The Tale of the Thirteen Piece Fry

An Ulster Fry is the stuff of breakfast legend. As you would in England, Scotland or Ireland, you get eggs alongside ham, sausages, and mushrooms with an Ulster Fry. But the Ulster Fry goes a step further by adding fried soda bread and potato farls, oftentimes both black and white puddings, and sometimes a grilled tomato. It's kind of a must for any visit to this corner of the world. The idea of a 13 piece fry, proposed by Anna and Luke's grandfather, sounded heavenly. We decided we would tackle the fry on Monday morning, before I had to depart for Dublin.

And so begins the tale of the 13 piece fry.


We set out for Newcastle (Northern Ireland not England, mind you) and drove through countryside sort of like this. The build up for the fry was massive. This breakfast was becoming the event.


Newcastle is by the sea, though you can't tell from this photo. Do these people know how lucky they are to live in a town with a 13 piece fry?


We park and start off in search of the restaurant genius enough to offer a fry this big. What? The 13 piece fry has been downsized? Never mind. A fry's a fry.


The list of items: eggs, ham, sausage, mushrooms, black pudding, white pudding, potato bread, soda bread, tomato, pancake, and beans.


The tea arrived. Apparently tea is the most appropriate drink with a fry.


And then the blessed moment: the arrival of the fry.


Post-fry.


Payment for the fry(s).


Then we did what any self-respecting person would do; we went for coffee and ice cream. I thought this row of school children we passed was kind of artsy.


The possibilities for ice cream cake personalization are endless.


The sundaes. One was chocolate madness or something-or-other and the second was called pooh bear something-or-other.


My sundae view.


A hard day's work.

And so ends my short tale of the delicious 11 not 13 piece fry.

Getting Ready for a Trip!

I'm headed back to Ireland next month. Super duper!! I recently joined pininterest, so I've found myself distracted by pretty pictures for my boards. Here's a photo I pinned:

I originally saw these old travel posters way back in 2007 in a hotel called the Slieve Donard in County Down, Northern Ireland. Then I saw reprints at a LOVELY spot for breakfast in Holywood, Northern Ireland. Oh man is the food good at The Yard. And the adjoining art gallery is swell, too.
You don't have to fly all the way to Ireland to buy one of these prints. You don't even have to buy a print advertising travel to Ireland. This site has prints for sale for other destinations, including Scotland. I'm talking to you, Katherine!
Enjoy!

p.s. hey! I just noticed the tiny photo on that site was taken in The Yard. Huzzah!

p.s. again. I think I really like exclamation points today.

Significance

Last month I took a trip to Scotland to visit my dear friend, Katherine. One sunny afternoon, Katherine and I visited a used-book shop near her flat in St. Andrews. Here I found a beautiful leather-bound volume of John Keats' poetry.

One of the poems, "Walking in Scotland," caught my eye as I flipped the old letter-pressed pages during my first night as owner of this book. Keats captures an aspect of Scotland--and Ireland and England and Wales, for that matter--that is hard for a visitor to articulate. Well, it's hard for this visitor to articulate.

"There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain..."

The poem, to me at least, articulates the feeling of significance that seems to quietly rise up from the shores of these tiny bits of land that once seemed to conquer every corner of the world. Each castle and stone bridge has a long memory of battles fought and love won and adventures sought.

Lately I've been feeling quite the opposite--very insignificant. I feel as though I will always live hand-to-mouth each month. I am discouraged in the departments of love and looks. I am tired and bored. I feel invisible.

But I know I am not alone in these fits of melancholy.

Today I spoke with three friends. One was fearful about an upcoming change in jobs, another was full of regret for her decision to enroll at a particular school, and the third was discouraged about learning that a guy she hoped would be was actually not to be. In all of these conversations, I wanted to say, "Woe is I! Listen to my pathetic lot! I'm eternally dateless! I'm earning less than all of my friends! I drive a Civic that is covered in dust and dents! I'm so selfish lately I can hardly stand to be around myself!" But I didn't.

Instead I listened in amazement at the words of encouragement that came from my mouth. In this dark place I seem to have taken up residence, I somehow saw light. As with many people, I presume, depression a loyal friend to me. But I am glad to know that this friend, very much unwanted, is not making the decisions around here like it once was.

All of which reminded me of something Katherine said over a pint back in Scotland, the gist of which was: "It's not what we dream that matters. It's what we do when we wake up." Very wise words.

And now for a few photos:

Short Story: The Spoon

Dear Internet -

Yes, I know. I owe you pictures from my trip to Scotland and Ireland last month as well as stories of the grand and not-so-grand adventures that have kept me too busy to write to you. For now, a peace offering in the form of a tiny story I wrote for a writing class last year.

***

The spoon belonged to a set of flatware called “True Rose”. Purchased from a JC Penny’s wedding registry, the spoon was tucked inside a velvet pouch before embarking on a life of transit between drawers, bowls and dishwashers. The stem was graceful and strong; embossed scrolls defined its edges. At the tip, a tiny rose.

To bend the handle, a bit of force had to be applied, for the spoon’s stem never intended to be shaped like a tear. Once the stem bowed and weakened at the center, the spoon could wrap itself around a finger. The spoon became more than a vessel for Cheerios and Fruit Loops.

The spoon was passed—from a girl with brown hair dyed shades of gold and honey to a boy called Tom. The shallow palm of the spoon held one tiny rock. A flame danced along the smooth curve of the spoon, and the rock began to bubble and hiss.
First came the smell of marshmallows roasting. Then, like a marshmallow left to rest over a campfire for too long, the caramel aroma burned. By the time the spoon held only liquid, the room filled with the acrid smells of ammonia and sulfur.

Oh sweet alchemy! Several drops of poison transformed despairs into moments of escape. In the darkest of night, time lost all power. A deep, soul-full horn signaled that somewhere, away from here, a train snaked through the thick Pentecostal pines toward the banks of a river.

The spoon sat on the coffee table, its warmth fogging up the glossy cherry finish. The belly of the spoon was now charred, bearing the color of grief.

My Fashion Icon Cooks a Mean Irish Stew

On Sunday, "60 Minutes" aired an interview with Anna Wintour, the matriarch of the fashion world. The interview was interesting and safe. Ms. Wintour is an incredible editor--no doubt about that. She is perhaps the only woman who could tell Oprah Winfrey to lose 20 pounds and not get slapped in the face for it.

Every month Ms. Wintour tries her hardest to persuade me that someone like Giselle Bundchen, with her linguine legs and flat tummy, should be my fashion icon.

This morning, as I was pulling together a few cookbooks for a coworker, I chose my fashion icon. When I lived in Belfast, I watched Rachel Allen's cooking show regularly. Ms. Allen is from Ireland and teaches at the Ballymaloe Cookery School in Cork. In each show, she was laid back and often cooking with pink pots and spatulas. Even though I've never met Rachel Allen, I felt her clothes said a lot about her personality: detail-oriented; conscious of style without being obnoxiously trendy; feminine; authentic. I couldn't tell you what kind of personality Giselle has (she's usually photographed sans top).

So I declare the Irish chef Rachel Allen to be my fashion icon.


(I found this photo at nydailynews.com)

I've Arrived. But Just Where Am I?

A couple of weeks ago (or was it 3?), I went to see Matt Hale perform at The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. Matt usually goes by the moniker Aqualung, so if you're shopping around for some new albums full of well-crafted songs, look for that name.

When he took his seat behind his upright piano, he announced to us all: "I've arrived." We clapped, of course, and enjoyed 40 minutes-or-so of songs and banter.

I've been thinking about that announcement these past few days. I've arrived. Usually you tell someone you've arrived at a destination as in, "I'm outside your house now," or "I landed at the airport." But we can also arrive at ideas or stages of growth. And those places aren't easily located on a map.

The place I've arrived at recently doesn't come up in any GPS system or on Mapquest. I hardly know what to call this place at which I've arrived. Instead, I find myself frequently (as recently as this morning, in fact) telling people that I'm here in LA for now. Or I'm here at this job for now. I seem to be focusing on "now" a lot, now that I think about it.

A couple of friends recently challenged me to be more aggressive with my career aspirations. For the record, I climbed off the corporate latter a long time ago with no intention of ever getting back on that blasted thing. Well, this place I've arrived doesn't really seem concerned with career aspirations. Instead, this place I've arrived is more concerned with the intangible: relationships, education, experiences. These aren't things usually scored on employee reviews.

While this place may be difficult to describe or locate, I know exactly how I got here. By way of a life-changing year abroad and a challenging year at home. One year gave me opportunities to work with magnificent people who thought and operated completely differently than any of my former colleagues. The other gave me opportunities to work with people I had literally known since my infancy. Both were challenging. Both gave me perspective. And from where I sit now, life seems especially fragile and resilient all at the same time.

This past week my sister completed a long and grueling program that will hopefully right her course. Next week she moves into a new home. In many ways she begins a new life next week: a new job, a new return address to write on letters, a new set of challenges. But I am praying fervently that she savors this moment. For such a time as this, she has arrived at this this season of new relationships and lessons to be learned.

For such a time as this, I am in Los Angeles working alongside incredible people in an incredible field of work. For such a time as this, I am living in a small apartment with a big kitchen and neighbors from far away cities. For such a time as this, I've arrived at this time of uncertainty full of routine.

And I am determined to make the most of it.

Yay for Autumn!

In honor of the first day of fall, I'm posting a blog entry from the blog I kept while living in Belfast last year.


Here's a tip for those travelling thru Ireland in autumn/fall: fall is not a season but a verb. (Evidence of this gorgeous season in the Mourne Mountains below)

A Tourist Trap Worth Falling Into

OK, so this may sound so obvious as a destination for your future trip to Ireland ('cause I'm counting on your coming down with the emerald fever), but I have to give big, big props to the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. It is - in a word - amazing.

The tour is self-guided and is spread over several floors of an old building probably once used for creating that delicious stuff the Irish sometimes call black gold. Once you have paid the 15 Euro fee (for adults), you follow the large black arrows into a dark room. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim lights and for your senses to kick into overdrive as you wonder, "What is that smell? Is that a waterfall I hear?" That joyous smell is of barley, one of the four ingredients used to make Guinness. And yes, that is a waterfall you hear, sort of. It is a ginormous (I'm acting like that is a real word) display of water falling over a glass ceiling that you will walk under, my friend.

There are videos and loads of photos and old artifacts. An entire wing of an upper floor is devoted to old promotional items and adverts.

I save the best part of the tour for last, though. When you finish your leisurely and very educational tour of the Storehouse, you will take either a lift or a flight of stairs to the top of the building where you will be greeted by a FREE pint o' Guinness and this magnificent view:



The waterfall feature:


An old poster on display:


The grand finale:


Promise the next post related to Ireland will not be on the subject of beer or places where you can get beer. In the meantime, if you want to see more of the gorgeous Guinness Storehouse, go here: www.guinness-storehouse.com

A Pretty Fantastic Place To Lay Your Head

Hands down, my favourite place to stay in Ireland (Northern Ireland, to be exact) is a place called Clenaghans, located just outside of Belfast. If I didn't have an in with the owners of Clenaghans, there is no way I'd share this little secret with you.

It's a kickin' establishment with one of the best restaurants you've ever visited and 5 absolutely stunning self-service apartments. The small pub adjacent to the restaurant is exactly what you envision an Irish country pub to be: stone walls, corner fireplace burning peat, good banter and endless pints of beer. I honestly cannot praise this place enough to do it justice. Perhaps photos will help my cause?

View from the road


Kitchen & Sitting Area - Apartment 1


Outside View - Apartment 1


Upstairs Kitchen And Sitting Room - Apartment 2


Upstairs Sitting Area - Apartment 2


Oh who am I kidding. My words and these photos do no do this place justice. The remedy? Ring Ivan directly and book yourself a room. Tell him Elisabeth from Habitat sent you.

http://www.clenaghans.com/