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.

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

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

Banana Pudding

Ever since I tried the eponymous banana pudding at Magnolia Bakery in NYC earlier this year, I am absolutely obsessed with pudding.  American style pudding, that is.  You see, in the USA we have a pudding that is like no other pudding in the world. Similar to a pastry cream and originally prepared by heating milk, sugar, vanilla, cornstarch and butter followed by painstakingly stirring for a nearly an hour, it very quickly evolved into a variety of creamy goodness that could be whipped up in 2 minutes. This “instant pudding” was created by the hugely popular brand JELL-O and shlepped for eons by no other than the charming Bill Cosby with his entourage of adorable children. JELL-O brand pudding is absolutely-unequivocally-embarrassingly  ”All-American”. And by “All-American”, of course I mean that it comes in a box and is made by whipping up packet of powder together with cold milk on high speed with an electric hand mixer.  Boasting an array of flavours, the classics:  french vanilla, chocolate, butterscotch, pistachio (neon green in colour), lemon along with some clever new ones: oreo cookie, flan, pumpkin spice, cheesecake and more. It will last for 6 months in the fridge and could have quite possibly been initially created for astronauts (or was that Tang?). Of course, Magnolia doesn’t use instant pudding for their banana puds, but I have to admit that I don’t mind a cup of neon pistachio from time to time.

Not surprisingly, this form of pudding does not exist anywhere else in the world. In fact, in Ireland and the UK there are at least 4 types of puddings (including our little boy whom we’ve lovingly deemed “puddin”) and none of them are quite like the good ole American standby (again-except,of course, our “lil puddin”) It dawned on me while we were enjoying a beautiful Mother’s Day with a traditional Sunday roast lunch at O’Brien Chop House in Lismore, Co Waterford. I had ordered the gorgeous roast rib of beef with Yorkshire pudding and all the accoutrements. Whilst perusing the menu I just happened to notice that there were 3 distinct puddings on offer.  Now, this isn’t the first I’ve heard of these said puddings. If you recall, in a previous post I blogged about the Full Irish and made a distinct comment regarding breakfast puddings as well .

So without further adieu, allow me to fully describe each of the aforementioned puddings: The first pudding on the menu was listed as part of a starter: Black pudding served on a bed of rocket and beet salad. These pudding starters seem to be a trend in nouveau Irish cuisine. Formerly only served up as a breakfast item they are now turning up in many a Michelin starred resto as an appetizer or possibly even in a starring role as a main course. Black (or white) pudding is a blood pudding that resembles a hockey puck in shape and size, is crunchy and has a distinct flavour. That’s all I will say.  Go on, try it…..I dare you. The second: Yorkshire pudding with the beef roast entrée. I love Yorkshire pudding. Very much like an inverted pop-over, they are an eggy pastry which when covered in gravy or au jus is like going to heaven and back. And the third basically accounts for all desserts in a nutshell. Pudding can refer to any type of sweet dish served up after a meal. Some have the word pudding in them , i.e bread and butter pudding, some do not. One of my favourites would be GU Chocolate Puds, deadly brownie-like creatures that are, as the name hints, generously gooey. Sticky Toffee pudding at Adare Manor became a twice a week staple for all of us. Warm rice pudding with raspberry jam is like a blanket on a rainy day, just the ideal comfort food. Perhaps this is where we came up with our idea of pudding here in the USA after all. Came over on the Mayflower and eventually fell into Bill Cosby’s hands? Either way, puddings here or there are clearly a necessity in life. Long live the puddings of the world!

Slan Abhaile, Imen

*Oh, and as far as the breakfast roll? Just a catchy little tune written by my former employer, Pat Shortt. Listen here.

If you have a spare moment, take a peek at my new column in the Irish Farmer’s Journal, Country Living, each Thursday on page 13.

Urban Dictionary definition for the term loco:

Loco. (adjective) Spanish. Crazy, mad or insane.

Right so. I am going absolutely loco over all the farm-to-fork, locavore, farm-hosted dinner events in America. I find it such a brilliant and inspiring concept that I would love to bring to our farm in the near future.

Here are a few shining examples of what I am speaking of:

Outstanding in the Field

Plate and Pitchfork

Tour De Farm

The only thing that could possibly make these better is if they were happening Ireland on a regular basis….

Who’s in?

{Leave a comment below}

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Ahhhh yes, the new season has arrived on our idyllic Irish farm.  And each year when the long winter gracefully grows into Spring, I can’t help but feel nostalgic as I ponder the contrast between my former frenzied life in the city and our sublime quiet life in the country. Ok so maybe nostalgic is not quite the right word..perhaps it’s more like agonized. Yes, agony is definitely more like it….

So, ahem…{now wiping the crocodile tears away}

Greener than green grass growing at breakneck speed, new potatoes cropping up in the garden and mummy cows constantly calving are certainly a stark contrast to the citified symbols of Spring that I used to indentify with…..and frankly, could even say I adored. For it’s at precisely this time of year that my heart longs for convertible cars (well, specifically mine I suppose) buzzing about with their tops surreptiously peeled down, busy city sidewalks aflurry with freshly pedicured feet nestled into open-toed shoes and the absolute best bit of all: dining al fresco after work with girlfriends, sipping cocktails, noshing on salads and sushi all whilst in true Bill Cunningham style–watching all the fashionable women and men trotting down the street in their best Spring hues. An invite to do this on any given night = simply irresistable.

So terrrrribly irresistible that I am constantly trying my best to emulate that experience here by creating more of a relaxed and “countrified” version of my old ways. It goes a little like this:  after a long day of working on various projects, I will change into a powdery little tee, a pair of my favourite Gap white capris and flip-flops and put on my new Cath Kidston apron. I will then proceed to make a huge Summery salad to start out our dinner. This salad will inevitable include the following (mostly locally) grown ingredients: mixed greens with plenty of rocket and watercress, red onion, vine ripened tomatoes, cucumber, steamed asparagus, grated carrot, goat’s cheese, roasted walnuts and poppyseed sprinkles tossed with one of my secret-agent vinagrettes*.  Then, I will take out anything from (again mostly locally sourced) prawns to fish, chicken or steak which has been marinating in another one of my secret-agent concoctions* all day and throw them on the BBQ.  As this protein is sizzling away on the grill, I will then make a pitcher of citrusy margaritas, Bootlegs, or G&T’s for R and I (and any visitors we are lucky enough to have) to sip on after our little boy is in bed. On dry and warm evenings we sit on our terrace taking in the absolutely stunning sunset behind the Shanid castle ruin on the hill, watching as the light changes and our trees slowly morph into those gorgeous die-cut images that seem to be everywhere these days. I call it “Farm Fresco” and though it’s not the same as those bold and bustling city evenings, it can nearly be just as satisfying…..

This Spring we welcomed a sweet preemie calf. His mum was not well so R had to induce her 4 weeks early and she produced a little boy whom we have named “Bogo”. Normally calves are up and walking in an hour, but Bogo struggled for a couple weeks before he would finally stand and now he’s up and walking, stronger than ever. Perhaps I too am like Bogo….when I came here I was nearly paralyzed by the change. Now…a few years later I am slowly, but surely, adapting to this new life and each day Ireland and the countryside are becoming more and more like home to me.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

*olive oil and a form of vinegar, crushed garlic and lemon juice or other fruit juice then close my eyes, choose some spices and hit pulse on the food processor.

photo courtesy of The Daily Telegraph

So, 1. be warned: dating detox can lead to marrying an Irish farmer and 2. reading it could lead to buying more and more of her books.

So, go on….have a look at Gemma’s book trailer for “Dating Detox” here and if you like what you see, you can buy it on Amazon!

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Beans-Irish Style

Well, here I am….I have arrived at my sweet home away from home. And I’m loving it. It’s day three so I am fully adjusted once again to driving on the right side of the road and getting into the opposite car door {okay, so that’s not entirely true}. It’s interesting because each time I return home I am far more aware of how much I am changing and just how much I appreciate the little things that I think Americans do best: incomparable customer service, eternal optimistic enthusiasm and, in a word, just plain“convenience”.

Back home in Ireland, I have *painstakingly* learned to do things on my own a bit more. It’s called “getting on with it” I’m told.  Let’s be clear, I do understand that this “getting on with it” business for me has more to do with living on a farm in the middle of the Irish countryside than it has to do with living in Ireland as a whole.  Still, some things like having your groceries lovingly bagged and delivered to your car for you at the supermarket or having an amazing gourmet pizza transported to your home via rocketship on any given night are things that can really put a smile on your face {and the children’s too}. It would appear that you can have anything you want at virtually any time of night and day here. I admit that found it a bit of a challenge not being able to have this citified life of convenience upon moving to Ireland, but now I realize that having to do more stuff on my own has instilled in me a certain amount of pride that I hadn’t really embraced before. Another plus? It makes things remarkably rosy when we are back for visits.

One of my favourite things to do when I first arrive back home is…drum roll please: Glorious food shopping! Whole Foods, the local co-ops, Trader Joe’s and Lunds/Byerly’s are my happy haunts here. I could giddily browse for hours and hours just examining all the new items and trying all the delicious samples. I am especially loving the locavore movement and being able to find so many fresh local ingredients everywhere. There is an importance placed upon this like never before and it is refreshing especially to “us farmers”.  Still, out of curiosity, I decided to take a look and see which, if any, authentic Irish exports I could find in stock.

I found these…

And these…

And then I was reminded that, at the end of the day, a nice cuppa can always put a smile on our faces too…..

Here or there.

Imen