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

Alice's Restaurant

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays - and this love stems directly from the food involved. And I was not going to miss out on all the good food just because I was studying abroad in Northern Ireland. I also thought that by putting  on my own Thanksgiving feast I would forget that I was miles away from those that I love. So, bright and early on Thursday morning, the cooking began. Well, if I was perfectly honest, the cooking began Wednesday night. 

I prepared for Thanksgiving by making the pies the night before. Which was an adventure in itself. You see, many of the ingredients needed for a pumpkin pie are called by a different name in Belfast, or they simply do not exist. For instance, you won't find pumpkin puree in any local Irish grocer. This is because, for obvious reasons, people who reside in Belfast do not celebrate thanksgiving. Go figure. I searched high and low for the pumpkin and was just about to give up the search when I found a jar of some in a small health food store. I was the most enthusiastic customer in the store. Once I finally found all the ingredients I began to bake. And then found myself in another predicament. My directions included oven temperatures in Fahrenheit. But everything over here is in Celsius. Now, usually I would just pull out a computer and look up some conversions. But due to the lack of internet at my house, I did what any person would do. I did the conversions myself. With the help of some of my housemates. I paused at one moment and looked around, realizing the depth of our nerdiness, and felt that my mother would be very proud. I can recall many a baking adventure with my mother where she made me do all of the conversions myself, assuring me that I would thanks her one day, and now I can finally say what she has been knowing would come one day. 

Mom, you were right. It was very helpful. 

So, one hour later, I put my pies in the oven. I personally think it is a miracle that the pies turned out so well because I am almost positive that (despite having two math majors assist) our math was terribly wrong. 

Thursday arrived much to soon for me. I had to wake up before the sun to go get the turkey. I had planned to get to the butcher's when they opened to get my fresh turkey in enough time to brine it and cook it. (See previous blog for more Butcher Shop hilarity) I also employed the help of Simon, a housemate, to help me carry the turkey back to the house because I had been informed that it would be quite heavy. And it is a good thing I did. The turkey was massive. I mean, HUGE. The butcher was nice enough to give me a little meat thermometer as well because I had been commenting on how I was worried because I did not have one. At this point Simon is staring at the bird with complete awe. Then Declan, the butcher, and I chatted a little about Thanksgiving traditions while Simon proceeded to make wild gestures of unbelief at the turkey in the background. I have never seen a person so excited about a turkey. I mean, I was very excited as well, but I managed to keep it all contained. 

I brought the turkey home and unwrapped it. It was truly a massive bird. As I began preparing it and reading the directions I had a realization. It had not occurred to me that, when the directions said rub with salt, inside and out, it meant that I would have to put my hand inside the turkey. I do not think of myself as a squemish person, but this grossed me out just a bit. Oh, but there was more to come. I noticed a small bag next to the turkey, a mysterious red bag. As I was wondering what it might be, Karin came in to the kitchen to view the turkey. Together we cautiously open the bag. It was the heart and some other mysterious bird organs! Karin and I flew backwards in shock and disgust, both cringing. It was so nasty - they were bloody and everything. I am sure Declan thought he was being a nice guy - giving me some bird parts as an extra bonus - but I could have done without. They went into the trash. 

The rest of the day is filled with flashes of memory: peeling potatoes, chopping madly, mixing, melting, baking, cooking, taking occasional swigs from the cooking wine, basting, more temperature conversions, moments of panic, washing dishes, it all continues until a few minutes before people began arriving. Until that moment, I don't think I had actually stopped for air. But then everything came together. People came in, hugs and kisses were exchanged, and the feast began. Everything was wonderful. Among the champion dishes were, the green bean casserole, the turkey (I took their word for it), and the pecan pie. I was better than I had imagined. But I was tired. Exhausted is a better word. I kept thinking - How do people do this EVERY year and make it look so easy? It was all worth the effort though. For a little bit, I forgot that I was not home for my favorite holiday. 

So, I am thankful for this experince (how else would I learn how to make a turkey), thankful for all the news freinds who helped celebrate Thanksgiving, for being able to study abroad, for all of my family and those that I hold dear, and also for the people who make me feel important by actually reading this blog (Where is the motivation? I mean come on- the writing sucks!). 

Happy Thanksgiving.

Kelsey

Little Birdie

Today I ordered an honest to god, formerly clucking, turkey. And I feel very accomplished. Not exactly the emotion I imagined feeling after buying a turkey, especially being a vegetarian. But nonetheless, I am filled with triumphant joy. I feel as though I have just run across the finish line of an important race. My own personal Boston Marathon. 

The butcher shop where I placed an order for the blessed bird was exactly the sort of shop you imagine would be in a small town. The sigh outside assured you of the authenticity of the meat you were buying – “Real meat, Real Irish Farms, Real People” – and while I pondered why they would feel the need to be specific about the real meat (no fake stuff here!) I was more worried about the “real people” portion. Stepping into the shop, I could not help but admire the red and white striped awning that hung overhead, which perfectly matched the aprons of the store clerks (complete with matching hats). The store was littered with elderly women and a few, admittedly lost looking, husbands. I was the youngest person there by about fifty years. Even the clerk who took my order looked old enough to be my grandfather. He leaned over the counter and, after waving goodbye to some usuals, asked “What can I do for you love?”  I explained my turkey predicament; buying a frozen turkey and having to defrost it versus spending the extra pounds to buy a fresh turkey. He gave me a knowing look and said, “Thanksgiving?” And here I was, thinking I had concealed my Americanism so well. He chuckled and went about checking prices and turkey deliveries, while I chatted with a lovely woman (Susan) who was buying some lamb for this evening. Her grandson was coming into town for a visit – “He’s such a nice lad, it is a wonder her hasn’t found a girl yet, you should really meet him….” Lucky the butcher came back then or I fear I may have been going to dinner as her grandson’s welcome home surprise. 

In the end, I ordered my turkey and managed to leave knowing more about turkey than I had coming in. I almost didn’t make it out, a few old ladies tried to entice me with their own turkey recipes and discussions on proper brining (a word I learned today) and a debate over giblets (with or without?). By the time I left the store, with a wave from Declan the butcher, I felt like a usual myself. 

This really is a momentous occasion. My first thanksgiving turkey. I feel ever so important and grown up. This is the first thanksgiving I am not spending with family and, while I will miss Aunt Kathryn’s turkey and accoutrement, I feel that this is almost a rite of passage that I must complete. But I am also realizing the work that goes into Thanksgiving. There are so many things I must make – and all in one day?! How is it done? I am torn between buying some of the food pre-made and making it all for the sake of authenticity. I fear that I am too proud to buy pre-made food in this situation. Half of me is very rpoud of this – we will not yield to the pressures! – while the other half groans and thinks of all the work to be done. 

Now only one question remains in my mind: How am I going to fit a whole turkey into our tiny oven?

Wish me luck,

Kelsey