It’s Spring at last, which means here on the farm it’s also time to tend to the bees and plant the fruit trees.  We made our way down to the wood over the weekend to check on our sweet honey bees whom, much to our delight, survived the long winter freeze and were gleefully buzzing about their hives. It also just happened to be the most splendid, sunny day and as I glanced around at the blossoming buttercups and wild garlic leaves popping up through the ground, I couldn’t help but ponder: isn’t life sweet?

Many Irish bees did not survive this winter, which was seemingly never-ending and brutally cold. But, our bees persevered as if they knew something really good was to come. And like us, they hunkered down and waited for things to brighten up. We must remember, things always do turn the corner. A day or two of good weather can be absolutely transformative on the farm. You look around and suddenly grass is greener, new calves are being born, a carrot seed has sprouted, your little boy has learned to pedal his tractor, and the bees start making their sweet honey.

A family of bees will only swarm around the sweet stuff.  And much like the bees, we tend to drift towards our own type of delicious nectar.  Even though I may not be out milking cows and checking the chickens, I am all for beekeeping, market gardening and lest I forget, helping my husband with his aspirations for growing hops to use in his experimental craft brewing. You see, for us, the “sweet stuff” lies in what we can create together on the farm as a family.  I have to say that there is nothing more fulfilling (not to mention, no easier way to get your kids to eat veg) than spending an afternoon teaching your toddler how to help mummy and daddy plant seeds in your kitchen garden.  And nothing, and I mean, nothing, tastes better than using your very own tasty honey in your morning porridge.

Years ago, Irish farm beekeepers used to say,  “A swarm in May is worth a speck of hay. A swarm in June is worth a silver spoon, and a swarm in July isn’t worth a fly”. This old adage could also translate to something like this: if you wait too long to start creating and enjoying the sweet joys of farm life, you’ll really be missing out on some very special things.  After all, isn’t it the “sweet stuff” that makes farming all worth it in the end?

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: beekeeping, craft brewing, farm, gardening, honey bees, Irish, Life, love, sweet

When R and I first met he insisted that I was the midwest’s equivalent to Carrie Bradshaw. While I found this idea flattering, if not humorous, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the episode in which she and Aidan go to his rustic cabin in the country and how she barely survived two days there. I thought to myself, oh yes, that would be me. Then I thought to myself, oh nooo!…I am falling in love with a farmer!  A real live F-A-R-M-E-R. Farmers live in the country surrounded by animals and well water.  I won’t even drink filtered tap water and I never leave the house in flat shoes. Ever.

Fast forward six years. I married him. We live in the Irish countryside and the closest thing to my former Sex and the City lifestyle is a walk-in wardrobe filled with the residual Mui-Muis and Manolos of days past. They seemingly have no use in these parts. Nope, nowadays life is more like an episode of “Sex and the Country”. Not saying it’s not fascinating…even entertaining, just “tis different”. Quite different indeed…

Life then: Sunday breakfast or a bagel and coffee at the perfect city café around the corner chatting away with friends followed by reading the beautiful New York Times newspaper and magazine.

Life now:  Sunday morning awake with fingers crossed that we have everything for me to make breaky in the fridge because the store is ages away and I can’t be bothered to drive it.  Followed by reading the news on nytimes.com followed by witnessing two cows getting it on in the pasture.

Yes, cows getting it on. Or “bonking” as an English friend calls it. With all the mating rituals I’m witnessing round’ here I think it is safe to say that there is definitely more sex in the country than sex in the city that I used to live in.  I have to admit, I just could not believe my eyes the first time I witnessed a cow mounting another cow. A bull just wanders around the pasture jumping on random heifers whenever the mood strikes him.  Very aggressive.  It just doesn’t look right. They’re too big for heaven’s sake! The act appears to be really clunky and awkward. Not sexy AT ALL. Plus, it looks like the girl cow is not happy. Plus, they are in the middle of a pasture and there’s no privacy…just not right. And it looks just as strange to me with all of the animals out here; sheep and horses too (yes, it is shockingly true what they say about horses.eeeewwwwww) Even our dogs seem to constantly be humping around with eachother and they are all males. Way too many country pheromones in the air for me to handle at times. Way too many indeed.

R is in charge of animal health and animal reproduction at the farm. He sees that the heifers hook up with the bulls and if that doesn’t work he works his A.I. magic.  A.I., or artificial insemination, is quite an interesting process to go through with cows.  Let’s just say that there is a 3-foot long glove which needs to be worn whilst doing the procedure.  And it’s not the cow wearing it. I’m sure now you’re wondering where the “inseminatory” fluid comes from to begin with, aren’t you? (yes, I made that word up because I don’t think you can say the S word on a blog or at least I’m not going to).  Well, I just happened to find out whilst watching a farming program on the telly the other night. Let me try to paint the picture…generally speaking, there is a very important man in County Meath who is an aficionado in this area and he goes in and intervenes and collects it just as the sire is mounting the cow. He uses an apparatus that he designed that so realistic that the bull doesn’t know the difference. Again, really TMI to watch.

I’m not sure why all this animal breeding business makes me feel so uncomfortable. What I do know for sure is that writing about it has made me feel the urge to immediately book a divine, girly city holiday as soon as possible.  {Ok sweetie?}

Coming up: I will be featuring a very different kind of Irish sexiness, Trish Deseine, the best-selling author who was born in Belfast, now living in Paris and whom has been dubbed “The Irish woman who is France’s Nigella.”

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photo courtesy of Easy Living

Tags: Aidan, Artificial insemination, bagel, Carrie Bradshaw, cow, farm, heifer, Irish, Living, Manolo, Mui Mui, New York times, Nigella, Sex and The City, sire, Trish Deseine

I know. This is a delicate topic. And totally unfunny. But, I really want to share about it for two reasons: 1. my experience with Irish funerals is far different than my experience with American funerals and 2. If you are ever wondering if your Irish farmer boyfriend is telling the truth when he says he is going to a funeral up to 2-3 times/month it could definitely be true.

Here in the Irish countryside many things are still done the old-fashioned way and this would definitely apply to funerals. Imagine my surprise when the first visitation I attended was right in the home of the dearly departed with her laying in her own candlelit bedroom with people paying their respects at the bedside. I have to be honest and say that I was absolutely terrified.  I had never in my life been required to be intimately close with a deceased person. But, I had to shrug off my fears and go in because it was R’s amazing grandmother who was also a very special person to me. She had lived to see so many changes in Ireland and left us at the ripe age of 91.  I loved listening to her stories of gun hiding and squabbles between political parties. She also had great style and an unexpected sense of humour. She always asked me the same question when I walked into her home, “would you like a drop of Baileys?” and we’d have “drops” of Bailey’s in teeny, tiny, sweet little cordial glasses while I listened to her anecdotes and gossip and felt so wonderfully content in her presence. I remember once she was telling me about a trip she had taken to an island called Lough Derg and was describing how beautiful it was and that you had to go barefoot and walk on these rocks and then you’d stay up for 3 days and only drink broth with salt and pepper. I totally thought she was talking about some sort of natural spa experience where you’d go for really intensive 3 day cleansing detox.  It is actually a religious retreat. She thought I was mad…..but  I know she also loved that about me.  She had discussed her precise wishes regarding her funeral arrangements with her family and had it all sorted out before she left us . The family followed through as directed.

Generally speaking, up until 15 years ago, a country Irish wake would always take place in the home. It was very much a social event and open to the public.  The corpse would be dressed in a dark, neutral coloured habit or shroud and “layed out” on their bed or in a small coffin.  No embalmment techniques or fancy makeup. A prayer book might be propped under the chin to keep one’s mouth closed. Mourners would fill the room and sit beside the dead and would be there to support the others who came to sympathise.  Often, a punch made of cloves, sugar, whiskey and boiled water would be served and a barrel of stout would be on hand. Men smoked white clay pipes and sniffed snuff. This celebration would go on for 1-3 days as they never wanted the dead person to feel alone which, to my mind, is a lovely gesture. Three days of crying, laughing, eulogizing, agonizing.  Sounds pretty cathartic to me…and not such a scary idea after all. After the wake, there was the funeral mass and burial. The coffin is carried on shoulders and walked around the circumference of the graveyard before stopping at the gravesite. One month later, the “month’s mind” takes place in the local church to remember the person. Each year after there is an anniversary mass as well.

The introduction of funeral homes have taken the responsibility off of the immediate family to entertain mourners in their homes and wakes are now called “removals”. These funeral homes are very different from the what I would be accustomed to in the States….no plush carpets and rugs, ambient music, heavy drapes, displays of flowers here. In fact, very much a low-key event. The rural village funeral home is designed a bit like a garage where the a big door is opened to the street, the coffin is in the middle of the room, the family in chairs in a semi circle around the coffin. The family receives all the sympathisers who, in a single file cue, come through and shake hands with them all and walk out.  Out here it still is similar in the way that people gather from far and wide…whether you were a first cousin or a friend of a friend of a friend, you will be at the removal. It is important to be a part of the community and show your respect. This is why R goes so frequently. In America funerals are much more discreet. You might not think so right off the bat, but really, compared to Ireland they are more private and formal affairs if you will. Very rarely would you go to a funeral of someone you’d never personally met at least once.  It’s just in my American nature to feel like an interloper going to a removal of someone I didn’t know. Not to mention I don’t have enough dressy clothes anymore to keep up with them all.

I was hoping to feature Mr. McDonnell and the farm for this post, but he’s sooooooo slow and stilllllll writing his answers to all of our quirky questions. By the way, if you have a fun, funny, embarrassing…even dorky  question, please drop me a line: imen.producer@ireland.com.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: American, farmer, Funeral, ireland, Irish, Louhg Derg, Wake

Sorry, but I need to write about this. I think about it all the time. I could be swinging away on a beautiful Spring day and still pondering. Not sure why, but I must confess, I’ve become utterly fascinated with the cacophony of incidental language twists here in Ireland.

Oh yes, wait a minute.  I am sure why….

Too much time on my hands. Pure and simple.  (See #5 on the “On Marrying An Irish Farmer” tab)

Anyway, it’s just that people tend to use the words LIKE, SO and NOW an awwwwful lot here.  And not really in the way you’d think they would. When I first starting hearing these words all the time it was a bit perplexing. This is because when Americans use the words LIKE, SO and NOW we tend do it in ways which all seem far different than the manner in which many Irish speakers are using them.

You see, the word LIKE is used significantly more as an afterthought here. For instance, you might hear someone say, “That cow is really sick LIKE.” or  “He went to the shop LIKE”.  Whereas, in the USA, we might say something more along the lines of this: “LIKE, oh my God, that’s awesome” or “I LIKE your new Hummer” or maybe this: “That Bergdorf blonde has very straw-LIKE hair”.  But rarely, if ever, would we say “I know LIKE”.  And consider it a complete sentence. And say it  just to say it. No, we tend to use our LIKES in the beginning of a sentence. And, if you must know–our EXPLETIVES at the end of sentences &%$#*&^!!!

Then, in equal measure, the word SO gets loads of action here too. You’ll hear: “He’s going to the match, LIKE, SO”. In this case, the addition of the word SO can be a question without the added upward inflection…rhetorical I suppose. If you buy something at the store you will always experience the SO word at least a few times during your transaction. “It will be 2.80 then SO.” You give the money and they say “thank you SO” and then when you receive your change “ok SO then”. Not usually a thank you or a you’re welcome, but I’m pretty sure it means the same thing. There is also the very important “RIGHT SO” which, in our house, basically means we’re finished here and usually occurs after a long pregnant pause in conversation………………………………………………………………………….RIGHT SO. {moving on}

I have to admit that the NOW’s really shook me though. Twas my first time going to the little market in Adare when the shopkeeper, a lovely elderly woman, said “NOW” (sharply and succinctly pronounced NE-OW as heard here) as I set my eggs and apples on the counter. It was totally out of context for me. And something about the timbre or the emphatic tone that she used made me feel like I was being scolded (scolded is the only word to describe it because it had that weird shame element to it). I immediately flashed back to 2^nd grade with Mrs. Luther who scolded us all the time for being too “talkative” in the classroom. Yes, this market lady’s NOW literally startled me and she knew it because she asked if I was okay. To which I replied with a nervous and slightly guilty laugh, “oh sorry, I’m fine, umm, did I do something?” She ignored my question and went on to say “NOW” again after scanning the apples. And “NOW” again when she put them in the bag. And then when she took my money she said “NOW SO”.  And, finally, when she bid me farewell, one last “NOW” as she waved goodbye.  Incredulous. I walked home in a complete state of total bewilderment.

Five years later I can honestly say that I’ve not succumbed to the Irish LIKE SO’s. But, as friends and family will attest, I do find myself using NOW (yes, in that tone) from time to time….and time again (it is oddly addictive)

RIGHT SO.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

(photo courtesy of ffffound)

Tags: Adare, farmer, Irish, Irish language, Like, married, Now, slan abhaile, So, words

Traditional Irish Christmas Cake

Well tis’ the season to be jolly… and sure enough, things can get quite jolly ‘round here. But, I must admit, being married to an Irish farmer also means that he can’t really be home with us for the entire holiday as the animals need to be tended to every day of the year. I guess I’ve taken for granted that the holidays are about loads of time off to spend with family and friends relaxing with a little cheer and reflecting on the year that was behind us (hint: never take this for granted). Still, we make a big effort to enjoy the time we do have together and are grateful for that.

In Ireland, Christmas Eve is not the big draw, possibly because Christmas Day and Christmas Day Eve are when the real festivities happen and then there’s a whole other lively day of celebration on the 26^th, called St. Stephen’s Day. (Or Boxing Day in the UK) St. Stephen’s Day or the Feast of St. Stephen is a Christian Saint’s day and is  a national holiday in Ireland. It is also known as the “Day of the Wren” in many areas, ours included. We have another big feast on this day and then are visited by the “Wren Boys” who traditionally come into country homes and perform traditional Irish music through song and dance.  They come to the door playing their beautiful instruments such as the tin whistle, the concertina, Bodhráns and fiddles.  One person always has a (artificial)wren bird in a nest to symbolize the hunt of the wren who historically brought good luck to the villagers. Here is a link to a snippet of last year’s performance at the farmhouse. Geoffrey loves the Wren Boys and I can’t say I blame him as they are quite entertaining, and for me, something totally festive and different.

We’ll open the gifts at our holly-strewn home on Christmas morning and then Richard will go to work until later in the day when we have the big dinner at the home farmhouse. Peggy is preparing the meal this year and I am bringing the desserts—this year I’ll be trying my hand at an Irish Christmas Cake. No Irish Christmas would be complete without the this cake and for all of it’s elaborateness, it’s basically a fruit cake made to look pretty so I should be able to handle it. (wait a minute, is there a little personification going on there?). The frosting and little trimmings are made from marzipan, a staple here for cake decorating. We also have a new arrival in the family this year, D & R’s new beautiful baby girl, Gwynn, whom will be our guest of honour. Michael will prepare his plum pudding which is another gooey fruit-cakey concoction made with plums and raisins and something yucky called minced suet. The only good thing about plum pudding is that it’s served with a creamy brandy sauce or home-made rum raisin ice cream which are both delicious. Mince pies are always a given–they make mini ones which you see everywhere here and they are dusted with powdered sugar making them look really tasty which, of course, is totally deceiving. So, by now you must be wondering if there are any desserts that I would actually eat for the holidays! Why yes, the best one of all, trifle! I love trifle. It is much like a parfait in a big pretty glass bowl: boozy sponge cake layered with golden custard and luscious fruit covered in cream.  I also love the crunchy meringues with mixed berries and dollups of fresh cream.

When we sit down to dinner on Christmas we begin by opening the Christmas crackers.  A cracker consists of a cardboard tube wrapped in a brightly decorated twist of paper, making it resemble an oversized candy-wrapper. Two people pull and it breaks unevenly (making a popping sound) and leaves one person with the bigger half which holds a paper crown (which you then happily wear for the rest of the day) and a little surprise, perhaps a small trinket, a riddle or some other fun tchotke. I personally think everyone in the world should celebrate with Christmas crackers. They are loads of fun!

When all of the Christmas and St. Stephen’s Day cheer is complete there is still yet another Christmas to celebrate, and that is called “Little Christmas” or Nollaig na mBan which falls on Jan 6^th.  It is also referred to as “Women’s Christmas” because it is a day where the men traditionally donned aprons and did all the cooking and cleaning whilst the women relaxed and were taken care of for the day. Despite the fact that this seems terribly un-pc, I’ve read that it is being picked up as a tradition in the USA more and more. My father-in-law makes dinner for us all on this day..usually a goose, and it’s quite humorous to see him doing all the work inside as Peggy usually rules the roost. It’s certainly nice to see her get a break from being the domestic goddess of Dunmoylan for a change.

This will be my last post until the New Year. So Nollaig Mhaith Chugat and a Happy, Happy New Year to you all!

Slán Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: christmas, ireland, Irish, marzipan, mince pies, st. stephens day, trifle, wren boys

Galtee Mountains, Counties Limerick, Tipperary and Cork, Ireland

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a snow worshiper. No, I am not an avid skier, nor do I create elaborate sculptures out of snow and ice, but indeed, I have a loving relationship with snow. From the first dainty “dusting” to a full on white-out blizzard, I adore it. Powdery, heavy, sparkling, icey, fluffy, packy, soft, clean, dirty, slippery, flakey…love it all.  For me, it symbolizes the beginning of the holidays and makes everything more merry. The joy of making snowmen and snow angels and going sledding followed by sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows is absolutely priceless. I’ve never found it particularly annoying to drive in the snow, on the contrary, it’s just been a part of life.  I grew up with it and yes, I remember the days when the snow was as high as our house, and when deer would get trapped on icebergs on Lake Michigan and all that jazz. Loved it. And there it was again in the summer when the town council dug up the snow they’d buried in the winter and brought it out for the “Snow Festival” parade and made children’s eyes wide as pies.

Nowadays, everyone back home seems to complain that it just doesn’t snow like it used to and I am here to tell you that AT LEAST IT STILL SNOWS! Sure, Ireland gets a wee bit of snow, but it usually falls short of us by landing on top of the mountains or other highlands. The photo above depicts a beautiful snowfall on the Galtee Mountains which are near us so if I am driving to Limerick I can see this winter wonderland, but not fully experience it. One day last year it began to snow at our house and Geoffrey and I were so happy we nearly fell down the stairs in excitement.  We put on our outdoor gear and ran outside only to find that the flurries had stopped and all of it had melted upon impact. It’s just too mild here for the snow to stick, but I’m forever optimistic; each winter I still think maybe it will really snow this year…

Many of the Irish and English make do by taking trips to Lapland, Finland, located in the frozen Arctic Circle. The twinkling snow covered forests and northern lights-filled night skies are meant to be simply breathtaking. Perhaps we’ll go to Lapland one day, but for now Richard says he’s going to buy some type of snow machine and hmmm, I wonder about that. Would it be the same? Who knows, but there’s no doubt that I’d love it because for me, snow in Winter is like the icing on the cake {with a cherry on top!}.

Spoonbridge and Cherry by Claes Oldenburg & Coosje Van Bruggen. Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN, USA

Happy Snowy Holidays!

Slán Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: Galtee, holidays, hot cocoa, Irish, mountains, snow, snow angels, snowmen, Walker Art Center

Farm Fact: as a kid here in the Irish countryside you don’t necessarily have loads of neighborhood friends. Your “neighbors” might live a mile away so it’s not as easy to meet other children (if there are any) and have a constant stream of neighborhood playmates as you might have in the city. Thankfully, Geoffrey is meeting a few new friends at his Montessori (who will attend the same grade school as well), but at the moment most of his mates are my girlfriend’s children who live in Limerick City so we don’t get to see them as often as we’d like to. (note to self, must get out more!)

We usually spend summers in the USA, which is when differences in farm vs. city life really come to light. This past summer we stayed with our friends who live in a lively city neighborhood. So, as it goes, the street is right in front of their house and all around there are loads of small children playing away in their yards. Geoffrey, the social butterfly that he is, thought this was just the bee’s knees and kept trying to run across the road, not realizing how dangerous it was. (second note to self, maybe those harnesses aren’t such a bad idea). Basically speaking, he had no real concept of how a city street operated and so he had no fear. Glad he had no fear because I now need a triple bypass.

City Fact: there is a lively stream of colourful and exciting things to do with kids when you live in the city….children’s museums, art galleries, science museums, the zoo, karate, the pool, gymnastics, yoga, T-ball, the State Fair—everything is go, go, go and it seems that there is never, ever a dull moment. Nearly every restaurant in the USA is child-friendly (the opposite of Ireland) which is so brilliant. All summer Geoffrey enjoyed nonstop playtime with friends, relatives and neighbors and was in absolute heaven. I personally grew up in a beautiful small Midwestern town where summers meant playing outside with loads of friends until at least dusk every day…we would use an entire 3-4 block area to play kickball, hide & seek, kick the can or ring-doorbell-run (ssshhhh). It makes me happy to know that my son will be able to experience at least some of the same quirky people, places and things of my childhood as he grows up too—as this is very important business!

On the flip side, I have to remember that through his eyes Geoffrey is basically living a child’s dream here in the Irish countryside…what we read in his books and see in movies, he lives!  Charming castles, enchanting forests, sweet calves, little lambs, huge trucks, noisy tractors, busy building sites, prickly hedgehogs and red foxes with big fluffy tails…this is the “stuff of his life” here. What’s more is that he positively adores all things farm. He gets to go with Daddy or Grandad on various machines(the cool new John Deere models have an additional small seat and harness for your child)and do his “work” and he loves helping to feed all the farm animals on a regular basis.  Sure, we have to use our imagination a little more and be more creative to make our fun here, but that’s not such a bad thing. He loves playing outside with the dogs and going on “adventures”. We have planted an area of trees on one part of the land and that is now his “magic forest”(thank you Cat). There is also a lovely little stream running through the front yard over which he has built a bridge for his fishing “trips”. Our two Pyrenees dogs are “polar bears” and Ted is.. just Ted I guess. I love that Geoffrey much prefers gallivanting around the yard than playing on his swing set or his toys when we are here at  home in Ireland.

My only concern is that our little boy is beginning to become sensitive to the sun. He complains when it is sunny (which is hardly ever) and when we went to the States last summer, it took a couple weeks for him to adjust to the intensely sunny days..it was really blinding to him. But of course, after he adjusted, he couldn’t get enough of it (SPF 50) and by the time we got back to Ireland the weather here really started to get to him. He kept asking Daddy when it was going to stop raining. “Because if it doesn’t Dad, we’ll just have to go back to America!”

Thank you so much for your loyal readership.  I really enjoy writing and sharing these pieces with you all. I also want to say a special thank you to Liam and Corey of Irish Fireside whom interviewed me for their holiday podcast–we had a lot of fun! They have a great website and are currently featuring a holiday gift guide with lots of Irish goodies…so have a look.

Mind Yourself,

Imen x

Tags: beach, children, children's museum, city, farm, Irish, irish fireside, John Deere, karate, kid, pool, summer, sun, zoo

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

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

One thing that I was pleasantly surprised about after being here for awhile is the fact that the Irish are notoriously behind schedule.  This is a fact that nobody will deny–even folks who are always on time, will attest to this. Call it laid back..call it relaxed, but don’t call it irresponsible because no one here will be on your side.  In many ways, I covertly love this and empathize with it because I am someone whom has always been accused, and rightly so, of being tardy. Tardy is actually the term that my American school system used…and used against you with harsh consequences, T-A-R-D-Y. If you were late to class, you were marked down as tardy and would receive a detention unless you had a damned good excuse. Which, of course, nobody ever did. TARDY…just sounds so bloody tasteless.

The first time I was formally introduced to Irish timekeeping was when I was going into Limerick one evening to meet girlfriends for cocktails. I was to be there at 9PM and had arrived at 9:30 armed with a smattering of excuses (baby wouldn’t go down, baby wouldn’t eat, baby wouldn’t stop crying, hubby home late, etc etc). I was met with two of the five friends (3 others were later than I!) cajoling and laughing and taking absolutely no notice that I was late. Thirty whole minutes late! Not one text or phone call to see if I was okay either. When I apologized they would hear nothing of it…and when I started to spat my plethora of excuses I was enlightened with the philosophy of what I now deem “Irish Standard Time” whereby everyone is always at least a little late and nobody, NOBODY cares.  Whew, what a relief! I instantly felt so much more welcomed here than I ever had before. Finally, a place that accepted constant lateness and didn’t bat one pretty eyelash about it. Glee!!!

But then I started to notice this in other situations. I’d go to a shop, bank or restaurant at the posted opening time and would be kept waiting for 15 minutes for the doors to open. When I finally did get into a shop I could be kept waiting for another 15 minutes while a clerk is on a personal phone call before even being greeted. When you go to the cinema the trailers always start about 10-15 minutes later that the listed film showtime. All of this is unheard of in the States, where customer service is king. At one point, I considered starting a time management/customer service orientation business, but then I was reminded by my loving husband that A. I wasn’t qualified and B. I would be late for my own funeral if that was possible and certainly wouldn’t be able to turn up on time to give the orientations which would in turn make things even worse. He was right, but I might add that, ironically, he is the most punctually retentive person I have ever met. We always manage to get to the airport 3 hours before our flight..he arranges for us to leave extremely early just in case we get a tire puncture or get into an accident or lord knows what else….

When I worked on television production here in 06, were worked on a variation of I.S.T.  I had been used to shooting from very early in the morning to late, late nights. And weekends were certainly not out of the question in LA or NY. Here, with the Killinaskully series, we worked 9-5 Monday-Friday and not a minute later unless it was planned well, well in advance. People take their time off very seriously in Ireland.

Nonetheless, the pièce de résistance was when we started building our house. It is just status quo that builders and carpenters are flaky no matter where you live in the world, but in this case the behaviour was literally astonishing. Our “reputable” kitchen/bathroom fitting company blew us off for nearly 2 months past our scheduled start date. They wouldn’t even answer phone calls or return messages. Working together became like a game of cat and mouse with all the suppliers. The only person that delivered on time and on budget was the German window guy, Bruno. At least when it came time to pay everyone we were even put off there. It seemed as though we were forcing them to be paid. Buying a car. We had to ring dealerships several times to buy a car that we wanted and we were even offering the asking price. Carpet. Furniture. Same story. Indeed, these are not contemptuous, reckless people; it is just them simply being laid back and losing track of time. It’s just Irish Standard Time.

I must run now or I’ll be late for my hair appointment.

But sure, that’s okay.

Slainte,

Imen

Tags: baby, cocktails, customer service, ireland, Irish, late, relaxed, tardy, time