the Irish soda bread at the end of the universe

The Ponderosa's kitchen is filled with the fragrance of baking, for I promised my son Riff real Irish soda bread this morning (he walked upstairs to show me he was truly in the mood for St. Patrick's Day, having donned a green-t-shirt, green button-down shirt and, he told me, green boxers). Last night, my friend Ellen brought real Irish soda bread to my writing group--unadorned with currants, Irish whiskey, dried fruit, or caraway seeds, just soda bread in its pure simplicity, with real Irish butter on the side. I wished for a hot cup of PG Tips tea to go with it (my British friend Shai at the Mountain Roasting Company in Felton turned me on to PG tips when, bleary-eyed one morning, I ordered a cup of Twining's English Breakfast from him and he said, "You know, that's not really tea. Try this." And I've been hooked ever since).

So, on this sunny and grand afternoon, I looked online and found a recipe for soda bread from County Kerry. I had to substitute plain yogurt for the 14 oz. of buttermilk the recipe called for, but I did all the other things the recipe said, including slashing the top with a cross to keep the devil away. It baked into the most lovely bread, with a rough and lovely golden crust. Riff ate half of it--I promised more for dinner.

Our dinner is traditional corned beef and cabbage, the corned beef part of which is stewing right now on the stove, in our biggest pot over a low flame. My mother made the best corned beef and cabbage I ever tasted, cooked for hours and hours and eaten with a touch of mustard--the very strangeness of being able to put mustard on my dinner made it rather interesting (it was usually reserved for baloney sandwiches). I always wanted to eat this on some other day than Saint Patrick's day, but I don't think we ever did.

So, happy Saint Paddy's to all my faithful readers. Today, I'll be grafting the sleeves of the shrug I just finished knitting, taking a walk with Mr. Strega, working on my book, and doing a wee bit of gardening. I am extremely happy to say that, due to the many prayers, cajoling, offerings to garden devas, howlings under the full moon, and propitiating the gods in general, my lilac finally has flower buds on it. I tend to try and grow things that really ought not to grow in my odd zone--but then, my life runs on equal parts faith and magical thinking.