Days 13 & 14: Notes from a very small island

On Friday, the Irish electorate had the opportunity to vote in a referendum on the ratification of the Lisbon Treaty. I had known about this since I arrived on these shores, but somehow I had managed to avoid the issue entirely too. That is because the only thing occupying my mind for the last two weeks has been food. Every moment of every day: food. My dreams: food. Those subliminal thoughts that flit in and out of your consciousness: food. It is as though the rest of the world has ceased to be.

The last newspaper I read was on the Fishguard to Rosslare ferry. I haven’t turned the television on in my cottage. I may have looked at the BBC website a couple of times the week before last, but nothing much was happening so I wasn’t encouraged to return. Now, in conversation I hear of terrible events unfolding around the world. Will I dream of them tonight? Or will I dream of removing the aitchbone from a leg of lamb?

It is now Sunday night and I have returned from a night in The Blackbird of Ballycotton. It is not the closest pub to me but it is the best by a few country miles. Sunday night is a sort of jamming session - one of the guys from the school got his guitar out, one of the teachers was playing. Our favourite chef from demo even turned up and had a couple of beers. It was everything a Sunday night in a country pub should be.

On Saturday morning I fought off the sluggishness and headed into Cork. Our main focus was the curiously named English Market. I had a real urge to cook steak, and so perused the offerings of about a dozen butchers. One was head and shoulders above the rest - there was some tired looking meat on display. I got some sirloin, €12 for about 2lb. Next I bought a bag of spuds and some salad leaves from an organic grocers. €13. I realised why they called it the English market.

We wandered about town, I got a haircut and succumbed to the urge and bought myself a flat cap. Well, a couple of flat caps actually. I pass on the Barbour jacket and the cords for the time being but no doubt by the time this is over I will look like an extra out of the Ted and Ralph sketches on The Fast Show. Dinner is fun. Five of us have steak and I make roast potatoes the only way I know how. We drink a few nice wines, one that two of the guys picked up in Burgundy on the drive from Italy and a Heartland from South Australia that blends Italian grapes - Dolcetto and Lagrein.

For dessert one of the guys makes an instant tiramisu. It is great, sponge fingers are arranged on the plates, chilled espresso poured over them and mascarpone cream added to the top. I am a massive fan of tiramisu. I almost always order it when I see it on a dessert menu - it is a kind of barometer for me. It is reassuring to see it being made in such a fashion and with such simple success. And without alcohol, which I have always considered a prerequisite but didn’t miss this time. I have never made it myself, but will begin my researches this week I think.

This morning was punctuated by small but meaningful victories. Washing done, cottage tidied, recipes filed, order of work written up. My internet connection is down, so I had to post Friday’s blog today from the school (this one won’t go up until Monday). We had ‘lunch’ at 4pm. Mushroom risotto followed by a whole chicken, jointed and with its four different component parts cooked in different ways. For dessert we had another tiramisu assembled last night and chilled (better) as well as warmed berries and figs with ice cream. I love desserts.

On Tuesday night when I was in the kitchen, one of the waitresses was discussing Julie and Julia. A conversation ensued regarding blogging. One of the chefs wondered how anyone could be conceited enough to think that anybody else in the world would give a flying fuck what they got up to day in day out. I thought for a while, but I couldn’t think of a reason.

Why am I doing this anyway? Does anyone care? Is anyone reading this nonsense? I probably spend between half an hour and an hour getting my thoughts together and writing this blog. It is a lot to take out of an already crowded day. If I was keeping a journal, I’d have stopped by now. The blog is the reason to continue. To gather, harness and direct my thoughts and experiences each day. To take stock, reflect, relax even, and look forward.

My field of vision has narrowed so much in the last two weeks. For the best part of a year I have had no focus, no routine. Now I am snapped into a rigid routine and have the steeliest gaze fixed upon something right under my nose. It is a compelling juxtaposition. When I think about it, in context, my daily ramblings are totally meaningless. An earthquake wipes out thousands of Indonesians but fails to muster a flicker on my seismograph, too wrapped up in crab tarts and gratins of cod am I. I am isolated - truly isolated.

I should have a bit more spare time this coming week since my evenings are mostly free. I am committed to cooking Bucatini all’Amatriciana one night, but apart from that it’s a blank page. I definitely need to do some exercise to counter all the fucking food I am eating and, if I can tear myself away from my daily broadcast of irreverent minutiae for long enough, I might even think about picking up a newspaper.