A couple of weeks ago, Richard asked me if I’d help out with herding a group of cattle. The cows were going from a paddock about three kilometers up the road back down to the home farmyard. He just needed someone to block off one of the lanes along the route until he passed through with the girls.  Of course, I said no problem. I was delighted to give him a hand.

He explained that all I had to do was simply drive up to the crossroad near the graveyard and park the car three-quarters across the lane so that traffic would not be able to get through. He instructed that if someone came along, I would just need alert the driver to the fact that cattle would be crossing soon. No bother. Easy enough.

I swiftly pulled my hair into two braided pigtails, slipped on my lovely new wedge-heeled wellies brought back from NYC, grabbed my rain slicker and off I went out the door with a big smile on my face.

The minute I arrived at the crossroads, it started bucketing down rain. That was okay because until I suspected the cows were coming I could sit in the toasty car and page through my new Make Bake Love cookbook in search of something lovely and sweet to bake for tea that evening.

However, within minutes, cars started approaching from front and back. I was popping in and out of the car and letting drivers know what was going on. No sooner was I back in the car when a new vehicle would drive up again.

For some reason, every single person that I spoke to seemed to stare at me in disbelief as I shared the reason why I was blocking the road. I knew it was an inconvenience, and I was making apologies, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the look on their faces actually had anything to do with the cow-crossing situation.

Did I look suspect wearing my elevated wellies? My bright, flower patterned jacket? Perhaps the mere fact that I probably over-explained things a bit {as we Yanks tend to do} seemed peculiar. I’ll never know, but I suddenly felt very self-conscious as I stood there in the rain waiting on the cows with cars piled behind me on the road.

Finally, I could hear hipping and hollering from down the way. They were coming! We waited. And waited. Hipping and hollering carried on, but still no sight of them. I glanced back at the waiting drivers. I was soaked to the skin. Then, after fifteen more minutes, I began to hear the loud clicking and clacking of hooves and I spotted Richard, running fast and leading the girls who were following behind him like lightning. It was quite a sight to behold.

And just like that, the cows passed, the cars peeled out of sight, and I was on my way back home.

I believe I’ve advanced one step closer to becoming a cowgirl.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photo by Imen McDonnell

Tags: American, farm, farmer, Farming, food, foodie, foodies, I Married An Irish Farmer, Imen McDonnell, ireland, Irish, irish foodies, Kilcolman, love, marriage

This is a continuation of “From Jet-Set to Farmette, Part I”, which you can read here. As I said previously, often people ask just how exactly myself and himself met, so I thought it would be handy if I put together a little series of posts laying out the low-down with as many details as can tastefully be shared. If you are not into sappy love stories, I’d give it a skip.

After shedding a few happy tears, I gathered myself and gave MDF a ring to say thank you for the flowers and card. “no thanks needed”, he’d explained, “just a chance to get to know you better please.” How could I refuse? When I thought about it, I had nothing to lose. His endearing attentiveness certainly felt wonderful and he always seemed to be in good humour, which made me smile more often. {and by more often, I mean ALL THE TIME}

We nattered on via email, daily phone calls and text messages for over a year. I had 2-3 production trips scheduled overseas, so whenever I’d wrap shooting he’d fly to meet me and we would venture off to some quiet European seaside locale, drink gorgeous wine and discuss every corner of our lives. Our lavish conversations were followed by mammoth kissing sessions that went on for hours and hours. It began to feel like time stood still when we were together. We were becoming more and more heartbroken each time we had to say goodbye which, according to the accounting department, was clearly evident by my increasing tissue expenses.

Once, after a commercial shoot in Barcelona, I decided to surprise MDF by showing up to collect him from the airport in a really fast, over-the-top convertible sports car {specifically one that he mentioned he’d love to drive one day}. Tipped off by a location manager that I was working with, we hopped into the car and sped up the Costa Brava with the sun in our eyes and the wind in our hair, to a special place called Cadaques. Nestled on a bay on the Mediterranean coast, Cadaques is a stunning and quietly exotic (aka non-touristy) Catalan village which is also the birthplace of Salvador Dali.

Having made no arrangements or reservations, we just drove up though the town until we couldn’t go any further with the car and found ourselves stopped in front of the sweetest little hotel. I waited as MDF went in to see if there was a room. When he came out with a smile, I knew we had gotten lucky.

We checked into our room, changed and went for a walk to explore our little romantic weekend hideaway. In the rear of the hotel, there was a lovely pool and garden along with a café/bar. We sat down at a table and each ordered a glass of chilled rosé.  Ironically, as we looked at the group of people sitting poolside, we noticed a cigar-smoking Neil Jordan and his family happily chatting away and having fun. This was surprising because earlier MDF had mentioned how tickled he was that Neil was on his flight from Dublin.  Both admirers of Mr. Jordan’s work, we found it wonderfully serendipitous that we had found ourselves at the exact same “secret” place.

Those three days were like a living in a dream; an experience in which you almost need to pinch yourself to see if it is all really happening. We lounged, talked, gazed into each other’s eyes for far longer than any sane person would and just reveled in the complete abandon of our “real worlds” that we’d left behind, if only for a short time.

One evening, we stumbled upon a charming little restaurant, which, to our amazement, just happened to be named “Waiting for Richard”*. There, we lingered over a sensational meal for what seemed like hours. Afterwards, we walked quietly along the harbour holding hands. We stepped down to the little pebble beach outside of our hotel and MDF turned to me and nervously asked, “If I…ahem…provisionally…ahem…asked you..ahem…tomarrymerightnow…would you?” I was completely caught by surprise, but so, so in love at that very moment that I instantly blurted out, “Yes!…I mean…ummm, provisionally…yes..I..would.” Cue {yet another} mammoth kissing session.

The next morning we packed up and reluctantly made our way back to reality. His being a two hour flight back to his cows and chickens and mine being three bad movies and thirteen hours in the air, immediately followed by being back in my 27^th floor city office where a long editorial process +  hundreds of emails awaited.

Inside one of those emails was an airline ticket to Ireland.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

*MDF’s proper name is Richard.

Tags: Cadaques, farmette, Farming, ireland, love, marriage, modern love, Neil Jordan, Salvador Dali. Spain

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

Our Dromoland Wedding – Keith Woodard Photography

The Irish Wedding. A divine specimen to behold. And to imbibe. And imbibe. Oh, and did I say imbibe? There is no leaving an Irish wedding until at least 3AM. Not even if you are the bride and groom. In fact, the bride and groom are always the last to leave. It is customary that the two lovebirds maintain their life-of-the-party-personae until every last guest has turned in or collapsed at their feet from “too much drink taken”.  And yes, wedding ceremonies usually begin early in the afternoon as in the States so it is one long, lush, lovely day in which to participate. This is particularly fresh in my mind as we attended a friend’s wedding this week in Tipperary (pronounced Tipper-RARE-ee).  And I am still recovering (2 days later).  But it was such a beautiful day; a fabulously fun-loving couple, their sentimental church ceremony that began with the Irish Uillean pipes, a lovely part of the service which was recited in Irish and a reception that took place at a hotel at the foot the dramatic Glen of Aherlow. (sidebar: I love that Ireland has glens and reeks and skrees and gorgeous folkloric topography like that).

As weddings do, we were reminded of our very own romantic Irish wedding and began feeling nostalgic. Our day, to an American girl, was the stuff that fairy tales are made up of… The ceremony took place in the most charming old church, which is said to be the finest remaining example of the “barn” church in Ireland. We borrowed Seamus, the spirited violinist from Bunratty, and he gleefully performed our chosen music. We also enlisted the help of Michelle McDermott, a brilliant wedding planner since I didn’t have much knowledge of the who’s who/what’s what here at the time. Our reception was carried out at the idyllic and distinguished Dromoland Castle in Newmarket-on-Fergus, Co Clare. When we arrived at the gates, we were greeted by two beautiful white stallions and a vintage carriage awaiting to transport us into the estate (see photo above). We meandered down a path passing by ponds and geese which eventually lead to a walled garden. I had never felt so taken away by feelings of awe and joy and love in my life as I did on that day, it was truly spectacular. (For those of you who don’t know, I should tell you that these fabulous feelings set in AFTER the actual ceremony…the before and during part is, well, you’ll find out).

Because I am American (and a former “particular” producer) we had to keep some of my traditions, however, little did I know that almost all of what I was strenuously requesting during the planning process was exclusive to weddings in the States so all of my wishes could not be granted, but still a good few were. I really wanted commercial hair and makeup for myself and my girls so we hired an editorial makeup artist from Dublin that I had read about in an Irish fashion magazine to come down and be there for the day. The hairstylist stayed on for the evening for touch ups. Very OTT for Irish standards and possibly everyone else, but I wanted to look my very best all day AND night. Also, we designed the wedding invites with a studio in the States and used a die-cut embossment of the McDonnell family crest which were produced using a combination of letterpress and engraving techniques. Die-cut embossed invites in Ireland? Again, OTT for Irish standards, but hopefully respected (jury’s still out). Here, the bride and groom to-be actually handwrite the name of each guest on the inside of the invitation on a line as shown here. I initially thought that seemed a bit slapdash, but perhaps that does add more of a personal touch.

Our meal at Dromoland may have been the best I’ve eaten in Ireland to date (really, I am not just saying that). To start, a delicate monkfish and crab velout with garlic and chives (so unforgettable that my mouth is watering writing this) followed by a gorgeous and light savory parsnip and thyme soup and after, a smooth pomegranite sorbet was offered to cleanse the palate. For the main course, a filet mignon that was so gloriously juicy and tender that you could cut it with a butterknife served with fresh organic potatoes and various roasted vegetables. Our wedding cake was round  and 4-tiered with little vintagey strands of icing creping and beading across each level. To me, it looked very timeless and classic which is exactly what I had hoped, but I had to make a serious compromise on the top tier, for when we met with the cake maker I was informed that the top is always fruit cake. What!??? How not tasty. I seriously thought she was joking (we really do make jokes about fruit cake in the States you know). But she wasn’t and R really preferred it that way too so there was no way out of it. I just could not fathom why anyone would want to eat fruitcake at a wedding.

We hired an 8-piece traditional Irish music group to start the entertainment who performed beautifully and encouraged many guests to do jigs and reels on the dance floor, the most popular being the Siege of Ennis. An example of the Siege of Ennis (or as I like to call it, the Electric Slide-Irish style) from the Tipperary wedding can be seen here. When the trad music was ended we had a deejay who creatively served up tracks until every last person left in those wee hours of the morning.

But, as any proper married American couple, R and I disappeared into the night long before that and began our life anew…..

Next week: 3 Fabulous Irish foodies-2 living in Ireland and one in Paris-and their deliciously scandalous cookbooks. And, for a few lucky food-loving readers, a free copy will be sent to you!

Slán Abhaile and Happy New Year!

Imen

Tags: bunratty, clare, cratloe, dromoland, farmer, glen of aherlow, ireland, love, marriage, siege of ennis, tipperary, wedding