The Irish Times today told us that in Ireland there are 5,800 men at home looking after children full-time. Imagine!
We (for I am one, dear reader) are now to be known as yummie daddies.
Our patron saint deserves a mention and will lead us to pray:
Friday 13 March 2009
Thursday 12 March 2009
Raspberry Jam Man
I once had a shop in Greystones - a food emporium. A small old-fashioned greengrocer that stocked your usual fruit and veg with some exotica like mangos, wild mushrooms, etc as well as olives, buffalo mozzarella and tins of this and jars of that. One of the best products to be had in this delightful bazaar was the jams and marmalades. This was no ordinary jam but the best in Ireland. Made by an industrious elderly couple in their kitchen in Newtownmountkennedy, he growing the fruit, she making the jam, they supplied only a handful of small shops in north Wicklow.
Anyway, as you can imagine the work was hard but the crack was mighty and the staff and I enjoyed ourselves no end. Sometimes, even, the customers provided the entertainment.
One man brought us on many occasions to tears with the gut-bursting laughter and puerile innuendo. Old and very unattractive, dressed in a long black leather overcoat (think gestapo) and matching trilby, in all weathers, he would visit every week or so and buy our total stock of raspberry jam. Needless to say we came to rather filthy conclusions as to what he exactly did with so much of our jam (as no-one could possibly eat this amount in a week) and that old leather outfit of his. We christened him 'Raspberry Jam Man'. Seedy was the word and not just the jam.
Picture the scene when he would rather slowly walk in wearing his grin (for he knew we knew), ask for all the raspberry jam we had and poor me (I always got the weirdos) serving the old perv and the staff sniggering into their sleeves in the store out the back. The female members of the crew took a particular dislike to him and wouldn't serve him, much to his disappointment as he would tilt and strain his head to see if he could get a glimpse of the girls hiding (and giggling like 11-year-olds) in the back store. I on the other hand resented this man. Why should he get all the raspberry? Keep a few for the others, the normal customers who bought stuff for normal dietary reasons. So I would tell him that I could only sell him eight of the ten jars as we had other people who delighted in this treat. He didn't like that.
The story only became stranger when, by a remarkable fluke of serindipity we discovered what this man does by day: he is, and I do not lie, a medical Doctor.
Anyway, as you can imagine the work was hard but the crack was mighty and the staff and I enjoyed ourselves no end. Sometimes, even, the customers provided the entertainment.
One man brought us on many occasions to tears with the gut-bursting laughter and puerile innuendo. Old and very unattractive, dressed in a long black leather overcoat (think gestapo) and matching trilby, in all weathers, he would visit every week or so and buy our total stock of raspberry jam. Needless to say we came to rather filthy conclusions as to what he exactly did with so much of our jam (as no-one could possibly eat this amount in a week) and that old leather outfit of his. We christened him 'Raspberry Jam Man'. Seedy was the word and not just the jam.
Picture the scene when he would rather slowly walk in wearing his grin (for he knew we knew), ask for all the raspberry jam we had and poor me (I always got the weirdos) serving the old perv and the staff sniggering into their sleeves in the store out the back. The female members of the crew took a particular dislike to him and wouldn't serve him, much to his disappointment as he would tilt and strain his head to see if he could get a glimpse of the girls hiding (and giggling like 11-year-olds) in the back store. I on the other hand resented this man. Why should he get all the raspberry? Keep a few for the others, the normal customers who bought stuff for normal dietary reasons. So I would tell him that I could only sell him eight of the ten jars as we had other people who delighted in this treat. He didn't like that.
The story only became stranger when, by a remarkable fluke of serindipity we discovered what this man does by day: he is, and I do not lie, a medical Doctor.
Tuesday 10 March 2009
Blessed are the breadmakers
Now that the youngest member of the house has reached an age where her diet more resembles an adult's than a baby's and has acquired a fondness for cheese on toast, bread has entered our home. One of my greatest weaknesses is bread and butter. Not foie gras, truffles or caviar, you ask? Well, I can take or leave the gourmet delicacies you may find in a fine restaurant but without bread and butter I will die.
We have previously had a ban on all baked goods and I must say, after an initial period of withdrawal and secret feasts in lunch spots, it took some getting used to. But we came through it and managed to eat very little bread. Sadly, however, its great for the wee ones and, they get the best of butter and full fat milk too would you believe. So, with the sorrow of one defeated and back on the crack, I buy nice wholemeal bread, the Kerrygold and cream, full-fat milk and blocks of cheese, (Emmenthal is a hit) all being devoured by the parents like prisoners released.
The best bread in the world is French. You can buy poor bread in France too, of course but overall the consistency of quality bread throughout the land is one of the main reasons we travel there. The quantity consumed by the French would lead you to believe along with wine and cheese that it's the heart attack capital of the world but no, not at all, hence The French Paradox. (I'll leave you to google that one).
I have thought about my lust for flour and dairy and conclude that my descent from the peasant population has left its indelible agricultural mark on my appetite. For example, I can not eat white soda bread without thinking of my grandmother in her country cottage up to her elbows in flour, measuring everything by sight, mixing with one hand and the loaf appearing from the range, its own warmth melting the hard cold butter. White soda bread (it must be white) paved with butter and blackberry jam from the briars in the fields is part of our national heritage as much as your georgian houses or Pearse himself.
We have previously had a ban on all baked goods and I must say, after an initial period of withdrawal and secret feasts in lunch spots, it took some getting used to. But we came through it and managed to eat very little bread. Sadly, however, its great for the wee ones and, they get the best of butter and full fat milk too would you believe. So, with the sorrow of one defeated and back on the crack, I buy nice wholemeal bread, the Kerrygold and cream, full-fat milk and blocks of cheese, (Emmenthal is a hit) all being devoured by the parents like prisoners released.
The best bread in the world is French. You can buy poor bread in France too, of course but overall the consistency of quality bread throughout the land is one of the main reasons we travel there. The quantity consumed by the French would lead you to believe along with wine and cheese that it's the heart attack capital of the world but no, not at all, hence The French Paradox. (I'll leave you to google that one).
I have thought about my lust for flour and dairy and conclude that my descent from the peasant population has left its indelible agricultural mark on my appetite. For example, I can not eat white soda bread without thinking of my grandmother in her country cottage up to her elbows in flour, measuring everything by sight, mixing with one hand and the loaf appearing from the range, its own warmth melting the hard cold butter. White soda bread (it must be white) paved with butter and blackberry jam from the briars in the fields is part of our national heritage as much as your georgian houses or Pearse himself.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Paris
All over Europe they like to prune their trees, rather neatly and eerily though.
They reminded me of something:
Kill Bill
Tarantino has been mentioned before here I know but while looking over favourite Kill Bill scenes lately, the soundtrack has caused a minor sensation in these parts. This is particularly good for getting a certain chica clappin like crazy:
A master at dredgin up the greats is our Quentin.
A master at dredgin up the greats is our Quentin.
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