Síle in the Kitchen the day we moved in, Sept 2004

The same kitchen full of our clutter in Sept 2006.
(The eagle eyed among you will spot Síle in this shot too)

OK I have no shame.

I found this photo when going through some old papers.
It is myself photographed at, I think, my nephew Richards christening with him in my arms and his older sister Ann under my oxter.
It is photographed in the back garden of my sisters D’s house in Rathfarnham in Dublin in the summer of 1971, 36 years ago, which makes me 22 years old.

It was at the height of the hippy phase, I had just failed my finals in Arts in UCD and was about to re-sit it, this time successfully, in the Autumn.
The amazing thing is that I can still remember the clothes.
I was wearing a t shirt which was tie-dyed and, when it had started to fray,had been trimmed with some braid by some kind person to stop its disappearance.
The jeans were even more disreputable.
They had gone through several renaissances.
They had started off as yellow, were short, and straight.
As fashions changed they had been extended, flares had been added and (inevitably) tie-dyed. They had also been extensively patched.
They still exist and live out their retirement in an old suitcase in the attic.
As you can see my outgoings on clothing were extremely small.

I imagine that over several years all I had was patched and re patched until there was little left of the original.
This was not of course for reasons of economy but to follow the rules of fashion.

I see that this style is now having something of a revival.
Unfortunately I won’t be able to put on the jeans again.
I doubt if the waistband (I seem to remember it was a mere 28 inches!) would fasten over my thigh.

All in all looking at that picture I begin to think that 58 isn’t such a bad age after all.

Strange to think that Giovanna Garzoni painted this in the 1650s and they still look so bright and fresh today.
Cherries are in season now and all over the shops and markets of France yet no sign of them in Ireland.
Can they not grow here or are they just terribly bad travellers?

For someone who was (just about) born in the forties I feel I’m fairly conversant with modern appliances, The fact that the DVD player is beyond me is not commendable but I am now good with a mobile phone and sufficiently competent with the computer to write and post this.
I do have my moments though when I pine after the simplicity of earlier days.
I remember when I was touring Germany in 1967 meeting this man, who was an uncle of Jörge, my German friend.
This uncle talked about his neighbour who had bought a car in which the drivers seat “for his ease and comfort” could adopt fifty seven different positions.
His ease went immediately out the window.
He was never again happy with the position of the seat, always assuming that there was a more comfortable position than the one he was currently using.
(Jörge’s uncle also told us that , as a soldier in the ranks, he had been unhappy with his sergeant during WW2. “But all was fine in the end” he told us happily ” I waited until we were under enemy fire and then I shot him in the chest as he came towards me, they always thought he had been killed by the English”)

But to get back to my original point, about six months ago we bought ourselves an 05 Renault Megane which as well as a complicated heating system also has air conditioning. This multiplies by a large figure the permutations and complications of the heating and now cooling system.
We both spend far too much time fiddling with the switches on the dashboard trying to achieve the perfect temperature.
This is what brought on my Luddite moment.
In 1976 we bought our first car, it was at that stage about ten years older than that.
This was a Mini Van and it cost us £90(about €120)
Its heating system, which supplied perfectly all of our needs for warmth, window defrosting and hot air, was controlled from the dashboard by one single switch with two positions:
On and Off.

A Sixties Mini Van, same colour but way better nick than ours was.

Mesembryanthemum

Lobelia

Daughter Eileen

I was half listening to the radio last week when a phrase spoken by the weather forecaster jumped into my subconscious.
I distinctly heard the words “Mister Fog Patches” and my idle and wool gathering mind immediately began to picture this person.

A god like figure certainly, probably surrounded by mist (as they tend to be) but most importantly
he would be wrapped in a huge blue cloak , all decorated with patchwork clouds.

As you will already have gathered this was not what was actually said.
It was merely a description of Irish summer weather.

Pity really.

Any patch worker out there prepared to create my vision?

Question:

Why do the French not have two eggs for breakfast?

Answer:

Because to the French one egg is un œuf

Thank you to D’s friend Kate for this.

I have just spent a weekend with my brother and sister in law in their house on the island of Foirnis off the coast of Connemara.

This island is connected to the mainland of Galway by bridges and causeways which travel over four islands.
To get to it you have to drive over Eanach Mheáin, Oileán Gharmna,Leitir Móir,and finally Leitir Mealláin before you get to their house in Foirnis.

It is certainly worth the journey.
Last weekend we has beautiful sunshine on Saturday and Sunday there and I was able to take some photographs.

Finding some fresh Tarragon in the shops yesterday inspired me to try my hand at producing a French classic; Poulet a l’Estragon.
Its so long since I had cooked this I had to go rooting through the books to find a recipe.
I eventually set on Elizabeth David’s one from French Provincial Cooking (surprise surprise!)
I have tweaked it a little but in essence it is her recipe.

Poulet a l’Estragon
for 4

1 Free range Chicken
1 bunch of Fresh French Tarragon
Half a Lemon
1 Tablespoon Butter
Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper

for the sauce
Either
a small glass brandy
and
3 tablespoons Creme Fraiche.
or
1 cup stock
or
1 glass white wine

Chop the tarragon and keep 1 large tablespoon for the dish
(freeze the rest for the next time)
Mix this with the juice of the half lemon and the butter.

Rub the chicken all over with Olive oil and season with salt and black pepper.
Set the oven to 160C, 325F, Gas 3

Put the tarragon butter into the bird and put it breast side down on a chopping board.
Press it down hard on the board to flatten the breast .
(this way it will remain breast down during cooking and all the delicious buttery tarragon juices will flavour and moisten the breast.)

Cook this in the oven in a small roasting tin or a frying pan which has an oven proof handle.

After 35 mts turn the bird on its back to crisp the skin on the breast and insrease the heat to 175c, 350F Gas 5.

Cook for a further 15 to 30 mts (it depends on the size of the chicken, test the thights for pink in the usual way)
When the chicken is thoroughly cooked take out of the tin and keep warm .

Make the sauce in the tin.
ED recommends using a glass of brandy and some Creme Fraiche in the pan juices to make it.
Equally you could use stock or white wine.
Whisk whatever you use with the pan drippings on a low heat.
It should emulsify, if not it still will make a delicious sauce.

Serve this carved or cut into chunks with some plain boiled potatoes
and a green vegetable (I used some shredded spring cabbage gently softened with some onion in a little butter.)

I read in yesterdays Irish Times that Nicolas Sarkozy is raising eyebrows in France with his frequent use of tu when talking to people.
For those of you not familiar with the minefield which is the French use of Tu and Vous I will always remember the first advice I was given when I first went to France to work.
This is, always use vous unless asked to do otherwise.
As someone with a limited knowledge of French the easiest option for me seemed to be to just forget about tu and vous everyone indiscriminately.

The moment when I realised that wasn’t going to work was when I addressed the dog as vous (it was one of my jobs to feed him) the French people hearing this thought it hysterical. This gave me the clue that it was not sufficient to ignore tu altogether. In fact I have since discovered that one can offend as greviously by using vous in a tu situation as the reverse.

But it is a minefield.

Last year at a French class, and this was as the end of a year when the five remaining pupils had become extremely friendly with the teacher, the discussion moved on to the problems of tutoient.
Blunt as ever I asked the teacher straight out whether or not we all should be tu-ing her.
She coloured, shuffled her books together and changed the subject.
The reaction was as if I had made an indecent proposal.