Early this autumn, I was picking wild blackberries at my secret spot by the football pitch, nudging aside the brambles and gingerly plucking the darkest, shiniest berries into my bucket. Three different dog walkers passed and started chatting happily about their memories of doing the same when they were young ones.
Back home, while I was cooking the berries down to make jam, it occurred to me that maybe what I’m really doing is finally living my Irish childhood – at almost 70 years old.
Five years ago this Christmas, my wife and I rented out our house in southern California, put most of our belongings into storage and flew to Ireland with five suitcases to begin what we thought would be a year-long adventure.
We planned to use Waterford as a home base, spending precious time with our wee grandbabies and jetting off regularly to visit friends and explore Europe.
Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?
Now here we are, comfortably ensconced in a wonderful home, in a terrific city, surrounded by family and dear friends. It has been an adventure, indeed. Within a couple of months of our arrival, Ireland and the rest of the world went into the deep pandemic lockdown. Instead of heading for Italy, it felt like an adventure walking the dog to People’s Park.
When we emerged, my wife and I no longer felt like tourists in Ireland. Rather, it seemed like we almost belonged – at least as much as a couple of blow-ins can in a town where everyone seems to have known each other since creche. I even passed my Irish driver’s test.
No small part of that for me has been writing this regular column for the Irish Times. What started as a one-off after Marie Claire Digby saw my tweet about moving to Ireland with only three knives, has now, to my amazement, stretched to nearly 50 columns.
After 30 years in Los Angeles, Ireland feels like a balm. I can sum up the difference in the two places quite simply: We loved California when we lived there for its excitement; we love Ireland now for its peace: the soft days, the deep green woods, the rocky beaches, and the friendly bit of craic with strangers.
As the food editor at the Los Angeles Times, part of my job for almost 30 years was staying on top of what might be the busiest food scene in the world.
We lived within a 30-minute drive of a half-dozen different ethnic “villages” each with its own markets and restaurants catering to a demanding and knowledgeable audience – Little Tokyo, Little Saigon, Koreatown, the predominantly Chinese San Gabriel Valley, as well as the nearly ubiquitous influences of Mexico and central America.
As a columnist specialising in cooking and sourcing, I was at farmers markets nearly every week, seeking out the best growers and developing recipes using their fruits and vegetables. I even wrote a book about it.
In those days, I tracked the changing of seasons not by the weather (pretty much always sunny and hot), but by the food I was cooking – citrus and greens in the winter, peaches and tomatoes in the summer.
[ Ireland is a cabbage wonderland: take it from this blow-in chefOpens in new window ]
I don’t need to tell you that no such guide is necessary in Ireland, where the changing of seasons is, shall we say, more emphatic (even when they all come on the same day).
But everything in its season. While my choice of ingredients in Ireland might not be as wide-ranging as it was in Los Angeles, I like to think my appreciation of what I have has become deeper.
I do have my seasonal markers still – rhubarb starting in early spring, then Wexford strawberries, then apples from my neighbour’s 100-year-old tree, and my foraged blackberries.
And I’ve become familiar with ingredients about which I previously knew relatively little – the differences between savoy and sweet heart cabbages, and between roosters and queens. I’ve come to appreciate more deeply the complexities possible in even seemingly simple ingredients such as carrots and parsnips.
Don’t even get me started about bacon, which in the US is only smoked and streaky, fried to a salty crispness. Is there a more soulful dish anywhere than good Irish bacon simmered with cabbage, served with steamed potatoes and a ladle of broth?
Indeed, the meat in general here is so far superior to what I was used to, whether it’s the beef, pork or lamb, locally grown and cut to order from Kearney’s, my neighbourhood butcher, or the terrific duck from Silver Hill that seems to be in every supermarket.
The same goes for seafood. It’s still a bit puzzling to me that more Irish eaters aren’t enthusiastic about it. Irish oysters are among the best I’ve ever had. And fresh-off-the-boat mackerel is one of my favourite treats. My seafood market (located in a convenience store in Dunmore East) specialises in locally landed fish – John Dory, turbot, various types of sole. And my neighbourhood SuperValu is almost as good.
Irish cheeses and dairy products need no additional praise from me – suffice to say that St Tola, Cashel, Cooleeney and others are the equals of anything anywhere. It seems every time I walk past the Sheridan’s kiosk, there is a new treasure waiting for me. Just the other day I picked up some raw milk cheddar from Mount Leinster that knocked my socks off.
Cooking is still the centre of my day – my mindfulness practice. The time spent chopping, slicing and sautéing centres me and gives me peace.
[ Russ Parsons: Lamb that tastes of the Irish mountainside on which it is rearedOpens in new window ]
I start planning what to have for dinner as soon as I’ve finished lunch. What’s the weather like? What do I have in the refrigerator? Most important: what do I feel like making?
Freed from the demands of creating a half-dozen recipes a month for work, I find myself falling into an easy rhythm of my favourite dishes, shuffled as the mood strikes, with the occasional wild card inspiration tossed in to keep me fresh.
When she was growing up, my daughter used to ask at suppertime: “Is this dinner, or is this a recipe test?”
These days, it’s always dinner.
