Irish Stew
Seeking Solace in the Taste of Home
There’s no big reveal here. No disclosing the mystery of a perfect Irish stew. Ours was the poor 1970s version. It was one of two meals my father could cook – the spaghetti bolognese equivalent of the post war man. Dubliners had coddle which was the cured pig carrotless version. The other meal he cooked was Saturday brunch. I reckon the weekend fry-up might be to a generation of Irish men what barbecue is to Texans, or Halloween is to hetero male cis cross dressing.
We traveled around Europe a lot as children. By the time I was three I had lived in England, Germany and Ireland. My mother was English, my godmother was French and my grandmother was American of German and Scottish descent. My father was on a few EU committees and if a conference was anywhere but Brussels we tagged along with a tent. (He stayed in the red light district because he said it was safest and cheapest for men in suits) As well as importing duvets in lieu of flat sheets and eiderdowns, we brought back some of their flavours to live with us in Dublin. Earl Grey tea, Lapsang Souchong, Kenyan Blue coffee, fancy cheese and crusty baguettes, croissants and Vienna loaves. There were my grandmother’s American staple recipes of chocolate biscuit cake, brownies, 4,3,2,1 cake, New York style cheesecake, coffee and walnut cake, cheese pudding and meatloaf. From England we brought toad in the hole…
