you shouldn’t do that”.  I immediately checked to make sure I was driving on the right side of the road, which I was (for a change) and then I tried to mentally devise what I could have possibly been doing wrong. Soon another car came racing by and did the same action, which further boosted my anxiety. After 5 more cars and 4 pointy salutes (btw, I was in Tipperary and I rarely see this type of salute in our neck of the woods…we seem to have a lot of hand waves and head nods) I finally arrived at my destination. I immediately described this strange behaviour to my friends and, after a laugh at my expense, they explained that sure, it was merely a polite way to acknowledge you and say hello.

This is rural hospitality. And I am struck by it. Now, it is not to be mixed up with urban hospitality, i.e. scribbling “wash me please” on a dirty car or graciously keeping your head down on the subway. No, saluting and a few other lovely gestures are a true callback to times past…where being a decent and helpful person was simply a selfless act of kindness. Not saying that city dwellers are inhospitable, I won’t generalize-but I can’t claim to have ever been saluted in this way by a driver in L.A., NYC or MPLS. Unless, of course, you consider flipping a certain centrally located finger or sounding a wailing horn the same thing.

Calling in for a cup of tea unannounced is another one of those courteous gestures. Where we live you will always hear of “so and so” calling over to “so and so’s” for a warm cuppa and a chat to catch up on all the latest gossip (funerals, pregnancies, the priest and the weather, for example). Around here it still is nearly as much a ritual as going to church every Sunday. On the other hand, where I come from in the USA, the door doesn’t get answered unless it is known in advance whom the caller may be and what exactly they want with you. It is practically considered to be rude or perhaps even sneaky to pop by unannounced. You’d have to nearly “book in” at least a day in advance and declare your intentions for the visit with someone even as close as your best girlfriend. These are two extremes and at this stage I fall nicely into the middle.

Give me a ring to make sure I am home, and I will be happy to see you.

And if I drive past you on the road, I will salute.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: country, cuppa, farm, hospitality, ireland, irish farmer, LA, marriage, NYC, tea

Photo by Imen McDonnell

The first time I spooned a morsel of this delicious cheesecake into my mouth it was one of those idyllic afternoons in the Irish countryside where the sun was shining and you could see hilly green meadows and trees for what seemed like miles. I like to call these my Merchant & Ivory Irish days.  Those are the ones that make all the other dreadfully gray, rainy days disappear as if they never existed in the first place. A pair of wonderful new aquaintances had invited us to their home for an afternoon of tennis and tea. Something that would not ordinarily be on our agenda, but nonetheless, a lovely invitation which couldn’t have been more perfect given the day before us.

When we arrived we passed through an old gate and drove up a winding lane passing by a coach house filled with beautiful horses and then a small shed with lambs before arriving at the main house where we were greeted by various breeds of roaming chickens and geese, a couple of small black dogs and a tabby cat who looked like he had a permanent smile. We walked into the garden to find several guests all sitting about blankets on the grass sipping cordials out of fine little glasses and nibbling of various sweet things that were setting on a table that was covered with a beautiful multicolored cloth that was blowing in the breeze.

After saying hello and meeting a handful of lovely new people, I made my way to the table and took a slice of what seemed to be a very plain and un-sinister looking tart.  It just happened to be Irish Curd Cheesecake and I just happened to fall in love with it.  Creamy yet textured, a baked lemon-y cheesecake that was absolutely unforgettable.

Fast forward 5 years. While doing my research on traditional Irish cooking and baking, I came across this recipe in a fabulous and indiscreet book called Irish Food and Folklore by Clare Connery. The delicious memories immediately came flooding back. Irish Curd Cheesecake is said to go back to the 18^th century and would often be served with a small glass of sherry or a cup of afternoon tea by the ladies of County Cavan amongst other counties throughout Ireland.

There is an option to add a dash of rosewater to the filling, which I obliged and, while it is very subtle, it adds a nice twist to the lemony flavour. I also used as many local ingredients as possible.

Hope this recipe brightens your day as much as it did ours.

Enjoy.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Irish Curd Cheesecake

Preheat oven to 160 C (325 F)

125 g/4 oz Shortcrust Pastry (your favorite)

Icing Sugar, for dusting

For the Filling:

50 g/ 2 oz softened butter

50 g/ 2 oz caster sugar

rind of 1 large lemon

juice of 1/2 lemon

pinch ground cinnamon

3 eggs, size 2 (large Ireland medium USA), separated

3 tablespoons plain flour

375 g/12 oz cottage cheese-sieved

For the Topping

1 egg, size 2

1 tablespoon caster sugar

25 g/ 1 oz butter, melted

1 tablespoon plain flour

Roll out pastry to 3-4 mm/1/8 inch thick and use to line a 20 cm/8 inch loose-bottomed metal flan tin. Set the tin on a baking sheet.

Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy, then beat in the lemon rind and juice, cinnamon, egg yolks, flour and cottage cheese. Beat the egg whites untl stiff and fold into mixture. Pour into the pastry case.

Combine all the ingredients for the topping and pour on top of filling. Bake in preheated oven for 1 to 1 1/4 hours until cake is golden in colour, risen and firm to the touch. Leave to cool in the tin before removing. Sprinkle with icing sugar and serve with cream or natural yogurt.

Holidays can be transformative. It dawned on me one morning as I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: I look different here. Maybe it’s because I suddenly had a tan or maybe it was just one of those “pretty bathrooms” that you find only on holidays that are so awash in golden light that your skin glows and your eyes sparkle like a fairy princess. Still, I have to admit it was slightly disconcerting. I mean I rarely even look at myself in the mirror anymore, there just seems to be far more important matters at stake here between our family and the farm. I began to ponder, have I actually stopped noticing myself?

After living in the Irish countryside for the last five years, basically having only my immediate family and the animals to socialize with, I am beginning to have mixed emotions about all that us girls feel need to do to keep up appearances in this world. For instance, I had been anxiously waiting and waiting to arrive on our holiday in the USA so that I could immediately dart out to the nearest Sephora, Bliss, Nordstrom, Neimans and whatever other bloody store I can nip into in order to stock up on all of my perceived necessary and long overdue beauty supplies.

As it happened, once I had acquired everything, I felt ridiculous.  While I love all of my: potions, creams, infusions, tonics, conditioners treatments, moisturisers, serums, soufflés, glosses, shines, gels, scrubs, spritzers, peels, masques, oils…and the list goes on, the truth is, I simply don’t know what to do with all of this stuff anymore. I’ve never been much of a makeup person, but I’ve always prided myself on slathering and sweeping copious amounts of sweet smelling concoctions on my face and body each morning in addition to indulging in evening home facials and hair treatments. When I lived in America, I had a standing pedicure/manicure appt every week along with frequent trips to my hairdresser and aesthetician each month.  I worked in an image-conscious field so those things seemed absolutely essential.

But, is it all really necessary now? Must I reinstate my previously painstaking routine de beaute’? Suddenly it seems so banal and exhausting. I wonder how I ever managed to get up each day, work out and get ready each morning applying twenty different items and still get to my office on time for work. {alright, so maybe I didn’t always make it “on time”}

Nowadays, being a mummy and living on the farm, I find myself hastily slapping on moisturizer and lipgloss then just braiding my hair to one side or putting in cute pigtails after a quick morning shower. When we have a dinner party or fancy event such as the Annual Milk Producer’s Dance, I go into the city to have my hair/nails/makeup done for the occasion. It makes me feel pretty all over again and is so much more fulfilling than it ever used to be.  I wonder, do I need to do more?  When you live on a farm in the Irish countryside is it okay to cut back just a wee bit?

While on this American holiday, I saw a sappy commercial on the television…the jingle went like this  {orchestral music under} “sometimes when we go to a place where no one knows us, we become who we really are”

Minus all the extras?

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Next week I will featuring my first “Farm Fresh Food” post with a traditional Irish dish and recipe. I hope you will pop by and take a peek!

Having married an Irish farmer means I will forever be a world-class traveller. Of course, this doesn’t mean that if your husband is an Irish farmer he will forever be whisking you all over the world on luxurious romantic holidays. No, I am afraid not. It means that until I can no longer walk on my own two feet, I will be constantly travelling between Ireland and the USA for the next 50+ years to come.

I am not complaining, (repeat, not complaining), but while it can positively be best of both worlds, it is also risky, time-consuming, exhausting and expensive. Don’t get me wrong…once we’ve landed in the glorious and gooey sweet lands of my “home sweet home” things are absolutely fabulous. A joy comes over me that is thoroughly cathartic. If we luck out and get an upgrade on the plane or have a layover at a child-friendly airport filled with children’s activities and healthy food options {think Schipol, O’Hare, Heathrow} we are good as gold. However, as we know, this is not usually the case.

Packing for the transition from farm to city life has its challenges too. The concept of packing everything and nothing and have it all be organized ahead of time kills me. I am forever trying to establish a tried and true packing/ organizational plan, but in the end we are so busy here that everything waits until last minute and it always, always, becomes a frenzied state of panic on the eve of our departure. To add to the complexity, attire is poles apart when it comes to what to wear each day. Where I come from in the USA, daily temperatures average 30+ degrees Celsius in the summer so we must dress far lighter than we do in Ireland on even the warmest days here. Our daily look changes from jumpers, jeans and wellies to sleeveless tops, shorts and flip-flops. Our “farmer’s tans” are very obvious so this clearly needs to be evened immediately upon getting settled in. Basically speaking, the first few days leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable in a peculiar kind of way. This annual experience could practically be compared to newborn animals nervously feeling their way around their new habitat,

I had an epiphany when I traveled to NYC in March for a business meeting. Our plane couldn’t land at JFK due to extreme weather and was diverted to Washington DC. I was on my own and it was a terrifying experience. When we landed in DC we stayed on the tarmac for an hour waiting to see if the weather would subside. There were jets patiently parked everywhere around us, and it sort of began to remind me of our cows anxiously waiting to get into the milking parlour for little relief. All I could think about was that I just wanted to be back at the farm with my boys. Then the pilot announced that we weren’t going anywhere. The plane was damaged and weather further deteriorating. As fate would have it, I bumped into a 91 year-old Irishman who was also on our diverted flight and was as cool as a cucumber. He told me his name was Danny and that he’d been living in the USA since 1940. Danny could barely see or walk, but still came back home to Ireland year after year despite the fact that his wife now has Alzheimer’s and cannot accompany him. He wore a pair of remarkable large black horn-rimmed glasses, a tweed jacket and still spoke with the sweetest strong Kerry accent. I chaperoned him to the hotel that the airline had booked us into and then instead of having to spend an entire second day in DC, I booked us both onto the express train to NYC in the morning. We shared a taxi to the train station and sat next to each other on the train. When I offered to get him something from the dining carriage, he asked for a cream roll and tea with milk. Since we were in the “silent” car we sat in silence for the 2.5 hours through several major cities along the Eastern seaboard until we arrived at Penn Station in Manhattan. He used my mobile to ring his brother to let him know that he was back in town. We gave each other a big hug and he got into a taxi and drove away.

If he can do it, I can.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photo courtesy of DailyCandy.com