A Saint Patrick's Day feed of poetically purple prose porn.
I know this is a cruel thing to do to those of you who are far away from Ireland's kitchens so, if you have a craving for bacon and spuds and cabbage upon you at this moment, then stop reading here and scroll elsewhere. PLEASE GO NOW.....I WILL BE BACK NEXT WEEK.........
Those of you who are still here, accordingly, should be informed that of all the foods and gastronomic delights of all the cultures of the world nothing, in its time and season, compares with the total experience of Irish Spuds and Irish Collar Bacon and Irish Cabbage all combined together for what we call a "good feed". Those who have departed from us, dear remaining readers, have departed because they are in farflung corners of this complex world and know that it would break their hearts to be reminded, in all the detail I am about to give, of the sheer sensual joy of the kind of plates of Bacon and Cabbage that their mothers and grandmothers used place before them as a matter of course.
You can travel the world over at the highest level of luxury. You can devour exotic dishes of all the other cultures. You can have fillet steak and Peking Duck and Italian Pastas and goulashes and curries and stir fries, banquets of Beef Wellington, fifteen course dinners of all the savouries and sweet concoctions of all the nations famed for their cuisine. You can have caviar and birds' nest soup and alligator steaks, Cajun suckling pig and shark's fins and yet, if you have any iota of Irish blood in you at all, nothing will ever quite reach into the deep marrow of your soul's content as a good feed of Bacon and Cabbage.
The mood came upon me yesterday. When that mood descends upon the top of your head, as it did with me quite suddenly, then it links immediately with the pit of the stomach and you instantly know what it feels like to be addicted to cocaine or substances of that nature. You must have your fix. Inside five minutes I was inside the splendid Corofin establishment of Tom Hogan Junior and Senior and it was Tom Junior who was behind the counter.
I need, says I, the Feed. Young Tom is wise beyond his years. I did not need to say anything further. One speedy sortie through Tom's emporium and he laid before me a small sack of Golden Wonder spuds, the very finest spuds in the world, together with a lovely wedge of Munster Collar Bacon lightly smoked, and as fine a head of cabbage as I've ever clapped an eye on. This head of cabbage was green on the outside and white on the inside and as solidly constructed as the poll of an elder of Ian Paisley's Free Presbyterian church. The cost was minimal. It was less than the cost of one tiny thigh of a smoked quail I'd paid for in Galway just one week earlier.
I went home. The Dutch Nation, whom I love, does not yet understand the workings of Bacon and Cabbage so I did the cooking my own self, growing ever more feverishly famished by the minute. The big saucepan was produced and the head of cabbage, thoroughly washed, was chopped and put down in clear cold water surrounding the smoked collar of Bacon. The lid was replaced and the heat set for a long slow boiling process that would cook the beautiful Bacon in a way that would spread its smokey slightly saltified juices though the concurrently cooking green and white cabbage beneath an aromaticating froth. This froth, burbling happily away under the lid of the saucepan, slowly but subtly began to spread its olfactorification and glorification right throughout the kitchen and beyond. Soon, standing at the sink washing the Golden Wonders, I became almost giddy with a combination of expectation and sheer animal hunger.
Golden Wonder spuds are the princesses of their species. They are pear-shaped beauties whose skin, paradoxically, feels coarse and gritty to the touch but is quite remarkably delicate at the same time. They are the perfect spuds to travel alongside Bacon and Cabbage because, when properly cooked, they have an outstanding flavour and a finely floury consistency. But they need to be perfectly cooked because, given one minute too long in the boiling water, they will burst open. The Dutch Nation watched me with amused amazement as I fussed over my two saucepans like an old hen, constantly licking my lips. It was a matter of perfect timing you see to ensure that the Golden Wonders were drained and steaming away towards their ultimate perfection just as the Bacon and Cabbage were at the same stage, the Bacon joint removed from the draining Cabbage for the last three or four minutes, its steam forming a perfect halo inside another halo as I sharpened my knife and readied my plates.
I enjoy a glass of wine with every other dinner. But not with Bacon and Cabbage. With Bacon and Cabbage there is no drink to touch a glass of ice cold milk. And you must also have real butter....for the spuds....and you must have fresh English mustard. (The really only good thing about the English is their mustard!)
Two large willow-pattern plates and all the other elements were assembled together and, finally, about two hours after my initial hunger, the Dutch Nation and I sat down at the table, the evening sun garnishing the cottage window, the fire crackling hungrily in the background. And the first mouthful of that Feed was akin to the doorstep of Paradise.
Ahhhhhh!
The Americans have Corned Beef and Cabbage. It is not the same thing. In Europe it is possible to put together some kind of bacon, some kind of potatoes and some kind of cabbage. But it is not the same. The Dutch Nation is now no longer even a token vegetarian. I am sated for a week or so. If you have never been to Ireland and if you like food then it is worth coming just for that reason alone. In its time and season Bacon and Cabbage....and Golden Wonders....puts Killarney into the shade altogether. And that's a fact.
(The source, an installment of MacConnell's column The Irish Emigrant, can be found here.)
Those of you who are still here, accordingly, should be informed that of all the foods and gastronomic delights of all the cultures of the world nothing, in its time and season, compares with the total experience of Irish Spuds and Irish Collar Bacon and Irish Cabbage all combined together for what we call a "good feed". Those who have departed from us, dear remaining readers, have departed because they are in farflung corners of this complex world and know that it would break their hearts to be reminded, in all the detail I am about to give, of the sheer sensual joy of the kind of plates of Bacon and Cabbage that their mothers and grandmothers used place before them as a matter of course.
You can travel the world over at the highest level of luxury. You can devour exotic dishes of all the other cultures. You can have fillet steak and Peking Duck and Italian Pastas and goulashes and curries and stir fries, banquets of Beef Wellington, fifteen course dinners of all the savouries and sweet concoctions of all the nations famed for their cuisine. You can have caviar and birds' nest soup and alligator steaks, Cajun suckling pig and shark's fins and yet, if you have any iota of Irish blood in you at all, nothing will ever quite reach into the deep marrow of your soul's content as a good feed of Bacon and Cabbage.
The mood came upon me yesterday. When that mood descends upon the top of your head, as it did with me quite suddenly, then it links immediately with the pit of the stomach and you instantly know what it feels like to be addicted to cocaine or substances of that nature. You must have your fix. Inside five minutes I was inside the splendid Corofin establishment of Tom Hogan Junior and Senior and it was Tom Junior who was behind the counter.
I need, says I, the Feed. Young Tom is wise beyond his years. I did not need to say anything further. One speedy sortie through Tom's emporium and he laid before me a small sack of Golden Wonder spuds, the very finest spuds in the world, together with a lovely wedge of Munster Collar Bacon lightly smoked, and as fine a head of cabbage as I've ever clapped an eye on. This head of cabbage was green on the outside and white on the inside and as solidly constructed as the poll of an elder of Ian Paisley's Free Presbyterian church. The cost was minimal. It was less than the cost of one tiny thigh of a smoked quail I'd paid for in Galway just one week earlier.
I went home. The Dutch Nation, whom I love, does not yet understand the workings of Bacon and Cabbage so I did the cooking my own self, growing ever more feverishly famished by the minute. The big saucepan was produced and the head of cabbage, thoroughly washed, was chopped and put down in clear cold water surrounding the smoked collar of Bacon. The lid was replaced and the heat set for a long slow boiling process that would cook the beautiful Bacon in a way that would spread its smokey slightly saltified juices though the concurrently cooking green and white cabbage beneath an aromaticating froth. This froth, burbling happily away under the lid of the saucepan, slowly but subtly began to spread its olfactorification and glorification right throughout the kitchen and beyond. Soon, standing at the sink washing the Golden Wonders, I became almost giddy with a combination of expectation and sheer animal hunger.
Golden Wonder spuds are the princesses of their species. They are pear-shaped beauties whose skin, paradoxically, feels coarse and gritty to the touch but is quite remarkably delicate at the same time. They are the perfect spuds to travel alongside Bacon and Cabbage because, when properly cooked, they have an outstanding flavour and a finely floury consistency. But they need to be perfectly cooked because, given one minute too long in the boiling water, they will burst open. The Dutch Nation watched me with amused amazement as I fussed over my two saucepans like an old hen, constantly licking my lips. It was a matter of perfect timing you see to ensure that the Golden Wonders were drained and steaming away towards their ultimate perfection just as the Bacon and Cabbage were at the same stage, the Bacon joint removed from the draining Cabbage for the last three or four minutes, its steam forming a perfect halo inside another halo as I sharpened my knife and readied my plates.
I enjoy a glass of wine with every other dinner. But not with Bacon and Cabbage. With Bacon and Cabbage there is no drink to touch a glass of ice cold milk. And you must also have real butter....for the spuds....and you must have fresh English mustard. (The really only good thing about the English is their mustard!)
Two large willow-pattern plates and all the other elements were assembled together and, finally, about two hours after my initial hunger, the Dutch Nation and I sat down at the table, the evening sun garnishing the cottage window, the fire crackling hungrily in the background. And the first mouthful of that Feed was akin to the doorstep of Paradise.
Ahhhhhh!
The Americans have Corned Beef and Cabbage. It is not the same thing. In Europe it is possible to put together some kind of bacon, some kind of potatoes and some kind of cabbage. But it is not the same. The Dutch Nation is now no longer even a token vegetarian. I am sated for a week or so. If you have never been to Ireland and if you like food then it is worth coming just for that reason alone. In its time and season Bacon and Cabbage....and Golden Wonders....puts Killarney into the shade altogether. And that's a fact.
(The source, an installment of MacConnell's column The Irish Emigrant, can be found here.)