THE east Cork evening sky is like a red batik, the honey crisp moon high above the eye, the air carrying a sweet winter chill. Sweet? December? The leaves flounce like early Christmas decorations, the berry crop busy playing a leading role in the autumn shrub stage.
Watching the shambolic political and economic drama unfold from the kitchen window in Ballymaloe brings a strange perspective. If this wasn’t a tragedy it would be a farce.
As I conclude my 12-week certificate cookery course, this is a time away from my everyday world; this is a time for growth. Here it is all about growth, with the next course in January oversubscribed; the interest in cooking, organic growing and forgotten skills on the increase while all else seems to collapse like a poorly kneaded loaf in an overheated oven.
Planning for my final exam, a three-course meal to be cooked in a given time, tasted and tested by the experts, I ponder on a repast to greet the arrival of Ajai Chopra and his IMF and EU colleagues. While a funeral breakfast may be more suited for the outgoing Government (or indeed the incoming one?) my overriding sense is to cut through the gloom to embrace the good.
A dinner for our visitors . . . an Irish meal of local produce, each course planned to be simple yet soothing. A deep green, vibrant, nourishing kale soup with brown soda bread followed by loin of bacon with champ potato mash and an Irish whiskey sauce. Then to embrace our island culture, kelp, carrageen moss, light, optimistic, sensual, served with softly whipped cream and brown sugar. Maybe not before serving a small platter of internationally renowned Irish farmhouse cheese? A simple meal, a homily to the land, a reach back in time to touch the cheek of our grandparents, a celebration, an acknowledgment, a gentle embrace with the past.
In this corner of our embattled country, Ballymaloe is a place where nothing is wasted, where every morsel used and valued, with standards, uncompromising, the bar set above excellence, hard work the norm.
From Shanagarry, Middleton through east Cork and into the capital there is a deep respect for and appreciation of quality artisan produce.
Farmers’ markets thrive whether it’s the Mahon market idiosyncratically set in the shadow of a colossal modern shopping mall, or the English Market nestled in antiquity in Cork city, or the traditional Middleton street market. County visionaries like Darina Allen in Shanagarry, Marog O’Brien in the Farmgate, Middleton and Canice Sharkey, Isaacs in Cork, have toiled for decades to raise the standards in Irish food, nurturing artisan produce and producers. They support each other, encouraging
many to farm and grow organically.
During my 12 weeks’ stay I met many a local producer, the cheese makers with their shiny firm hands, faces displaying a humble pride in their produce, the organic pig farmers whose passion for pork was infectious, the butcher who is the sixth generation in a family butchering business. They share their knowledge generously, are modest about their achievements; they create employment locally. I hope the Darinas, Marogs and Canices of the future are charting their way in the restaurants and cafes of Manhattan and Melbourne, learning the international language of food, ready to return when the time is right.
To choreograph my life from one stage to a second is to open my eyes to an appreciation of another world where many of the same qualities required by the dancer or performer are imbued. Passion, dedication, commitment, communication, creativity, excellence, a celebration of Irish tradition, a re-interpretation of the Irish tradition, a rhythm of working, an appreciation of the soil underfoot.
So whether we tour the world with feet beating the earth like a drum, or whether we dig the earth with our spade, we take those forgotten skills and we choose not to forget but to honour, embrace and appreciate.