Black pudding, brown bread, the head on a pint of Guinness, and other favourite Irish things

It seems hard to believe, but next month it will be three years since we moved from California to Ireland. At the same time, it feels like just yesterday and 1,000 years ago. Isn’t that the way it always goes with changing life’s chapters? When we moved, our plan was for a one-year adventure, enjoying our grandkids and using Waterford as a temporary home, with frequent trips to visit friends in France, Spain, Italy and England.

That was December of 2019 and I don’t think anyone needs to be reminded of what happened to plans after that. But as awful as the various lockdowns were, in some ways they were a blessing as well. Rather than visiting Ireland as temporary tourists, we were forced to settle in and experience it as our home, and that is what it feels like, more and more.

Of course, we’re still blow-ins. We will always be blow-ins, as will our children, and maybe even our grandchildren who were born here. That doesn’t bother me. It would be arrogant to expect somehow to become native in such a short time in such a tightly knit country that has such a deep, shared history and culture.

And it’s not a new thing for me. Since I grew up in an American military family, my life has largely been lived as a blow-in. I went to a different school almost every year. So I’m familiar with that rhythm of honeymoon and adjustment that goes with moving to a new place.

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But I do feel that perhaps we have experienced the steepest part of the expat learning curve. Driving on the wrong side of the road no longer terrifies me (though I’ve not yet braved the Irish tradition of backing into a parking space). I’ve even begun to enjoy mushy peas.

Black pudding, brown bread, the moist pink of boiled bacon, and the lovely cream foam on the top of a pint of Guinness. These are a few of my favourite things

It is hard to imagine a change of setting more dramatic than that from Los Angeles to Waterford. The first has so much (too much?) of everything while the latter has just enough of almost anything — if you are patient and are willing to look.

As a lifelong history nerd, Waterford is perfect for me. I walk past a Viking tower to get to my coffee shop. Traces of Anglo-Norman walls and gates are everywhere. To get to my butcher, I walk across a bridge that was expanded in 1765, at the time of the American revolution (it dates originally to around 1650, shortly after the Pilgrims landed).

Just to get the inevitable question out of the way: Yes, we really do enjoy the weather here. As I tell people, after 30 years in a place that has essentially one season (really two, but they change at unpredictable times), it’s a joy to live someplace that has four true seasons, even if they sometimes seem to come all in the same day.

Believe it or not, when we lived in Los Angeles, my idea of ideal beach weather were those cool, cloudy mornings before the clouds burned off. Here that’s the norm, without the 35-degree afternoons that follow. Los Angeles is defined by crowding and bustle. You need to drive to get anywhere. Waterford is quiet and walkable; we sometimes go days without getting in the car.

My cooking has changed as well — so many more roasts and soups and stews and fewer main-course salads. I noticed the other day that I have been using the same bottle of olive oil for a couple of months. In Los Angeles, I would have had at least three bottles that I used regularly (one for cooking, a subtle one for salads, a fresh green one for garnish) and it seemed like they were in constant need of replenishment. Now it’s butter I go through so quickly that I no longer even bother to write it down on my grocery list. If I’m at the store, I buy it. Irish butter is so good just a smear on a breadstick is a treat.

I also find myself cooking more simply. I never was one for deliberate complication — my motto has always been “the simplest path to delicious is best” — but I find the quality of the ingredients I buy here to be so good that there is little need for embellishment.

As a devoted caseophile, I find the quality of Irish cheeses and dairy products to be the equal of any in the world. I sometimes think I could live on these alone (well, with some sourdough), and I’m discovering new ones every week. Much the same is true of Irish seafood, so different from the Pacific varieties I cooked in California. Goodbye swordfish and albacore, hello mackerel, John Dory and all of the different flatfish.

Black pudding, brown bread, the moist pink of boiled bacon, and the lovely cream foam on the top of a pint of Guinness. These are a few of my favourite things. I will never tire of singing the praises of Irish craft butchers. Having high quality meat raised conscientiously and cut to order is something most people in the States can only dream about. And getting the rind when I order a pork roast? The best crackling ever.

Though I’ve made some progress in puzzling out potatoes, I know I’ve just scratched the surface and more study is required. (As well as some humility: the other day a smiling reader recognised me in a garden store, fixed me a beady eye and deadpanned, “So yer the man who’s supposed to be teaching us about potatoes, are ye?”)

There are many more puzzles to explore. For example, how do Irish chickens and ducks get so delicious despite apparently being born without gizzards, hearts and livers? Seriously, where do they go? Those make some really tasty dishes, and judging from some butcher shops in my neighbourhood, the Irish certainly have no problem with offal from other animals.

Why do Irish butchers seem only to sell pork chops without the chop (rib bone)? Though this is handy if I’m flattening them to fry for schnitzel, I do like to gnaw on the sweet bits close to the bone. And why are the rib bones in lamb chops always broken? I’m sure there must be a cooking reason for this, but I haven’t been able to work it out.

Why is there no canned chicken stock? It really is a great convenience item for starting quick soups and sauces. Having really flavourful mussels so readily available and so affordable is terrific, but why have I yet to find clams or cockles? They were so important once upon a time that there’s an historical marker commemorating the lane where the ladies gathered to sell them. And they’re easy to farm. Best yet: spaghetti with clam sauce.

The good news is it looks like we’ll be here for a while, the good lord and our friends at Irish immigration willing. There is so much more for us to explore.

We still wake up every morning pinching ourselves that we could be so lucky. We chanced into a fantastic house. We have a wonderful circle of friends and neighbours. Our children and grandchildren are thriving and so close by that we get to enjoy them nearly every day, sharing their lives as they grow up - the reason we moved here in the first place.

Yes, I’m afraid it looks like you may be stuck with me for a while longer.