Welcome! Due to the large ocean and/or lack of cell phone coverage between myself and the United States, I have been urged to create a blog to document my trip across the Atlantic. I hope that you will find my posts entertaining, if not grammatically correct.
I regret to inform you that my life has been fairly uneventful. Well, that is not completely true. I have been to Scotland, Edinburgh, as well as explored the beauty of Dublin (but on Good Friday, so everything was closed and I only saw the inside of a noodle bar.) Here is a brief summary -
Edinburgh: Beautiful. New Town, Old Town - I love it all. I recommend going with someone with an eye for architecture, that way you will learn oodles of information about Palladian architecture.
Edinburgh University
Quartet of kids playing outside St. Giles Cathedral; two violins, a cello, and a ukulele!
Hamish, the highland cow (pronounced "coo") we met at the rest stop for the highland day trip.
Kaiser - the giant schnauzer I met in Oban!
Alright, I'll admit it, I was taking pictures of old people. But they just look so happy!
WWII memorial. And seagull.
Back in Edinburgh - the Holy Rood House!
Edinburgh Castle
Dublin: I think Dublin would've been a far more exciting trip had we not arrived on Good Friday. The thought that things might not be open would've never occurred to me. I am American...we don't have an official national religion. So trying to see anything in Catholic Dublin on Good Friday was useless. But I saw lots of things from the outside! Dublin Castle, The National Gallery, The National Archaeology Museum, the Library, The Guinness Museum, and a variety of Churches. The noodle bar was perhaps the most exciting building that we actually saw the inside of!
Exploring Trinity College
The anarchists of Trinity College fight back!
Wondering if there is anything open on Good Friday.
The Guinness Museum, closed for the day. (The gentleman to the right is my boyfriend - about time he made an appearance; he was my travelling companion.)
A museum, with its doors open?! Could it be?
No, it was a horrific lie.
The moral of the story is DON'T go to Dublin on Good Friday.
But what I really wanted to tell you about was my Saturday. The most exciting portion of my life since Dublin! On Saturday, my housemate Karin and I headed down to the St. Georges Market that takes place in Belfast every Saturday. There you can find various types of food - produce, seafood, and a wide variety of cheeses and pestos, crafts - everything from pottery to home-made clocks, and an tempting array of take-away stands; all of which is accompanied by local music. For lunch I enjoyed a Falafel wrap from a Lebanese stand, and they the wonderful wondering began!
Oh I did mean ALL types of crafts - even doggie bandanas.
Karin and I stopped to check out the eggs and then thought, "What the heck - let's get Duck eggs!" I have not been disappointed in my decision, they are super tasty! He even let us pick which eggs we wanted!
The lovely woman Karin and I bought our desserts from - soooo good.
I also got a honey milkshake and a box of fresh strawberries. Karin indulged in dome cooked stone crab claws and made me wish I was allowing myself to eat fish - they looked amazing! The music of the day was done by a dear old man and featured many Bob Dylan classics. My favorite part about the market is the variety combined with genuine people and good food! It was a wonderful way to spend the morning, even though I ate way too much food.
There was no reason to take this picture other than the dog is adorable.
St. Patty’s Day. In Belfast. I would follow those statements
with “Need I say more?”, but I do actually plan to say more.
It started in the morning with pancakes. I should mention
that, in the full spirit of the day, they were green pancakes. I had picked up
some green food coloring and applied it to the pancakes which what I thought
was a liberal douse. But one of my housemates – who shall remain nameless to protect his identity – mentioned that they
were not green enough. I disagreed, but in an attempt to please his pertinent
cries I reached for the green food coloring. Or so I thought. You see, I had
also perchased peppermint extract which was encased in green wrapping, which
contrasted with the red wrapping covering the green food coloring. I must
comment on the epic fail completed by the producers of the brand – covering
green food coloring in red. So, as I am sure you may have figured out, I added
some peppermint extract to our green pancakes. Oops. Solution: Make more
pancake mix!! I can’t say that the final product was completely devoid of
peppermint (it sort of snuck up on you at the end), but I was happy with the amount
of recovery made.
Making the Green Pancakes
After digesting our green – and somehow minty – pancakes,
the house commenced into our ceremonial green for the St. Patty’s Day Festival
in the center of Belfast. It was…a bit disappointing. But there was green as
far as the eye could see. Then it was off the pub for lunch (and a pint) and
watching some games. Good fun was had by all.
Sometime after all this good fun took place, I headed home
to cook dinner for the infamous Choir Saturday Event. It all went as planned –
but with one exception. The dessert – green for the occasion – went terribly. I
was trying to make these chocolate-fudge-mint-brownie concoctions and didn’t
have enough powdered sugar to make anything right. But I stubbornly moved
forward and continued to try and fix the problem with flour and regular sugar
and so on. My efforts were in vain. The idea was to chill the dessert – but it
wouldn’t chill properly. So, in haste, I threw it in the freezer. And promptly
forgot that I had put it in the freezer. So when I remembered and rushed to
remove it, the mint-thing had frozen solid. The melted chocolate layer I had
placed on top of the mint had completely solidified, while the mint layer
underneath was still gooey. Trying to cut it into squares was, well, frankly
impossible. It went everywhere – mint as far as the eye can see. Luckily, my
guests were not cuisine experts and were thus overjoyed as the miss-shapen
results of my valiant, and slightly drunken, efforts. Of course, the two
bottles of wine may have helped turn their opinions favorable.
I must apologize for the lack of posts in the past few weeks. This semester is proving to be more convoluted than the last. But the spring semester is always more – difficult, busy, quick, crazy, ect. – than the fall semester. It is just “More” in general. My past few weeks have been filled with work – essay after essay. This means that I have been spending most of my time in the library; an exciting life I lead.
Have you ever noticed how awkward the library is? I always feel like the loudest person in the world upon entering one. I think it is because of the stereotypical librarians looking at me over their horn-rimmed glasses – I am constantly in fear of the dreaded “shush”. I walk into the main lobby and as I cross the marble floor (it is always some sort of marble/tile flooring) towards the stairs my shoes suddenly take on a life of their own and become insanely loud. Were my shoes this loud before? How on earth are they making this much noise? And because I have dared to wear loud shoes within the sanctuary of the library, the woman sitting at the information desk looks up and raises an eyebrow, casting a disapproving look at myself in general, but specifically the offending shoes. I somehow manage to make it to the stairs without attracting the attention of the short-term loan book guy (I never know what to call him; is he a book overseer? Or would he prefer guardian of the temporary novels?) and start to tip-toe up the stairs to the second floor. But because this is a library in Northern Ireland and not the US of A I am presented with two problems. 1) I am not familiar with the stair etiquette. In the states, it mirrors the road. You drive on the right, you walk on the right. But we are in Northern Ireland- they drive on the left. The question is – do they also WALK on the left. 2) What floor is classified as the “second floor”? I have found it difficult in the past to discern what level anything is on due the difference between ground floor and first floor. The library is no exception.
Naturally, hilarity follows. I start walking up the stairs on the left, assuming I should follow traffic laws. Immediately I run into someone coming down the stairs. Now I am concerned – is this just a confused student who, like me, is unsure of what side of the stairs to walk on? Or could this be a wise and learned student who has been bestowed the knowledge of the stairs? I move over the right assuming that is where I should be, but then run into another person coming down the stairs. After this it is just a crazy few minutes of me dodging people on the stairs and receiving various strange looks – probably due to the amount of thought I seemed to be putting into walking up the stairs. I make it to the second floor and head for the music section, only to realize that in my haste to get up the stairs I have only made it to the first floor. I decide to forgo the stairs and risk taking the elevator.
I say “risk” because I, like every five year-old, enjoy jumping in the elevator a few seconds before it stops to appreciate the “zero-gravity” feel. This is a past-time that I have enjoyed for years; my favorite memory consists of a school trip to some space museum in Tallahassee. We arrived there early so my mother, to keep us occupied, had us taking the car park elevator up to the top level, jumping for the zero gravity, running down the stairs in the car park to the bottom floor, and then riding the elevator up and doing it all over again. Sometime after that, I was told not to jump in an elevator because I could break it and we would plummet to our death. But I am a risk taker – so I always jump and pray that the elevator can handle it. Anyway, I get it the elevator and am so preoccupied that I unconsciously jumped before it stopped. The two students and reference librarian were very concerned.
Needless to say – I try to avoid the library when it is very busy.
Last weekend began the first of many, I hope, Saturday night choir rehearsals. The agenda was to be as follows: I go over the Lenin and Lionel's new house and make dinner for the rest of the choir, who then comes over to eat, then practice, then I make dessert, and then we eat dessert. Simple.
Only no gathering is ever simple or blase when you involve Lenin and Lionel.
I got over to their house and began preparations for a basic pasta dinner. Cook the pasta, cut up the various vegetables for the sauce, grate cheese, ect. Simple. But Lenin and Lionel are not used to the amount of food I make in preparation for people. I always expect that the people coming to eat are half-starved teenage boys who are going to devour everything in sight. The problem was their stove was rather small and their pots/pans were also very small. Food was overflowing everywhere. Somehow I managed to keep order. People arrived - food was enjoyed by all. Rehearsal started. The things took a turn for the interesting.
The small kitchen
During the "rehearsal" process we discovered that the previous tennants had left behind some alcohol. How the guys missed this is beyond me. It was suggested that we help them dispose of said alcohol. Rehearsal got far more exciting.
Pre-wine
Post-wine
Needless to say, it was a great rehearsal. After we had practiced and felt dutifully prepared for Mass the next day, I began making dessert. I was going to try and create baked custard. Now, I had attempted this once before at my own house, with familiar tools and stoves and such. But I felt confident that all would end well. Part of difficultly of baked custard is the actual baking process. You have to put the custard in your "custard cups" (or coffee mugs for the college student), then place the mugs in a oven proof bowl/baking dish and finally - after placing it in the oven - add hot water to the bowl/baking dish. The idea is that the water cooks the custard and not the heat from the oven. So you have to be sure that whatever you put the mugs in (bowl/baking dish) has a high enough rim to reach the approximate height of the custard in the individual cups. Well, as I have previously stated, their stove was small, the pans were equally small. So it is possible that the water was not high enough. That was only one issue. The real concern was when I opened the oven to check on them and it started yelling at me - the oven that is. Yelling is not really the right word. It sounded like someone was snapping very loudly inside the oven. It is possible that the sugar was burning.
"The oven is yelling at me."
Naturally, I was a little worried about this. Solution as offered by the boys: Ignore it and turn the oven temperature up. That may not have been the best idea, but I was under the influence of free wine and may not have been thinking properly. The custard did eventually get eaten - but it did not look as you would expect custard to look. It was, oddly enough, watery. There was literally enough water in each mug that you could have poured it out of the cups. It did not have the smooth consistency you want. All in all - very strange. That, however, did not stop anyone from eating it. It was still quite edible - tasty even - but I have resolved that next time the custard will be beautiful.
The evening continued with more singing - of louder and louder volumes - until I questioned the happiness of their neighbors and it was decided that the party should dissolve. Not an "epic" night by any means, but truly a night to remember.
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.
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.
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.
