a simple yarn

Why is it that certain smells evoke such pleasant memories?
And at the top of the list…warm cinnamon….mmm…

The ornaments on our Christmas tree are, for the most part, homemade. Felt stars, orange slices, rag bows. But where are the cinnamon hearts? In opening the decorations we found casualties, succumbing to being stored in the ‘perpetually-damp-and-the-excessively-wet-summer-didn’t-help’ shed. Icky shades of green. No need to go on.

Time to make more.

Warning: Unintentional Copyright Infringement Ahead
I really wish I could remember where I got this recipe. In a book somewhere. Never noted and now long forgotten. So, apologies to the person who first created these little beauties.

Also:  A Wee Bit of Addendum To Follow:

I at first posted this recipe as it originally appeared in the long forgotten book, but the cinnamon measurement seems to cause confusion, so I’ve altered it for clarity.  And I would also suggest rolling out the dough a little thinner than you see in the pictures.  The ornaments need to dry completely through in the baking-and-sitting-in-the-oven-process.  A little less than 1/4 inch should do…

Cinnamon Scent Ornaments
6 tablespoons applesauce
9 tablespoons PLUS 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground cloves
Mix ingredients together in a small bowl. Work with hands until dough is the consistency of clay dough. Roll out between sheets of plastic food wrap.

Cut in various shapes. Use a toothpick to make a hole for threading ribbon later. Bake on a cookie sheet at 150ºF/65ºC for 1-1/2 hours.

Turn off oven and leave in oven for 5-6 hours or overnight. Depending upon the thickness of the dough, baking time may take longer.

And ESB said, ‘Let there be light.’

The Electricity Supply Board made a visit this week. That and the obligatory brown envelope in the hands of the monopoly’s employee brought power to our house. Oops, feeling a rant coming on about the strangle-hold monopolies have over poor consumers…ack…must…not…go…there…feel…blood…boiling…

Anyway, back to more pleasant thoughts. See this?

This, then, is the inaugural use of the oven, now that we are holders of proper electricity. The Kiddies and I celebrated with a long overdue home-baked-pizza-and-family-movie-night.

And no, the oven will not stay that immaculate for long…

Do you think if I bake cookies for the House-Building-Crew, they might be favorably disposed to finish the house more quickly? Okay, it’s worth a try…

Truth be told, I think the workers are diligent without me sweetening the situation, but autumn winds are beginning to blow with a definite chill, and that puts me in the mood to warm things up with a baking session.

The thing about being an American-In-Europe is that it seems a fairly obvious choice to make chocolate chip cookies for the lads…such an American icon.

Warning: Cookie-Biscuit Enquiry Ahead
As we are all well aware, in America it’s ‘cookie’ and in ROI/UK it’s ‘biscuit,’ so no beating-of-the-dead-horse here. But I am intrigued, I must say, to find that the chocolate chip version of the biscuit is always referred to as a ‘cookie.’ Why is that?

Right then, I dig out my mixer and line up the ingredients.
Oops, have packed away and cannot find lovely Nestlé Toll House Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips. Rats.
Will need to buy lovely milk and dark chocolate bars for self-made-chips.
Begin baking ceremony.
Oops, didn’t buy enough chocolate bars. Rats.
Will need to improvise.
Divide the dough and do an equally tasty variation on the theme of cranberry-white chocolate.
Do I have dried cranberries? Yep.
Do I have white chocolate? Of course.

And for a bit of stealthy-healthy-eating, organic oats and organic milled flax seed are added. What the Kiddies (and Workers) don’t know will be good for ‘em for a change!

It’s simple really, substituting dried cranberries for the chocolate chips and adding oats and milled flax seeds as part of the flour mixture. And, I’ll eat just one more…cuz they’re healthy! Oh, wait…ought to get some off to those workers first…

Do you know that moment when someone asks you a question and you have to make a split-second decision whether to be entirely honest or politely vague? Perhaps next time I’ll choose vague…

Preface: I met up with Isobel on Tuesday for a coffee, a catch-up chat and to wish her happy birthday (which is tomorrow by the way). Never did we dream, upon entering Starbucks, that we would exit with a deeper, fuller knowledge of the word ‘bitter’. You can get her perspective on her blog, Tea and Cakes.

So, we’re having our drinks. Mine is lukewarm and to be truthful, I like it hot. Not lukewarmish enough to get up and complain about, mind you. Just so-so. But the Starbucks-Barista-Guy comes over asking how our drinks are. Of course you have guessed that I say, ‘Well, it could stand to be a little hotter, actually.’ Much to my delight he eagerly volunteers to get me a fresh cup. Wow, that’s service with a smile! And into my hand goes a new, piping-hot cup of cappuccino.

Not only that…I also have thrust into my possession a voucher for a free cup at a future date. Again, ya gotta love good customer service! Now, if it had just ended there…

The aforementioned Starbucks-Barista-Guy-Who-Also-Happens-To-Be-The-Manager comes by again asking about our coffee experience. I should have left well enough alone, but out of my mouth I heard,
‘Erm, to be honest, I’ve never been a huge Starbucks fan.’
(A glint creeps into the corner of his eye.)
‘While the cappuccinos are nice,’ I continued, ‘I find the regular coffee to be a bit bitter.’
He took the news quite well, I thought.

I must mention that at Starbucks-Coffee-Training-University they seem to arm their employees with vast amounts of knowledge. Most of it I am sure is for their own enrichment, for the customer will rarely want or need to know it.

Barista-Manager-Guy instantly enrolls us in his personal Starbucks-Coffee-Taste-Testing-University-Distance-Course. Out comes a tray of samples and with a faint nod to a wine-tasting event, we are told to smell the aroma, slurp in a portion, swirl it around and analyse what our mouths are telling us. No buckets to spit into, though.

Following the lengthy lecture on tasting zones in an average mouth, bean blends, word pictures that accompany tastes, roasting times, acidity levels and how that differs from bitterness, my conclusion is…there’s no such thing as a ‘free’ cup of coffee.

A delicious by-product of yet another bank holiday Monday is the unhurried nature of the weekend. And in our household, that means cinnamon rolls.

A recurring childhood memory is of sitting at my grandmother’s table watching her work away at cinnamon rolls. Quick as a flash her hands would fly over the living dough…rolling, spreading, buttering, sugaring; the scent of cinnamon lingering in the toasty kitchen. If I stayed long enough I knew I would be rewarded with one of the doughy end bits and if I was lucky, there’d be a dash of butter and sweet cinnamon in it.

As I anticipated marriage and setting up my own household, I remember asking my grandmother for the recipe of this family favourite. She couldn’t do it. Oh, not that she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t. This was one of those elusive recipes of bygone days where if the cook thought about what she did to achieve such sweet bliss, the end result would be ruined. The success of the baking was that she didn’t think really think about it. It just happened. A dash here. A smidgeon there. That was how she operated.

So I’ve had to find my own way to ’sweet bliss,’ taking sage wisdom offered by Veteran-Cook-And-Mother-In-Law-Phyllis. ‘Find a bread recipe that you like,’ said she, ‘and stick with it. Use it as the foundation for the all bread baking you do. Alter it, sweeten it, add grains to it, cheese it…whatever you want, but stick with a good base.’ Good advice.

Our customary pan of rolls has the obligatory ‘baker’s dozen number 13′ squished in for good measure. And according to the family, they should never be overbaked…the doughier the better. Coupled with a good cup of coffee…a lovely way to start any day.

So, when did this word became equated with boring mediocrity? Poor vanilla, so maligned…

Once upon a time, I felt that bananas had been given a bad rap and now I think vanilla needs to be added to the list of victimes. Vanilla was ‘one of the many items of cuisine first encountered by the Spanish upon meeting with the Aztecs and subsequently introduced into Europe,’ or so says Wikipedia. It must have been exciting back then, enough to entice the Spaniards to carry it all the way back to Spain. They even gave it its name-vainilla meaning ‘little pod’.

The one thing for which I need to thank Martha Stewart, North-American-Domestic-Diva, is a recipe for making vanilla. No need for high priced extracts. No settling for imitation flavouring.

Simply slice three or four vanilla pods lengthwise. With flat side of knife, scrape out all the little micro-seeds (but save them for later). Put pods into a bottle of vodka and let set until you have a beautiful amber colour. Want a darker colour? Add more pods.

And the seeds you’ve saved? Mix into some finely granulated sugar, such as caster sugar, for use in baking. It seems to add an additional lovely aroma to baked goods. The weekend’s fare included home baked brownies.

Upon entering an establishment that is part of a multi-national chain of supermarkets, you would think that they’d want to sell you food items. Not necessarily so.

Okay, so I’m meandering up and down the aisles in the supermarket (where the name begins with ‘T’, ends in ‘O’, and rhymes with ‘Let’s go.’), and I happen to take a look at the reduced price items. As the value of the US Dollar continues to plummet, I find myself looking at these shelves more and more. And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

Yippee!

My joy was not that this lovely brand of coffee was found in the reduced price section, but rather that it’s residing in the store at all! Never have seen the decaffeinated version in a supermarket in this country. O happy day! And look, there are three packages sitting there!

A Bit of Historical Background Diversion Ahead:
Because Husband-Will and I enjoy a blissful cup of cappuccino at the end of our day, we naturally reach for a decaf version, being desirous of sleep during the nighttime hours. Our only option has been…

While we like Illy well enough, it is only available at Avoca and comes with a pricetag of 7.99euro for 250 grams….that’s 8.8 ounces…only a little more than 1/2 pound. Eek. But as we practice frugality other areas, this is a well-deserved luxury, or so my rationalisation goes.

So, with great gladness and joy I take my three treasures to the checkout. And then the conversation goes something like this…

Cashier: ‘I don’t think these are reduced since there isn’t a little yellow sticker on it.’
Me: ‘That’s okay, I’ll pay the full price if necessary.’
Cashier: ‘Someone might have put them on that shelf as they walked by.’
Me: ‘Fair enough. If you’ll ring it up, we’ll just see how much they are.’
Cashier: ‘Uh oh. The price isn’t in the files.’
Me: ‘Well, perhaps somebody can get a price for them.’
Cashier: I don’t think we’ll be able to sell them to you.’
Me: ‘Um, I’m sure someone in the store will know a price for them, if you’ll perhaps ask.’
Cashier: ‘Are there other ones on the shelf?’
Me: ‘No, these are the only three.’
Cashier: ‘Well, they’re not supposed to be here then since I don’t have a price for them.’
Me: ‘They’re not supposed to be here? Aren’t they considered food? Isn’t this a food store?’
Cashier: ‘No, the price is not in the computer system.’
Me: ‘Yes, I realise that. Who might know a price?’
Cashier: ‘If I don’t have a price, I won’t be able to sell these to you.’
Me: ‘Right, and which manager might be able to help us with this?’
Cashier: ‘Well, it’s got to be somebody in the coffee and tea section.’
Me: ‘And are they here? Nearby? Within calling distance? Shall I get them?’

After a few more rounds of futile scanning and realising that the price hasn’t magically appeared in the system files, another employee walks by. And of all things, this person happens to understand the intricacies of the coffee and tea section. Glory be!

Over she walks to the coffee aisle. There she picks up a comparable coffee. Back she walks to the checkout lane. And yessir, a precious price rings up on the computer system. You’d have thought it was rocket science…

Oh, and the company tagline? ‘…where every little helps’.

Perhaps the best treasures are those which are not so obvious…

You’d never know that beneath this…

Is this…

Even with the second sock trauma, the newly-finished-first-pair-of-knitted-socks were barely off the needles when they had to be worn. Now, on my trip into the city today to meet Holly for coffee, no one was the wiser what lovely stripey socks were hiding ‘neath my trousers. They fit wonderfully and I love the feel! Oh, not that they’re anything exotic. Just plain socks. But, I love that I made ‘em.

I don’t know….call it a ‘Ma Ingalls’ moment, (and perhaps all sock knitters experience this as I re-state the ever-so-obvious) but it’s a great feeling of accomplishment fragranced with self-sufficiency. Does that sound smug? Well, so be it.

Already planning the next pair…

Another hidden treasure was the coffee shop meeting place. Tucked on the upper floor of Waterstone’s book shop on Dawson Street…the UK’s answer to Borders…is a great place for coffee and chat. Another opportunity to try a variation on the cappuccino theme.

Nice yin-yang-chocolate-embellishment, though a good coffee doesn’t need it. The espresso portion of it was lovely. The foam, a bit thick for even Splenda tabs to penetrate…

And the final treasure of the day? A chat with a good friend.

It’s Saturday….a Spin-In at the Guild.

I continue the ‘love-hate’ relationship with my spinning wheel. Okay, hate is too strong a word for it, but a ‘love-not-so-love’ reference doesn’t quite sound right.

Today though, I’ve moved toward the ‘love’ end of the continuum (or at least to the ‘like’ stage) for my little ‘home-made-fashioned-after-a-Moswolt-the-brand-no-one’s-ever-heard-of’ wheel performed quite admirably in the room full of Louets. Yep, my little fella was a bit noisy and clickety while the big boys spun quietly and smoothly, but I was proud of the handspun yarn piling up on my spool. So, I think my fortunes are improving for hanging in there with the little wheel I own.

And in the spirit of good fortune, I returned home to find this little gift fashioned by Daughter-Kate’s busy ten-year-old hands, with a little help I think. My very own gargantu-plate-sized fortune cookie!

Complete with fortunes…

‘To Mama, I hope you like them. Love you, Kate’

‘Your fortune is that you love knitting and you ar(e) fun.’
(such wisdom written in familiar seven-year-old handwriting!)

Yes, my fortunes are good indeed.

*Post title postscript:
Carmina Burana is a scenic cantata composed by Carl Orff between 1935 and 1936. It is based on 24 of the poems found in the medieval collection ‘Carmina Burana’. The best-known movement is the “O Fortuna” chorus that opens and closes the piece. Like the song. You’ve probably heard it. Unfortunately, it’s usually the scary-sounding music in a horror film.

‘Why did you have to apply your laws to me today?’

It started out easily enough…
1. Drop Kiddies at school.
2. Meet Frances for coffee and croissants.
3. Chat.
4. Short school day so collect Kiddies at noon.
5. Have Kiddie-Friends over for afternoon play.

In the midst of coffee and chat, I glance at my wrist to check the time. Oops, no watch. Forgot to put it on this morning. No bother, have a clock on my mobile phone. Reach for mobile. Rats, no phone. Left it in coat pocket in car. Not a problem, Frances has a watch on. Will have her check time periodically.

Yep, chatting takes priority and when we look at the time, it’s 12.15 and we’re at least 10 minutes away. I run to the register to pay while she phones the school. Thankfully, School-Mum-Friends are waiting with the Young’uns. And all the stereotypical comments about Americans always being on time are swooshed away.

So what did I do while the Kiddies-and-Friends were playing on this rainy day?

Thank you baking.

Before moving to Dublin, I read Agnes Browne by Brendan O’Carroll. Following that, I knew I needed to visit Moore Street, where women pushed old prams loaded with fruit and veg, hawking their wares. To me, that seemed the quintessential Dublin of the 1960s.

So when we moved here and I had opportunity to visit Moore Street, I was disappointed. Sure, there were women hawking fruit and veg, but it seemed a bit of a seedy street, shop fronts plastered with graffiti and nightclub adverts. Sigh. Another Irish-culture-icon gone.

Saturday in the city with Daughter-Kate. A shortcut to the bookshop leads us through Moore Street, so lively and bustling with activity. Cigarette-smoking women hoarsely calling out to passersby of produce-deals-and-bargains to be had. Perhaps the spirit of Agnes Browne isn’t dead.

But more than that, another type of bustling. Asian restaurants. Indian shops. Eastern European stores. On the street a veritable melting pot of cultures. Wow. Move over, Agnes.

Perhaps a bit seedy still, but thriving.

So Kate decides she wants Chinese food for lunch. Hmm…..I don’t know of any Chinese restaurants nearby. ‘Why not this one?’ was the question innocently asked as we stood in front of the smudgy window boasting a full Chinese menu. ‘Um…’ I hesitate, not sure if I want to be up that night suffering from stomach upset. Well, I guess it’ll be fairly authentic…seeing as how I can’t read the sign.

A very plain interior, bordering on warehouse-ish-ness. Oilcloth table covers sporting bird dogs and mallard ducks. I am not comforted. Friendly staff, though, give us a menu and tell us to sit anywhere. Anywhere is right, as there are only 2 other customers in this cavernous concrete place. Erm….

Kate chooses sweet-and-sour-chicken-with-fried-rice, her favourite. We’ll split it. And as the jasmine tea begans to relax me, I start to soak up the multi-cultural ethos of the street. It is then we are served the absolute best sweet-and-sour chicken I’ve had since…..well, I can’t remember when.

Lesson to me that a) you can’t judge a street by its appearance and b) Agnes’ spirit is alive and well.

Must have pancakes for dinner.

I did not grow up in a Catholic culture and so I am still learning about local customs…bumping up against yet another of them today. Pancake Tuesday. Historically for the faithful, Lent meant abstaining from eggs and all dairy products, so all of these had to be used up before Ash Wednesday, hence pancakes for dinner on Tuesday evening.

Well, when in Dublin, do as the Dubliners do, right? We’ll have pancakes for dinner. The Kiddies love ‘em anyway, it’ll be a popular decision in our household. ‘You better stop at a shop, Mom, cuz we don’t have any syrup left,’ chirps a young voice from the backseat.

Hmm….he’s right. Dash to our local shop cum newsagent round the corner. Check the shelves. No syrup. Um, do you happen to have maple syrup?’ I enquire, thinking that if Pancake Tuesday is such a popular cultural tradition then surely every shop will carry some. ‘We don’t carry maple syrup because we don’t generally use it.’ comes the polite reply, followed by, ‘And where are you from?’ Well obviously not here, I think, tipping my hand to my out-of-town-status. Rats.

So the nice young shop clerk informs me that pancakes are generally eaten in Ireland only once a year on this special Tuesday…thin crepes-loosely-called-pancakes drizzled with sugar and lemon juice or perhaps honey.

‘You don’t do that in America?’ Ah, how can I tell this young man that pancakes are an integral part of the North American breakfast, slathered in butter, drenched in maple syrup and partnered with sausage or bacon and eggs? If the Kiddies had a mother who would cook pancakes every Sunday morning, they’d be completely satisfied. So, what’s the draw of such a food? Well….it’s probably growing up on stories…legends….of how those who settled the American frontier, like Laura Ingalls Wilder, feasted on pancakes.

“When Almanzo trudged into the kitchen next morning with two brimming milk-pails, Mother was making stacked pancakes because this was Sunday. The big blue platter on the stove’s hearth was full of plump sausage cakes; Eliza Jane was cutting apple pies and Alice was dishing up the oatmeal, as usual. But the little blue platter stood hot on the back of the stove, and ten stacks of pancakes rose in tall towers on it.
Ten pancakes cooked on the smoking griddle, and as fast as they were done Mother added another cake to each stack and buttered it lavishly and covered it with maple sugar. Butter and sugar melted together and soaked the fluffy pancakes and dripped all down their crisp edges. That was stacked pancakes. Almanzo liked them better than any other kind of pancakes.” (excerpted from Farmer Boy)

Such was the stuff that I, as a North American girl, grew up on. So what did we do without maple syrup to drench our pancakes? Well, good ol’ American ingenuity gave us a fairly reasonable substitute voted unanimously delicious by the pancake-devouring-Kiddies…Golden Syrup with a hint of Black Treacle warmed in the oven to a nice pouring consistency.