Our House

My house is truly a thing of beauty. From the outside, it has a certain charm to it. The green doors, arched windows, the “Strictly NO Parking” sign, the faint smell of vomit as you pass the front steps; they all make you think of home. When entering the house, your senses are assaulted by a lovely shade of yellow that covers the inside – with green carpeting. On the first floor are the (useable) toilets. The one on the right doesn’t flush properly so you should always use the left one – unless it is raining, then use the right toilets because there is a leak in the ceiling of the left stall. When taking a shower make sure you turn the handle as far to the right as possible when you are done – otherwise it will come back to life later and flood the shower area. Do enjoy the lovely stainglass window when brushing your teeth; but make sure you don’t use the hot water a lot – it only runs for a few minutes out of the tap on the first floor. When walking up the stairs be sure to take notice of the huge crack that runs up the entire bright yellow wall, while also enjoying the winding stair case as you arrive at the top floor.

But those are just cute quirks of the house. Things you learn to live with and even appreciate. Maybe. With a sense of humor. It is just part of living in an old house. Everything is held together with duct-tape and spit.

It feels like nothing in this house is allowed to work perfectly. If the toilets work – the heating goes. My radiator finally begins to work – the water heater breaks. Heating and water fixed – the dryer ceases to work. This weekend we had no water. It just stopped working. It stopped on Saturday evening. By the time the workers got out there it was late, and they said that one of our pipes had probably burst – one of the underground pipes. And due to the lack of sunlight, they would not be able to fix everything until the next day. It turns out, the construction crew behind our house hit one of our water pipes and just, you know, forgot to let anyone know. The university was nice enough to provide us with bottled water and told us to use the Treehouse facilities until it was fixed. There was even a shower, they promised us. 

But this was no ordinary shower. This was a scary handi-cap shower. the kind that is just a room with a drain in the middle and a removable shower-head. So you have to take a shower one-handed. Which never works out well because  - well, who can control those things properly?! And then, because there is no shower curtain, your clothes that you are going to change into get soaked from the water that goes EVERYWHERE despite the drain in the floor. Oh, did I mention the toilet? Yup - that's right, complete with toilet. And the toilet comes with a nice back cushion. Needless to say - I did not shower there. No, I chose to go with Karin to nearby University housing and use a friends shower. Only - the good shower was taken. So I, being the courteous friend, gave Karin the real shower and instead used the (wait for it) handi-cap shower. This one was, somehow, even more creepy. I did survive, but with some scars. The lesson here is this: Always expect the Spanish inquisition. 

I Can't Explain

Okay people - hold onto your hats because this is about to get interesting. 

You may recall from "The Epic of Kelsey's Life" (No, there is not an actual book. Stop trying to buy it on amazon.com!) that I was one of the lucky students to travel to Greece this summer. A few students from Wesleyan's Concert Choir traveled across the big blue and performed "Carmena Burana" in The Festival of the Aegean.

Leanne and I, Athens in the Background.

Syros. So beautiful.

The Lovely Ladies of Wesleyan. 

God - look at that scenery. I am almost drooling right now, just thinking about the food. And the warmth. And the sun. And the music. And the warmth. Anyway, the point of the story is that I participated in a music festival in Greece. It was an amazing experience. The music was breathtaking. I was so lucky to experience it - and with such wonderful people as well!

Here is how this is all connected to Ireland: 

I was leaving Queen's Chamber Choir rehearsal yesterday evening and ended up walking next a new member. So I started up some friendly conversation. 

"Where are you from?"

"Athens."

"Really? I was there this summer!"

"Wow - were you just enjoying a vacation?"

"Sort of. We had a few days in Athens, but most of the trip was spent in Syros."

"Wait - you were in Syros this summer?"

"Yeah, I was performing in the Festival -"

"OF THE AEGEAN?!"

Turns out, she was in the same festival that I was! She performed Carmena with me this summer and we both had no idea - something completely possible in a choir of 400. But think about it! Who would have thought that I, Kelsey Tinsman, would go to Ireland and find myself singing with someone from Greece who performed in the exact same music festival that I did? Unbelievable. I think it is safe to say that I have made myself a new friend. After we discovered this unlikely coincidence (and after the screaming and hugging) we spent the rest of the time confusing other member of the choir by talking in broken phrases; "Did you go see the concert where -" "Oh, gosh, wasn't that amazing?" "And the Rutter requiem, with the part!" "God - so good!" and so on and so forth. 

Just another example of how my life is a series of ridiculous and comical events. 

Kelsey

Maximum Consumption

The past few days have been filled with excitement. As you may remember, I was recently filled with a longing for latkes. Having never made latkes - or really experienced them in any way - I dove into research on proper cooking methods of latkes. It was very educational. Now, I won't regale you with the religious implications because, frankly, my interest in latkes stemmed from their tasty-aspects and not their religious ones. 

I headed to the best source for information - the interweb. First I checked my favorite cite for recipes - Allrecipes.com. There I found a variety of latkes-making techniques. All included the basic ingredients of :

• grated potato
• onions
• eggs
• flour/matzo meal
• vegetable oil

So, off I went to the Tesco for my supplies. I had already been given lots of pototoes (I had some, Lisa and Bernd donated theirs), but I was in need matzo meal and applesauce. However, when I arrived I was confronted with a problem I had not quite anticipated. People here have no idea what a latke is.When you think about it, Ireland is not really known for their large Jewish population. But being in the modern world we live in, I assumed that people would have a rudimentary knowledge of latkes. I was mistaken.

When I inquired as to whether the Tesco carried matzo meal, the woman assisting me looked at me with questioning eyes, cocked her head to the side and said, "Matzo meal?". I happily chatted on about making latkes, the decision to make them, and my need for matzo meal. When she looked at me with even more puzzled eyes, I explained matzo meal as a type of flour substance. I added helpfully that I had searched the flour area and had not found any, but was wondering if they were hiding it away somewhere. At this point, the woman is staring at me with a bewildered expression. So I, trying to be helpful, say, "You, know - latkes? They are made out of potatoes?" She repeats the word out loud, slowly, as if trying to grasp the concept. Again, attempting to be helpful, I add, "You know, it's Jewish?" Judging from the expression on her face, I believe she may have been thinking something close to, "So, you must be one of those Jewish people I have heard of....interesting."

I felt ridiculous. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language. I left feeling concerned about religious education in Ireland, but still hopeful that others would understand what I meant when I said "Latke". How very wrong I turned out to be. When I excitedly mentioned my cooking adventure to my fellow Irish classmates, I was met with the same blank stares. After a while I gave up trying to explain the latke idea and reverted to saying plainly,"It's a Jewish thing." But then, somewhat unsurprisingly, everyone assumed that I was Jewish. Which inspired more exciting conversations. My personal favorite was when someone (by this time there is a crowd surrounding me - it was like "religious storytime") asked where I went to church. I responded that I went to the Catholic Church down the road. "Oh, so you are Catholic." But wait - no I am not. "So, then you are Jewish?" Nope, not Jewish. They were flabbergasted. Why would someone who was not Jewish want to make latkes? I can think of a very good reason to make latkes - they are tasty. I felt like proposing a counter argument; "Do you eat Italian? Are you Italian? No - so why do you eat Italian food?"

Anyway, the moral of the story is this: Who knew an American would be the one to be better informed? 

Onto the exciting cooking details - here is the recipe I ended up using.

• 4 peeled and grated potatoes (or as many as you want - which is what I did)
• 1 grated onion
• 2 eggs
• 3 tablespoons matzo meal (or flour, if you live somewhere where matzo meal is a fantasy)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• Vegetable oil. I am not giving a specific amount because I cannot really tell you how much I used. It was all very - "Sure, that looks good."

Now, before I started cooking I watched various videos on youtube about making latkes. I wanted to be sure I did it right. In my search, I came across a musical gem. It is called the "Latke Song" and I bet you can guess what it is about. 

Thank you Debbie Friedman for this moment of musical genius. I won't lie - this was the theme song for the night. So, filled with the wisdom of youtube and a song in my heart, I began to cook.

Many hours later (I used a ton of potatoes), I had completed my task. I had a plate full of latkes and a group of housemates eager to try them. All in all, a great success!

Latke mix

Pan and oil

 

 Bam! Tasty latkes

Same tasty latkes, plus...

Applesauce, gets you....

Very happy housemates!

And that concludes this session of "Cooking at 76 Malone". Until next time.

Welcome to My Livingroom

Well, it has been a while since my last post. I am sorry it has taken me so long to write, in my defense I have been studying for exams. But, I finished my last one today and now am all yours. However, I now realize what a predicament I am in. Due to the lack of posts, I have left the world uninformed about many an escapade and am now unsure of the easiest way to fill you all in. Well, why not start at the beginning - all the way into the past year.

• December 19th - My dearest Mother arrived in Belfast on a lovely picturesque day.  We explored Belfast and planned for our next escapade - the north coast!

  

•   And up the north coast we went! We stopped at Carrickfergus Castle, small nameless coastal towns, the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, Giants Causeway, one Nameless Castle, and Bushmills Distillery. The tour was narrated by our lovely tourguide who told us all the stories of Northern Ireland - sadly mother could not understand him one wee bit. But she did learn one very important part of Irish storytelling - everything ends tragically. Everything. You think it is going to end happily despite it all, but then (tragically) it goes, well, tragically. Let me give an example. We were told a story of a woman whose husband was so jealous he locked her into the attic of their house and attempted to starve her.  "Miraculously, the woman escaped out the wee window in the attic! Tragically, she then fell the four stories to her death."At this point the tour guide points out the dreaded window (on your left).

one of the many nameless coastal towns

Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge

 

Mother with the wonderful tour guide

Giants causway

Oh, and we did some bird watching...

•  Then it was Christmas. Mother and I made dinner for the house members who had stayed behind for the holidays. I was wonderful. The next five days were where the real Mother/Daughter escapade began. We traveled to Dublin, rented a car - and set off! (Note: There are no pictures of this glorious moment of mother daughter bonding. This is caused by one of two reasons: 1) It was simply too amazing to be caught on camera - several attempts were made, tragically the cameras did not survive; 2) Mom took all the pictures back to the states with her. You can choose which one is more likely.) In the end, we traveled to Galway, through the Burren, ferry to Tralee, continued driving to Dingle, Kerry, Killarney, and Kenmare. Various stops of ridiculousness were made, no need to worry about that, and all without any accidents! That was in no small way due to Mother's extraordinary driving skills and in a very small way due to my fabulous navigation techniques. With one exception.

ATTENTION: THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT!! When traveling along the southwest coast of Ireland you would do well to avoid, at all costs, CONNOR PASS. Take note of the warning signs and turn back. The view is not worth it. And that is all I am prepared to say on the matter....

The moral of the story is that we made it back to our respective homes alive. A true miracle.

• Happy New Year!!! We made it to 2012! I spent the evening at, you are not going to believe this name, the Stiff Kitten. It was truly a mosh-pit to remember. 

• Sadly, a few days into the new year, one of my beloved Scottish terriers passed away. Rest in peace, Frasier.

And, well that pretty much brings us up to date. Oh, with one exception. I have a crazy desire to make latkes. Don't ask me why, it is just a desire burning within me. The only problem is, I have never made latkes and really do not have any idea of how it all works. So, I did some research and this evening I will be endeavoring to make latkes. Wish me luck - I will update on, what will most assuredly be, the adventure of the day, tomorrow.

Almost Like Being in Love

This year I endeavored to do something I have dreamed of for years. I decided that it was time to stop being a coward and face the music – Jazz music. 

I have completed my first Jazz concert ever and I am happy to say that I think it was a success. You may judge for yourselves, I have added a short clip of the night’s adventures. Imagine it – the band is swinging, the director is dancing to the music, I look like a million bucks (okay, closer to a hundred) and am channeling the wisdom of Ella Fitzgerald and Dinah Washington. It is full house, expectant faces at coffee tables drinking their mulled wine when I step forth and burst out a ballad with the power of – wait a cotton pickin’ minute! Is that a flower in my hair?!

In all seriousness though, it was possibly the most fun I have ever had performing. I love singing and performing, I always enjoy it. But for some reason that night was different from any previous experience. The muses were smiling down upon me and I was living in the music. The band did wonderfully, as did all the other singers. The night was perfection. I don’t think I ever stopped smiling. This whole experience has secured an opinion I have held for a couple of years – I was born in the wrong era. 

After the concert a large group of us hit the town in celebration. It was great fun. I was even convinced to go dance. We were by far the most overdressed people there, which was complimented by our outdated dance moves. I would just like to say that my best move is definitely the “shopping cart”, although I did bring the house down with “the sandwich”. (Thank you Missy; that would not have been possible without your teaching skills.) 

Kelsey

Winter Weather

Looking back on some of my blogs, I realized that some may think I am complaining about Northern Ireland. Therefore, I wish to set the record straight.

I love living in Belfast. I love this city atmosphere, where live music is literally just around the corner. I love that during every conversation, the person you are talking to will ask, “Fancy a coffee?” The one exception to this is when you are already having coffee with that person. I love that this has caused me to spend more on coffee than I could have ever anticipated. I now have a portion of my budget titled “Caffeine”. 

I love the people. I love how people call you “Lass” or “Love” without any regard to the fact that they have just met you. I love that the butcher wants to know if I am able to carry my groceries home. I am terribly in love with the drunken old man who serenades the post office with old Broadway tunes – every day of the week. I even have an appreciation for the drunken old men who talk nonsense at the pub and demand songs to be played that no one knows. I am forever grateful to the friends I have made, amazing talented friends. I love that when I invite people over for dinner, they bring two things; alcohol and a guitar. 

I cannot say that I love the weather, but even Mother Nature and I have come to some sort of arrangement. I no longer question intense cold with the absence of snow, or the arrival of all seasons in one day. In turn, she does nothing different. But there is a definite felling of mutual respect. I have come to enjoy the brisk mornings (brisk is really a joke – morning are freaking cold here) and find myself frolicking in the winter air (frolicking is also a joke – I walk with a bounce in my step). 

And these are just a few of the many, ever growing things I love about Belfast.

Have a happy holiday. I know I will.

Kelsey

I'll Fly Away

December. How has it arrived so quickly? It feels like only yesterday I arrived - nervous and full of hope - ready to begin my time here in Belfast. But forgive me, it is starting to sound like an old folks home in here.

Life has continued, as it usually does, here in Belfast and the switch from November to December did not go without its moments.

As you know, or as you may not, Sunday was the first Sunday of Advent. Kind of a big deal, I hear. I should preface this story by saying that my time as a tag-along in the Catholic church has been going quite well. We had a rough start, what with me telling pagan jokes and informing the seminary members that I did not take communion because I was, and I quote, "Going to hell in a hand basket". (In my defense, I had no idea that any of those people were in the seminary - it is not as though they wear name tags.) But my time there had settled into a nice pattern; Father Gary jokes about secretly baptizing me and I retort that I will do my best not to get struck by lightning while in the chapel. Anyway, I was sure to do some research on the whole Advent thing before coming to church on Sunday. Here is what I had: coming of Jesus, lighting of candles, swaths of purple fabric invading your life, ect. ect. Well, that is what I had mentally prepared myself for on Sunday evening. So, when I was visually assaulted by a member of the KKK I was, understandably, shocked and frightened. 

Now, I know that at this point you all must be freaking out and expecting this story to take a horrid and dangerous turn that involves the police, me going to the hospital, and some choice swear words. Calm down, it does not end how you may think. 

The man in the white robe with the pointed hood was not, as it turns out, a member of the KKK. It was Father Gary, merely dressed in his Advent outfit (minus the purple swaths, of course), praying before the service, and certainly not expecting a girl to shriek "Jesus Christ!" and wallop him with a hymn book. I cannot explain what came over me as I threw my hymnal down on the priest, I can only tell you that at the time he looked to be a member of the KKK and I, certain that this was not a good thing, thought it my duty to protect ... well, protect someone that is for sure. I apologized profusely to Father Gary, explaining my somewhat broken thought process, and justifying it all by pointing out that his outfit did bear some resemblance to that of the KKK. He laughingly conceded to this point and made a comment about avoiding the south during Advent. I have never felt so ridiculous in my life. But he seems to have forgiven me - although I think I will do my best to look very solemn and focused during his next homily. 

In comparison to Sunday, the rest of the week seems rather dull. But I think a little "dull" could be nice in the life of a girl who walloped a priest. 

I will say one thing though; whoever put that "Yoga Sessions" sign outside our house may want to think of another location to advertise their business. While I personally am all for supporting yoga, the sign is in an inopportune place for our house. It has been only five days since the sign appeared and we have already had two woman in yoga outfits (complete with yoga mats) inquiring about yoga class times and instructors. I have half a mind to clear out the common room, buy myself some plants, and start charging 10 pounds for classes.

Kelsey