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What Not To Worry About #34

What Not To Worry About #34

Happy Tuesday! A little late with the post this week as my mind is consumed with the prospect of feeling the sun on my skin and the sand in between my toes. I have never felt more ready for a holiday especially since it felt like I woke up in a misty cloud this morning, the air thick with moisture even though it wasn’t even raining. And last night was the first time we had the heating on in months. Yes, I think Autumn might have arrived a little early.

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Despite the sad, sad weather we were determined to make the most of the weekend and finally get that afternoon of hiking that I’ve been talking about all summer. We arranged an afternoon climb up Cavehill with friends along with their 10 month old baby who they carried in a very impressive and very professional looking backpack thingy that I was supremely jealous of because he looked so darn cosy in it. Although I have been jabbering on about going hiking for ages and even included it in my summer bucket list,  I actually don’t own a pair of hiking boots (the pair I had from my uni days have scarpered during one of my million moves). I thought I would be grand in my gym trainers but I was oh so WRONG. After a few rain showers the grass was thoroughly muddy and so on our descent I was a victim of a perfect comedy slip (legs waaay up in the air) that left me covered in muck and a little bit of shame. I’ll be buying hiking boots for next summer for sure.

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Luckily, the rest of the weekend was a little less testing with a mountain of good things to celebrate. The first being my best friend Caoimhe getting engaged to her ‘boyfriend of a million years’ Simon which was just about the best news to hear. Caoimhe and I have been best buds since we were young cubs when we were borrowing each other’s Tammy Girl clothes and Collection 2000 make-up for the teenage disco. She has been there to listen to my worries and fears around the world, namely:

  • When I cried over my first love in the Gaeltacht (where we were supposed to be improving our Gaelic in Donegal but mostly ran after boys)
  • When we worried if we’ll actually pass our AS Levels while on our first girls holiday in Santa Ponsa
  • Holding my hand while I panicked on our first long-haul flight to San Francisco
  • When I was sick in SE Asia and made me eat food
  • When she reminded me of home while we lived in Australia
  • When she would let me talk for hours on walks around the Lagan river in Belfast

What memories we’ve made over the years and to see your friend beaming with happiness is all you can ask for, right?

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The second bit of celebrating happened on Sunday when I stood as godmother for Dara, the son of my friends Catherine and Phily. This is their third child and I find it amazing that I am even friends with people who have three children let alone being thought of as responsible enough to be a guardian in any shape or form. But it turns out I can actually pull this whole godmother thing off and I felt very grown up as I held him, proud as punch. It is on afternoons like that when I feel so glad to live close to home and be a part of such a happy event. Seeing families rallying together to welcome in their new little person, taking far too many photos and passing him around for cuddles while eating plenty of cake. It really was a good weekend.

Carrying on with this positivity, I have a few worries that I am letting go of this week…

People getting judge-y about how people should enjoy their engagement

I have never been engaged before but I’ve watched a few friends go through the experience and wondered how the hell they deal with all the pressure. All the questions and opinions even within the first few days must be a little overwhelming and it was no surprise to read this article which talks about the bucket-loads of anxiety some people might feel at first. People should just chill out and understand that everyone is different whether the couple stay engaged forever or book their wedding an hour after they get engaged. Just do what makes you happy!

My make-up bag

Ugh you do not want to go in there. I have brushes in there that haven’t been washed since I bought them (Lord knows when) and mascara so old it’s like cement. I recently read this post which taught me when I should be throwing things away instead of hoarding all of this crap that I know I will probably never use.

Worrying that I am a millennial or too old

Does a millennial have to born after 2000? Or do I belong to the most hated subset of the population? Either way I major LOL’d at this bit of internet gold.

An invisible hair on my face

Probably the most annoying thing to have on one’s face when one is trying to remain in a serious conversation with a coworker. No I don’t have a tick I just have a hair on my face which is driving me INSANE!!

Living ethically

I often worry about my impact on the environment and if I am truly doing everything I can do live as mindfully as possible which is why Mel Wiggins is my go-to gal for ideas on how to live a more ethical life. She has just started an e-course for families who are looking to improve the way they live socially and environmentally which you can find here. I think it’s amazing what she’s doing and if you’re looking for a way to begin a change but are unsure how then I couldn’t recommend this course more.

 

Have a lovely week and here’s to turning the heating on and closing the curtains the moment we get home!!

A Guide to the Midi-Pyrénées: Part Une

A Guide to the Midi-Pyrénées: Part Une

Growing up as one of three girls meant that family trips were anything but calm. Someone would be breathing too loudly in the car, someone would be sitting too closely to someone else or a mass riot would ensue if a sister was seen wearing another sister’s dress/shoes/anything that wasn’t their own.

Nowadays we’re mature adults, you might find it hard to believe that I ever broke her nose when we were kids. Twice. But those turbulent times are over and now we are more than capable of surviving a short holiday together especially when that holiday involves eating our way through the villages of southern France and taking lots and lots of pretty photos.

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So with that confidence in mind, we decided to take a quick trip last month to stay with our aunt and uncle who have spent the last 10 years converting an old barn in to the most beautiful chateaux by the Pyrénées (trés middle class, I know). As they are fairly rural we decided to hire a car and after an hour long process (why do I always get the employee who has just started the job the day before?) we finally hopped in to our beautiful Toyota Aygo that just about fit us along with our carry-on bags.

The French drive on the right hand side of the road which made for an interesting journey to our uncle’s house. It took a few attempts to leave the airport (and Shannon couldn’t even bring herself to look out the window when we eventually joined the motorway) but we made it in one piece to Maison de Donnelly in the late afternoon. After we were hugged and my uncle commented on the rental (“that’s some wee yoke there” – typical Irish man review), we were shown around their humble abode which wasn’t so humble and moved me to real-life tears. They have managed to create a home that is warm and still so full of character, each room decorated with gorgeous French vintage market finds at prices that made me shed even more tears. I immediately promised myself that I will be a regular pest of theirs for as long as they would have me.

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My aunt Bronagh is an incredible cook and once we were settled, we sat at a table overlooking the sunflower fields (am I making you sick yet?). The food was glorious and the wine even more so. We sat chatting until Shannon and I could barely speak with tiredness and so with heavy heads, we retreated to our beautiful bedroom to sleep in our beautiful beds. Turns out we are still kids at heart and we fell asleep in the same bed, talking until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. 

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On our first morning I trotted down to the village to get croissants for breakfast because that is what one does in France. We planned our route for the day over our crumbs and then set off for Fanjeaux, a little hilltop village with views for miles. The rain decided to show up for the first hour or two but I was ferocious in my cheeriness that the rain would soon clear off. I’m one of those travellers that vehemently believes that rain should never dampen sprits but really all that it does is convince my fellow traveller that I’m a bit mental (picture me in the pouring rain with a manic smile screaming “WE ARE HAVING FUN, AREN’T WE?!).

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Fanjeaux is an old Cathar town with crumbling medieval walls surrounding the Dominican chapel. It was beautiful despite the drizzle with plenty of cobbled streets to get lost in (or do circles like we did). It was so quiet and felt a little eerie in places because we hardly saw a soul save for a few damp tourists. We didn’t stay too long as we didn’t have an umbrella but it’s a place I would love to go back to on a clear day.

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Luckily for everyone the skies cleared as we were headed to Limoux and as the clouds parted we could spy the Pyrénées in the distance. The valley between Fanjeaux and Limoux is covered in vineyards which makes it a little difficult to be the chief/only driver. The area is famous for a sparkling wine called Blanquette which is sold by the vineyards alongside the road or in all the local shops. If Shannon had have been driving I would have been making a pitstop at every vineyard but being the ever-responsible big sister I stuck to caffeine and saved the wine-tasting to the evenings when I could guzzle guilt-free back at the barn.

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As we approached Limoux we could see that it didn’t quite have the same charm as Fanjeaux. It was a little busier and there were plenty of roadworks which don’t really scream rustic tranquility. However there is a lovely square there which was perfect for soaking up the delayed sun rays and drinking the first coffee I have ever actually enjoyed. After years of trying to like coffee (and failing), it seems all it took was a mocha in Limoux to win me over. I feel more grown up than ever now.

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After a charcuterie feast which was mainly eaten by moi, Shannon and I dawdled back to our car crossing over a very pretty bridge with fantastic views across the river. On our way we dodged a few lengthy gazes from French men who we soon discovered were unashamedly comfortable with staring. Oh how different they are to the typical Irish fella who would look anywhere but the woman he is interested in for fear of coming on too strong…

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Back in the wee Aygo we made our way to Mirepoix with a quick stop off in Luc-sur-Aude. Oh my, this drive was so spectacular. Trees seem to line the entrance of every town in the Languedoc but this road was truly special. Mountains seemed to appear out of nowhere with sheer cliffs towering over the winding roads. Shannon and I had our noses to the windshield as we gazed upwards in awe, not speaking save for tutting to ourselves like old women.

We pulled in to Luc-sur-Aude to give our necks a break and again were so surprised at how quiet the little village was. We walked through the streets wondering where the people were or if there was some apocalypse we hadn’t heard about as we ascended up a hill to check out the view. There were vineyards for miles surrounded by mountains and despite my attempt at taking a photo of the view, I couldn’t do it justice.

 

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The late afternoon sun was burning above us as we headed up the mountains towards the fairytale town of Mirepoix. Our ears popped as we snaked up the hills and we pulled over to drink in even more beautiful views. The roads were so quiet and when we sat overlooking the valleys below all we could hear were the cicadas buzzing in the heat. 

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We got to Mirepoix in the evening and as we hopped out of our car and walked towards the main square, we looked at each other with immediate glee, silently agreeing that we had definitely saved the best place to last. The town looked like something straight out of a Disney movie set and I half expected people to burst in to song at any moment. Shannon and I grew up on these movies and you can imagine how giddy we were to see such a place in real life. We strolled through the market stalls and circled the old town walls before picking a spot in the square where we could soak all of the colours in. We sat with the golden light on our faces, barely speaking a word but feeling incredibly content with ourselves.

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Drunk on the day we just had, we headed back to the barn for another feast until the sky. Desperate not to finish the day just yet, we dandered down to the village to watch the locals play bowls (or boules if you want to get technical) and drank coffee while the stars came out. Finally shattered, we fell in to our beds, thoroughly satisfied that sisters really do make the best travelling companion. Even if their driving might terrify us.

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Stay tuned for another French post coming soon…

What Not To Worry About #20

What Not To Worry About #20

Happy Tuesday!

 

I really enjoyed those little cluster of long weekends we’ve been having this past month. Not that I have been doing anything overly spectacular with my time but it’s the ordinary little things that have been making me happy recently. Spending lots of time with family and friends. Enjoying lazy mornings on the couch drinking lots of tea and writing. Going for mini adventures somewhere local. And sunshine!!

 

It took me a long time to appreciate the mundane because throughout most of my twenties I was seeking the extraordinary. The adrenalin from new experiences, new faces and new landscapes. As my twenties are dwindling I am able to appreciate the predictable moments because they are spent with the people who I want to be boring with. That is home to me. And even if I wander again I will always be brought back to the the ordinary moments that make my heart happy.

 

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Last weekend my family assembled to help my Granny Una celebrate her 90th birthday. We piled in to my aunt Susie’s and ate the most amazing food (there were about a million desserts) and I held a wine glass that never seemed to empty. The house was full of stories; some I’ve never heard before but most I have heard hundreds of times. We all sat around in a circle at the end of the night taking turns to play the bard and sharing jokes – a traditional end to an Irish gathering where I usually flounder because I am terrible at remembering jokes. It was a great night to be surrounded by

 

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But my favourite part of the evening was the quick chat I had with Una in between the photos we were all competing for. As to be expected on her 90th birthday she was feeling particularly reflective and she told me of her time in the Women’s Royal Navy, the most cherished years of her life. She talked of living in Egypt. How she still remembers hearing the music from her camp near the Suez Canal and the heat that seemed so different to the Irish sun. After three years in the WRN’s as a morse code operator she had to return home to look after her elderly mother. A decision she now says was both the best and worst of her life. It changed everything for her.

 

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I will cherish that conversation for the rest of my days because I saw in her more than just my grandmother. She was a wild one once and she too had that unwillingness to settle for the ordinary. She had hopes and dreams just like I do now. She was unsure of her choices and the path she was supposed to take. I felt closer to her than I ever have.

 

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This week I am choosing to let go of a few things but mostly I want to remind myself that I don’t have to have it all figured out. It’s OK with not knowing it all for now. Here’s a few of them…

 

Not Remembering Jokes

As said above I am shite at remembering jokes and quietly seethe with jealousy when people can roll a dozen off their tongue. How can you fit all of them inside your brain?! Remembering to brush my teeth is enough of a challenge.

 

Forgetting To Brush My Teeth

Until I’m all cosy in bed. It’s the worst when I get all snuggly and then realise that I don’t taste minty and then I have to drag myself from the cosiness. Personal hygiene is such a nuisance sometimes.

 

Crap Lunch

I’m trying to be really good and not spend money on lunches in work but sometimes it’s just plain sad when all you have is a few spinach leaves and tomatoes. Even a jam sandwich seems exciting these days.

 

Sunglasses

I will never complain of sunshine. NEVER. But because I live in Ireland it means I am always unprepared for the good days and always have to fish out sunglasses from the year before which are never there because I always lose them. Why are sunglasses so hard to retain? Of all my accessories they have the shortest lifespan. Or gloves. Damn seasons.

 

Never Having Change

I’ve fully embraced the modern life and use my card everywhere I go. It isn’t until I am in a carpark or a charity asks for money that I am reminded that people still carry coins. Why can’t everything just be a tap away from payment? Coins are cumbersome and just make you jingle so they should be altogether eradicated.

 

And that’s a wrap! Enjoy the rest of your week folks!

 

 

An Irish Goodbye

An Irish Goodbye

An ‘Irish Goodbye’ usually refers to a person who leaves a group without saying farewell and sneaks out the door however I don’t think this a fair representation of a goodbye in Ireland. Saying goodbye is a much more dramatic affair and usually the longest event of the night with several breaks every few metres until eventually the host is practically on the guest’s lap in the car.

 

When I think of this type of goodbye that is all too common here it reminds me of how reluctant we are to say goodbye to the people we love. We cling on to every moment, not wanting it to end for fear that once they’re gone, the party is over and we are only left with the memories.

 

This is the most tragic and bittersweet thing about life that we know to expect but are never prepared for in any case. No matter how we knew the person, saying goodbye to someone who has made us feel a little less alone in a world that we continually battle to understand is something we never get used to. It pushes us in to a place we don’t want to be, away from the living that feels cold and barren and allows thoughts to gather in our minds that only propagates the feeling that we are all alone after all.

 

Losing my sister was a traumatic experience as most losses are. She was too young and experienced too much pain which meant the only condolence was that she wasn’t going to suffer anymore. My problem with this was just that – she wasn’t going to suffer anymore. She wasn’t going to feel anything anymore and we were all left to feel everything; joy, sadness, excitement, love, hate. I struggled, and still do, with how unfair it all was that her ability to feel was taken away.

 

These struggles are what led me to never take for granted the ability to feel the best and worst things that life can throw at us. Suffering a great loss can shake us to our core but being able to feel this despair is one of the life’s most cruel of gifts. It might sound a little masochistic but even on the days I feel in pain or scared or angry I am at least relieved to feel.

 

Unfortunately grief is a lifelong experience that never really goes away. When we lose someone who we weren’t ready to let go of we are left with a hole that can grow big and small even years later. We lost Amy six years ago and there are days when I feel such an urge to talk to her it can overwhelm me. She was the middle sister that glued us three together and it’s difficult to pretend that we don’t need that link to make me and Shannon feel whole. Which is why I don’t pretend. When I need to talk about her or share a funny story I will. When I miss her uncontrollably I’ll call my parents or sister. I will never shut her out because I need to embrace her in my life wherever possible.

 

The thing is, I appreciate all too well how much of a miracle it is that I’m even alive in the first place. It’s a miracle our planet is in the position it is in the solar system. It’s a miracle I was born in a country with access to modern medicine. It’s a miracle my parents decided to fancy each other and get it on (in the most romantic of ways I’m sure).  And it’s a miracle I am the only one in this world who was lucky enough to be a big sister to Amy.

 

 

Sometimes we’re forced to say goodbye before we’re ready. The reality of how delicate and uncontrollable life can be is thrusted upon us and we are bereft with the knowledge we may never see our loved ones again. What we do have and what can never be taken away from us is the memories. The moments shared together happened and can never unhappen. They will always remain and that’s how we can ensure that the people we have lost are never truly gone from us. They need only be on the edge of our thoughts and the end of our breath. We can take as many breaks as we need before we reach the door and say our final goodbye.

Growing up with CF

Growing up with CF

Since before I can remember I have always been aware that I was different. Things that seemed normal to me I soon realised were not normal for other kids. At primary school me and my sisters would be called up in the middle of the canteen to get our enzymes (tablets we need to take with food), my Mum would line us all up on her double bed to do physiotherapy at night and days off school were taken to visit the hospital in Belfast to get our lung function checked.

 

Even though this awareness sometimes made me feel a little uneasy, I rarely believed that having Cystic Fibrosis would stop me from living the life I wanted to live. And it hasn’t for the most part. When I tell people what my daily routine includes (or should include, I’m a bit naughty sometimes) or about the disease I was born with, I can see the flash of pity in their faces. This doesn’t bother me because not only is it a natural reaction, it’s all I’ve ever known.

 

I was diagnosed with CF when I was a few months old. My parents were in their twenties and understandably terrified by the diagnosis, not having heard of the disease before. Thankfully there was no Google back then because I’m sure that would have led to full blown hysteria!! They learned as much as I can and managed to get on with despite the uphill struggle that lay before them.

 

And I was one of the lucky ones. After the diagnosis and once they had my medication stabilised, I thrived like any normal baby. In fact, I was an absolute tubster or a ‘barrel’ as my Mum lovingly recalls. Children with CF often struggle to put on weight because their body isn’t equipped to absorb nutrients effectively but thankfully that has never been an issue for me.

 

My two sisters followed soon after me and they too were diagnosed with CF. Having three girls with CF is extremely rare as parents who are carriers of the CF gene only have a 1 in 4 chance of having a child born with CF. Not exactly a gift to be grateful for but again, they managed to get on with it.

 

We had a very normal childhood despite the odds that were stacked against us. When I was born, the life expectancy was around 15 yet my sisters and I never had to endure any serious hospital admissions when we were young which was very lucky. We took part in everything; all the Sports Days, school trips, holidays, without any trouble at all.

 

I was 11 when I was first hospitalised and 13 when I contracted Pseudomonas. I’m almost positive that I contracted it while in hospital because patients had a common room where we could all socialise and I suppose feel a little more normal. This is shocking to think back on now because cross-infection is regimental in hospitals these days!

 

The hospital admissions became quite commonplace during my teens but yet I didn’t fear CF, just the needle that was used to thread the IV line up my arm that administered the antibiotics. Hospital was a time to get spoiled, avoid schoolwork and binge watch TV shows!

 

It wasn’t until my sister Amy was diagnosed with CF related liver disease that I understood how CF could take something from us, the family that managed to do so well for so long. Amy was the middle girl, the dark eyed and dark haired beauty that was the gentlest of us three. She was a year and a half younger than me and we clashed constantly over the years, like chalk and cheese in so many ways.

 

Amy was 11 when she started showing symptoms of liver disease which were horrendously scary to witness and I can’t imagine the fear she must have experienced. To be honest, it’s very difficult to think about how she must have felt because it riddles me with guilt.

 

She managed to battle liver disease for 9 years. Suffered countless surgeries and procedures to manage the varicose veins in her oesophagus that were continuing to bleed. Flying back and forth from Birmingham and seeing doctor after doctor. As if life as a teenager wasn’t hard enough, Amy had a whole mountain of crap to deal with more than anyone I know.

 

And then on a rainy Friday morning in November 2010, we lost Amy. She was 20 years old.

 

Our family has never been the same since and we have not tried to get on with it. We have felt it all. Our loss has consumed us and defined us forever. I miss her every day and I am still baffled by how the grief can come and go in uncontrollable waves. The emotion I feel the most is probably guilt. I think this is normal. Or I hope that it is.

 

Since her death I decided to live as much as I could. I graduated from University, watched lemurs dance between trees in Madagascar, saw a rainbow rise over Uluru, followed cheetah prints on safari in Africa, walked through the jungle around Angkor Wat, rode horses through Cuban tobacco fields. I have refused to let CF define or hinder my life.

 

In many ways, not letting CF define me has improved the quality of my health. I strongly believe that the mind has so much control of the physical body and that if you put your efforts in to living an active, happy, fulfilling life then your body reacts to that. But I am also lucky that I have a strong body that has been able to withstand a lot of medication and countless infections.

 

I contracted a nasty bug called cepacia when I was 20, the bug that no CF patient wants to get for it is extremely resistant to most antibiotics. The bug resulted in me not being able to come in to close contact with my sisters for years. I wasn’t allowed to hug Amy until they knew that she would be passing away.

 

My youngest sister Shannon has since contracted cepacia more than likely from myself because after losing Amy we needed each other more than ever. She was 17 when Amy passed away and dealt with a lot more than a typical teenager had to like Amy. Her bravery still astounds me.

 

I’m 27 now with lung function that sits at around 78%. I was hospitalised in June for the first time in 3 and a half years. I am incredibly lucky. Right now my life is good, I go the gym 2/3 times a week, I go walking with my friend every week, I try to be as active as I can but not just because I know it helps my health but also because being outside and amongst the world makes me happy.

 

The future can be a scary thing but yet I don’t know another person my age who isn’t afraid of what the future holds. None of us knows what’s around the corner in life so we have to enjoy what’s happening right now. Look around us and figure out if we’re living the life we want to live and if not, then knowing we have every power to change it. I know this because I’ve had a 27 year headstart.

 

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Buttermilk Scones with Nanny Moffett

Buttermilk Scones with Nanny Moffett

You would be hard pushed to find a granny in Ireland that can’t make the most delicious stews or a knit a onesie in one sitting. I don’t know if you these skills or bestowed upon you once you reach the age of 60 or that they’re skills that just aren’t that cool anymore but I do know that all grannies have a signature dish which they are famous in the family for. For my granny it’s definitely her chicken soup, known to have cured many colds, flues or just for times when us grandchildren ‘weren’t at ourselves’. For Andrew’s granny it would probably be her buttermilk scones. I tasted them the first time I visited her bungalow in Monaghan and it took all my power not to inhale the whole plate of them in front of me and drink it down with her homemade raspberry jam.

 

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A while ago Andrew and I drove down to Monaghan to see Ruth and I had plotted a way to ask her for her recipe. I am a massive lover of scones especially the smell they create in a kitchen. But mostly the taste of them. You instantly feel like a successful human being when you have a tray of lovely scones cooling on a wire rack. I was a bit hesitant to ask for the recipe because asking someone for a recipe they are renowned for can go one of two ways:

  1. They could be flattered that you would think so highly of them and be delighted to pass the recipe on; or
  2. They could be quietly horrified that you even asked for it and shift uncomfortably in their chair thinking of ways to get rid of you

 

Luckily for me Ruth was the former and was more than willing to share her secret however I had forgotten that Irish grannies also don’t use normal measurements. I got out my pen and paper that I just so happened to have on me and began to note down the ingredients and method which went along the lines of: Make sure to use Neill’s soda bread flour and rub in a knob of butter and a fingerful of sugar then whisk an egg in a mug, not a cup but a mug, and then fill it to the top with buttermilk…

 

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I tried to act unperturbed by these non-specific instructions but I knew I would balls the whole thing up on my own. I thought to myself the only way I would learn would be to watch her and out of some miracle she then asked me if I wanted to make some with her. She must have seen the terror in my eyes; grannies can also smell fear.

 

I was amazed at how she was able to bake so easily despite her being constrained by arthritis in her hands. She has adapted a canny way of moving utensils so she doesn’t have to strain herself too hard and it’s an incredibly admirable thing to witness because baking along with other domestic skills is something that is so obviously engrained in her. If she lost that ability then I suppose it would be a massive loss to her.

 

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Fortunately for me the whole recipe was much easier to follow and she taught me some great techniques to ensure the best scones e.g. make sure to get lots of air in when rubbing the butter in to the flour! It was a special moment because it made me feel part of the family and it was so generous of her to share it with me.

 

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I feel like I’ve almost mastered the recipe although I know they’ll never be quite as good as Nanny Moffett’s. Andrew is fairly happy to play guinea pig in the meantime anyway and the house smells AMAZING.

 


Nanny Moffett’s Buttermilk Scones

Ingredients:

  • 1lb Neil’s Self Raising Soda Bread Flour (nothing else apparently)
  • 1 – 1.5 oz granulated sugar (or 2 fingerfuls)
  • 4-5 oz soft margarine
  • 2 eggs beaten in a mug (specifically a mug)
  • Buttermilk – add to mug of beaten eggs and fill to the top

Method:

  • Preheat oven at 230 celsius
  • Weigh out the flour and the sugar together
  • Rub in the butter bringing the flour up from the bottom and getting plenty of air through the mixture.
  • Once all rubbed in (your wrists might be aching at this stage – I have to take breaks!) make a well in the mixture and slowly pour in the buttermilk an egg
  • Beat together with a fork – not a spoon – until all the flour is absorbed
  • Put the mixture on to a floured surface and sprinkle some flour on top
  • Pat the dough in to an oblong shape and using a cutter take pieces out around the outside first
  • Put the scones on to a greased tray and brush with some beaten egg
  • Place in over for 10 minutes
  • Let them cool for a few minutes when they’re done
  • Try not to eat them all and get found covered in jam and crumbs.