Paul Flynn: A chronicle of three very different years in the kitchen

It’s been a year since I’ve written for you. The frightening thing is how time goes so fast. Even scarier is how it inexplicably accelerates as you get older. I’m creakier and greyer than I was this time last year. The hair on my head is busy migrating to my ears, sprouting churlishly until dealt with by my superhuman Turkish barber. Flames and perseverance are the only answer.

Late last year, I managed to acquire a (ahem) sports injury, that I cautiously refer to as the other Munich disaster. This led to keyhole surgery on my shoulder and to me being in a sling for six weeks, unable to ferry myself or my grind-going teenage girls anywhere. My wife was stoic throughout as she ferried us all continuously up and down country roads. You could cut the tension with a knife.

In truth, it wasn’t all my fault. An eminent chef friend of mine said, “Flynny, let’s go to Octoberfest, it’ll be brilliant.” The very idea of ingesting that much beer and pork was fraught with risk for me from the start. So when I came off the literal bench on two occasions, it was inevitable my old rugby injuries would come back to haunt me. In full disclosure there may have been a train station escalator, countless wurst, the East German goalie and a startled Zulu also involved. Thankfully no police. The only person I brought down in my very own Beerhall Putsch was myself and the only road I was on was the one to perdition.

It was only driving around the very busy roundabout at Dublin Airport late the next day that I realised I had a busted wing. I couldn’t raise my arm to use the indicator, which to be fair isn’t great in that sort of situation.

Thinking it would get better in a couple of weeks, I soldiered on silently, taking longer than usual to dress myself. My physio Colm, now a close personal friend, came to the conclusion that I had a torn rotator cuff. This was confirmed by a scan and surgery was lined up for January. It turned out that the anaesthetist got married in the Tannery, we had a lovely chat as I dozed off.

Next came what I call the retribution sling, that I now keep in its very own folly. When you really try, it’s truly amazing what you can pack into two days away.

So now comes the book, a collection of my writing and recipes for The Irish Times between 2019 and 2022. It happened serendipitously when I called Kristin Jensen from Nine Bean Row books to ask her if she would be interested in bringing out some of my recipes in her Blasta books series. I just didn’t want them to lie fallow after all the work that went into creating them.

I hadn’t met Kristin before but I was increasingly becoming a fan. Her work was bold, different and gave a voice to lots of younger cooks whom I admired. I felt a jolt of inadequacy when she said she wouldn’t include me as part of the small and funky Blasta series as it was for first-time authors only, but she would love to do a big book with me. A very big book as it turns out, 151 articles and more than 450 recipes.

There was a huge decision made not to include the photos of the dishes. This worried me, of course, as people quite naturally want to have something to aim for. To break up the flow of the book and select bits from it was to miss the whole point of it being a chronicle of those three mad years. I also need to point out that every photograph taken and toiled over by Harry Weir is available on The Irish Times website.

Part of the process was to read and check everything, twice. It was very thorough and also revelatory. I’d forgotten some of those Covid moments as they all melded into one. A few things leapt out at me as I read through three years in our family’s life. The writing is at times quite personal. I’m also obsessed by my weight, frequently referring to my lumps and bumps. Chorizo also plays quite a big part. Indeed, in the first tranche of recipes I may as well have been sponsored by the chorizo conglomerate.

I wanted to add a few extra stories to the book of which I was particularly fond. I included features I had written on the loss of my beloved Central Hotel; a long-awaited trip to New York with our girls; and I couldn’t not mention the Camino de Santiago, which has a special place in my life.

It was Kristin’s idea to call it Butter Boy; I was going to call it something much duller. Apparently I referred to myself as this numerous times in the articles. It’s very appropriate really.

International stardom undoubtedly awaits me in my 58th year, with 41 years of cooking under my belt, and I can’t wait. Next year I’ll probably be besties with Beyoncé.

Thank you for coming along with me for the ride. I hope you buy and enjoy the book in your droves and keep me in the style to which I’m accustomed.

Who knows, I may even write about it.