Cooking in Irish

My father loved to order salad in restaurants though he didn’t much like salad or restaurants.  What he did love, however, was to be asked what kind of dressing he wanted: French, Italian, or Russian. “Irish, of course,” he’d reply.  In response to the look of confusion and stuttering from the waiter, he’d repeat himself. One of us would explain: “That means no dressing at all. Plain. Irish.  Get it?”  And he’d laugh wildly as the waiter heh-heh-heh-ed politely.

greens

My father was no cook and he had no imagination when it came to food.  His palate was thoroughly Irish, he’d claim proudly—give him root vegetables, fish, soup and ice cream.  Lots of ice cream.  Honest, plain food needs no French-a-fying, he’d say.  It drove my mother crazy. An imaginative cook, she slipped in garlic and sometimes resorted to cooking a bland version just for him, adding fennel sausage or chile pepper to ours.  She said he had no capacity for complex flavorings because his mother had murdered the beautiful vegetables that tumbled from her garden and into her unfortunate pot. My grandmother’s cooking bordered on the criminal, according to my mother, except when it came to sweets. Then she was a wizard, conjuring up the most extraordinary lemon meringue pies, deep chocolate-y fudge and luscious layer cakes.

As a good Irish cook, she also made amazing fruitcake. No one, of course, actually likes fruitcake, but hers, after months and months of basting in Irish whiskey, was divine, like chewing a fine, fruity cognac (which it was essentially).  A loaf lasted forever, my brother snorted, because the thing was embalmed.

Last year I decided to try my hand at it.  My mother whispered good luck when she handed me the yellowed index card written in my grandmother’s slanted hand—it included no measurements, no timing, just a list of ingredients and “mix until a good consistency” and “cook in a slow oven until done.” Several old cookbooks and preserving guides on my shelves give similarly vague recipes. I used to think those writers were teasing me, safeguarding their secrets. Now they’re my favorites as they not only give me room to find my own balance of flavors, they insist on it.

Only when I departed from strict recipes did I learn how to cook. I love to read cookbooks but rarely follow recipes. When my husband reorganizes the spice shelves alphabetically, I promptly mess them up, clustering things according to how I use them (chervil has no business being next to cinnamon). I rarely know what I’ll cook until I’ve rooted around in the garden or the pantry. My shelves carry a trail of my cooking history and guide me in my next adventure. If I see something local at the grocery store—this week it was spinach–I’ll bring it home.  Then I’ll consult a pile of cookbooks—ah, the Italians like spinach stuffed into pasta, the Indians sear and spice it, the Moroccans fold it into seasoned yogurt. And my spice shelf will help me to recall whether mixing cinnamon with coriander and allspice worked with garlicky spinach.

Sometimes I have glorious failures.  Like my attempt at my grandmother’s recipe which turned out to be the stuff of bad fruitcake dreams.  Inedible.  Criminal.  I’m not quite sure what went awry apart from not enough or the wrong whiskey.  Letting taste and look guide me means I have to be okay with the occasional disaster. I have to try again.  And again.  I’ve learned to pay attention to the ingredients.  Dried herbs from the grocer, for instance, are usually much paler in taste than the ones I grow and dry, and so I have to adjust amounts accordingly. How can I squeeze a half lemon into a salad dressing if I have not tasted that lemon for tartness and flavor?  One lemon might be juicy and sweet, the one next to it dry and with more pith than flesh. When people ask me for a recipe I usually shrug and say I don’t exactly have one.

I’ve learned a lot from the tension between my mother’s kitchen exuberance and the Irish terseness — to understand spicing as enhancement not as frill or main act.  I let the primary ingredients speak.  Maybe that’s why I failed with the fruitcake—too much fruit, too little whiskey.  Maybe if my grandmother had just called it whiskey cake, I would have done better.

I draw the line at Irish salad dressing though.  That’s going too far.  Nope.  I head straight to my mother’s little bit of French heritage for this one–all lemony and bright and flavorful.

2 Comments on “Cooking in Irish”

  1. Barbara
    May 1, 2010 at 11:08 am #

    “Only when I departed from strict recipes did I learn how to cook. ”

    I love this line.

    It is so true…for cooking, for teaching, for learning, for life. Not that recipes or a sense of order and a plan aren’t important…they are. But the real power of learning comes from following a path…and then taking a step away to test your knowledge, your abilities, your skills. Oh to be able to improvise and to do so with confidence, vigor and enthusiasm.

    Yeah, sometimes those detours end up in failure (as I write I am staring at a charred saucepan I hurled onto the back patio when one of this week’s little kitchen “experiments” went up in smoke…literally). But failure, as you have often said before, is crucial to learning and growing. I learned a lot more from that little boo-boo. I probably learned much more than if I had followed the safe, secure, boring rules.

    You’ll never know how much you know unless you step off the path, the plan, the grid…and explore. Even if that means dropping the chicken on the floor (ala Julia Child) or careening wildly away from a yellowed recipe card from our ancestors…or starting a new adventure that meshes your interests and your passions and your love for your community 🙂

    Good on ya, dearie! It is so good to have you back.

    • May 1, 2010 at 6:24 pm #

      You’re so right–I could have been writing about magic in a classroom, and I was, just not the formal kind.

      I love the image of you hurling a smoking pot from your porch–I have done that a few times to be sure. And dropped dinner all over the floor, and nearly killed a guest who was allergic to hazelnuts… yeah, I’ve made some colossal mistakes in my kitchen and garden. But somehow, we’re all okay with that and can laugh off the failures (unless we’re forking over money in a restaurant). In classrooms that’s not quite so true. That’s why I’m here now where I can explore, experiment, learn, teach, grapple with issues of our day (over-population, climate change, economic challenge, health, deep learning, art, mindfulness) all while engaging with as diverse a population as we get in Vermont.

      Thanks for your cheers and encouragement. It means the world to me to have your support–after all, you are one of my great teachers. Besides, you’re married to an Irishman–you get me, you get this essay.

      bg

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