Ravings of a Textual Deviant

This recipe calls for a 9″ tart pan with a removable bottom, not entirely unlike a springform pan. I suppose you probably could substitute a springform, but I treated myself to a nice nonstick tart pan from Williams-Sonoma (the only place on Indy’s north side that I was sure carried them). It also uses a food processor.

Crust
1C AP flour
1T granulated white sugar
1 tsp grated lemon peel
1/4 tsp vanilla powder
1/8 tsp salt
1 stick chilled butter, cut into small pats
About 2T ice water

Filling
1/3C almonds
1/3C granulated white sugar
1 large egg
3T unsalted butter, room temp
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp vanilla powder
2 tsp creme de cassis
About 5 ripe plums, sliced into 3/4″ wedges
Sliced almonds for topping

To make the crust, combine dry ingredients in food processer. Using quick pulses, cut the butter into the flour mixture until you get coarse crumbs. Add enough ice water and process just enough to get moist crumbs. Dump the lot of it out onto a floured surface and coax it into a cohesive ball. Flatten the ball into a disk, and roll out to about 12″ diameter. Transfer to tart pan (this is the tricky bit; I actually ended up sliding the pan underneath the disk) and pat it into the pan. Leave 1/2″ overhang and trim away the rest of the dough. Freeze the crust for 15 minutes. Heat the oven to 375 while you’re waiting. When the crust comes out of the freezer, prick it several times with a fork and bake for 30 minutes. Let the crust cool, but keep the oven hot.

To make the filling, grind the almonds, sugar, and spices in the food processor until you get a fine meal. Add the eggs, butter, and liqueur and process until you get a batter. Pour the batter into the crust, and top with sliced plums. Spinkle sliced almonds over top. Bake about 50 minutes; plums should be soft and filling will set up. Devour with whipped cream.

M: Do you think that the Irish girls are said to be so pretty because you’re looking at them through a glass of beer?

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t see anything through that beer.

T: How was Ireland??

Me: Ireland was AWESOME. Cold and windy, but awesome.

T: Shoulda stayed a few more days for the green beer.

Me: I start thinking about what makes the beer green, and that never leads anywhere good.

Tuesday, 3/6

Tuesday started out sunny, making it a perfect day for me to go on an urban photo safari while Housemate had a two-hour bodhran lesson at Walton’s New School of Music. Mick, the music teacher, enthusiastically directed me to a variety of photo-worthy sites (all of which I completely failed to find) and sent me on my way. Housemate got a lesson in Irish Economics and the Effect of the Euro on Professional Irish Musicians along with his music lesson, some of which I shall attempt to convey with a reasonable degree of accuracy.

According to Mick, over 80 pubs have closed in Dublin in the last six months, and he was quite surprised to see so many musicians of equal or greater caliber at Milwaukee’s Irish festival last time he was there. Apparently, gigging for cash in Irish pubs is Right Out these days, as a result of some changes in both tax laws and their enforcement. Used to be that a musician could make a decent living just by gigging, but apparently that’s only for the lucky few these days. Furthermore, the Euro has made a night at the pub so expensive that the locals simply can’t afford it all that often. A pint is 5 euros in most places, or about $6.50. Buying a round for a few friends is very pricy in these degenrate days…particularly when you consider that minimum wage is 350 euros a week. The liquor stores are doing a booming business, though, because for a fiver per person, you can get quite a lot of beer and watch a rugby match on TV at home with your pals. I did notice that Dublin is pricy indeed for food and drink, but at least there’s not a markup over and above that in the museum cafes, and not as much as you might expect in hotels.

My urban photo safari took me around a good bit of Dulin’s south side; that’s where most of the attractions are, and Mick had warned me that the north side is dodgy and I was best not wandering around there on my own. So, I set off south on Great George Street, and wandered past Powerscourt house. A few blocks into my stroll, I stumbled upon the national geographical survey’s shop, where I found (and purchased, of course) a nifty map of medieval archaeological sites superimposed on a map of modern Dublin, as well as two antique map reproductions. I also found (and declined to purchase) a trio of truly awful dresses in a shop window. I don’t think Irish secondary schoools have proms, and therefore, I can only conclude that some designer somewhere really, really, hates bridesmaids.

Trinity College proved a welcome escape from evil taffeta. It took me several tries, but I managed a decent shot of the bell tower, and I had a good time wandering around. The campus has the odd contemporary building and bit of sculpture, such as the Berkely Library and the Samuel Beckett Theatre plunked down amongst all the grand old architecture and monuments. While they quite obviously don’t make any effort to be unobtrusive, the modern structures have at least achieved detente with their neghbors, and I expect that in another 400 years, everyone will lump them into the same “old stuff” category.

While I did take a lot of pictures, I was just happy to have an excuse to wander around, off the clock, on a sunny day. I skirted the southern edge of Temple Bar (the main entertainment district), strolled over to St. Andrew’s, where the Irish Tourism Board has its headquarters, and ended up at the supermarket across from the music school, where I picked up some sandwiches for lunch. I arrived back at Walton’s at the very end of Housemate’s lesson, and Mick enthusiastically recommended some restaurants and venues for traditional music.

We took him up on one of his suggestions that evening, and headed to Oliver St. John Gogarty’s in Temple Bar. The decor is the Irish country village version of Hard Rock Cafe stuff-on-the-walls, and while the food and drinks were at tourist prices, it was very good food. Housemate had a lovely seafood chowder in a creamy, sherry base, followed by chicken in port sauce. I had a delicious mixed seafood dish in an herb, sherry, and cream sauce. Both entrees came with mixed vegetables, including turnips and carrots mashed together, steamed asparagus, roasted potatoes, and colcannon. Dessert was a very light, not-too-sweet, Bailey’s cheesecake for me, and a chocolate mousse for Housemate. Gogarty’s also has a few sets of traditional music every day; they advertise music from 2:30 PM to 2:30 AM, but there are breaks in between and the musicians switch out. We caught most of one set before the hour got late and the crowd and noise got to be a bit much…and the waitress started givng us the evil eye for not ordering another round.

Apparently, it has been asked whether I am planning to perpetrate write a piece for the Phoenix Theater’s 2007 holiday show. As they were so kind as to perform my piece last year, how can I say no?

This picture was taken at Trinity College, which like its American counterparts, obviously suffers from inadequate parking.

Monday, 3/5

After sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, we managed to stumble out into a much lighter rain and headed into the City Centre. We didn’t get lost, but it was the first full day in an unfamiliar country, and both Housemate and I were feeling very fish-out-of-water. We wandered into a bagel & juice place on Leinster Street—one of a surprising number of bagel places in Dublin, I soon noticed. Ireland has never heard of low carb; bagels are, apparently, considered a health food. (Personally, I think it’s just a good excuse to eat more of the amazing smoked salmon. It’s better than New York lox, and I do not say that lightly!) This is an attitude I can get behind, particularly after a tasty tomato-and-brie-on-sesame-seed bagel when I most needed it. Still unsure of our general whereabouts, we wandered into Trinity College and found ourselves exactly where we needed to be if we wanted to see the Book of Kells.

Coincidentally enough, the Book of Kells was the one thing that everyone I knew who’d been to Dublin said was a must-see. Right, then. We visited the book, or more properly, books. (The Book of Kells has two roommates, the Books of Durrow and Armagh.) So, in order to see the Book(s), one buys tickets at the Trinity College Gift Shop (packed to its ancient rafters with more tourist kitsch than you could possibly shake a stick at—and yes, Mom, that is where I bought your present and Dad’s) and enters a dimly-lit exhibit area with full-color enlargements of illustrations from all three books; one other, less-renown books; a sprinkling of artifacts; informative placards about inks, parchment-making, the various scribes who worked on the Book, how to spot an error in the handwritten text; an overview of the hagiography; a video loop about book-binding, and another video loop that wasn’t running the day we were there.

The Books reside in a room of their own, in a special glass case presided over by two security guards who look as though they’ve had their fill of tourists, and bugger all, it’s only noon. There are two things about the Book(s) that I hadn’t expected, although one of them shouldn’t really have surprised me. Because the books are ancient, they’re fragile, which means that bright lighting is right out…and consequently (though not surprisingly) you get a much better look at the contents if you buy the special, commemorative €39.95 book with full-colour plates that is conveniently available in the gift shop. The other thing I hadn’t expected is that the Book of Kells has been unbound (the original binding has apparently been lost for longer than my home country has existed) and rebound into at least four separate books; two are displayed in the glass case, and one was in the Long Room upstairs. This is where the college’s oldest books are kept, and when you’ve been collecting since Elizabeth I’s reign, that signifies.

The Long Room was described to me by a coworker as looking just like Hogwarts’s library. Personally, I thought it was better lit and less hazardous, but no less fascinating. In the nineteenth century, they raised the flat, Georgian plaster ceiling and turned it into a gorgeous barrel ceiling (and added windows) in order to accommodate more books, as they’d run out of room. (I can imagine my dad eyeing the living room ceiling speculatively even as I type.) It’s a dreadful comparison to make, but if you imagine the Jedi library from Star Wars, you’ll get a feel for the size and configuration of the space. It’s much better decorated, though. It’s a quintessential scholarly library, complete with carefully-spaced marble busts of scholars and writers both ancient and modern; a collection of letters, photos, and documents that includes one of the few surviving prints of the 1916 proclamation of independence from Britain; and yet more artifacts, such as an early typewriter and Ireland’s oldest intact harp, which dates to the fifteenth century, but is apparently so often incorrectly attributed to the time of Brian Boru that a corrective placard is affixed to the display case.

Thus edified, we then devoted ourselves to the primary duty of tourists everywhere—shopping. We headed over to Walton’s music, where Housemate got himself signed up for a two-hour bodhran lesson the next day. We also wandered through Powerscourt House, which used to be one of the poshest and most prestigious residences in Dublin, and is now home to fortysome shops and restaurants. They’re posh shops and restaurants, at least. I did a lot of looking, but the only buying was at a nearby supermarket. Dublin is an expensive city, so we got some things for breakfast the next morning, rather than go to a restaurant.

That evening, we went over to O’Neil’s—which is right around the corner from Walton’s—for supper and traditional music. Supper ended up being a delicious piece of lightly breaded and fried plaice with carrots, cabbage & leeks, and four different kinds of potatoes, including colcannon—whatever that is—and more Harp. (That evening, when we got back, I looked up colcannon in the potato-shaped, magnetized cookbook I’d gotten for Dad. Like many other Irish dishes, it’s cooked vegetables mixed into mashed potatoes. The names vary depending on which vegetables, but it’s all of a piece and I can’t remember which is which.) O’Neil’s had been recommended to us by one of the students behind the counter at the Trinity College gift shop for their “carvery” (which I interpreted as cafeteria-style food service where they’ll carve the beef, ham, or turkey for your sandwich in front of you). The food was good, and I was really looking forward to the music, which turned out to be a three-and-a-half person band called No Time for Tea. (The fiddle player is pregnant.) We had seats not ten feet from the band, and what I could hear was great. Unfortunately, it was also quite limited by a dozen or more rowdy American college students sitting next to us. At the risk of sounding old and crotchety, not one of them had either an “inside voice” or any manners pertinent to attending public performances. If there isn’t a special place in hell for snotty, self-important undergrads who talk over live music in someone else’s country, I’m going to make one when I get there. I think it’ll be perfect right next to the special place for those who use flash photography during live theater.

Sunday, 3/4

The first thing I noticed about Ireland, as our plane descended through the cloud layer, is that it is, indeed, as riotously green as advertised, if not more so. As we were landing, I noticed that it was windy as well. Shortly thereafter, I discovered why it’s so green. It rains. A lot.
Now, I’m going to digress a moment to mention that getting through customs couldn’t have been easier, the luggage arrived on the same flight that we did, and the lady at the tourism board’s kiosk couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful. However, the Dublin airport is slightly grotty, and the state of the ladies’ room was both more typical and less hygienic than I’d prefer.

It was raining with great enthusiasm as we made our way out to the bus that took us into town, and I’d already regretted not bring boots with me. On the other hand, not only wasn’t it snowing, there were already daffodils, lilacs and crocuses in bloom.

I’d managed to nap a bit on the plane, but not nearly enough, and combined with an inexplicable urge to get up at 4:30 the previous morning, I was ready for the short walk to the hotel by the time the bus pulled away from the airport.

We did manage to get off the bus at the right stop. Unfortunately, my navigational skills were not up to the task, and Housemate and I spent about 45 minutes wheeling our suitcases through some impressive puddles as we wandered in a big circle, asking directions from passersby (one of whom suggested that our best option was to take a cab) before we managed to get ourselves turned around in the right direction.

By the time we got to the hotel, we were thoroughly soaked, punchy, and had acquired a soul-deep understanding of the singular appeal of a pint of…well, anything really.
Fortunately, the hotel staff was up to the task, bringing us towels, sending us in to breakfast, and getting our room ready not only in record time, but two hours before check-in at that, AND sending the luggage up.

Hot food, tea (for which I also developed a deep appreciation), a nap, and a shower went a long way towards setting us to rights, and we ventured out, refreshed in body and spirit.

And got lost again.

Not immediately; we did make it over to St. Stephen’s Green without difficulty. Across the street was the hotel that we later discovered had been patronized by Charles Dickens, Oliver Hardy & Stan Laurel, and Princess Grace of Monaco (not simultaneously, though; I’d pay good money to see THAT).

The thing about Dublin is that while the River Liffey is a definite north-south divider, the city planners have, over the centuries, entirely ignored that convenient fact not only in the layout of streets, but in naming them as well. For example, St. Stephen’s North, which borders the park of the same name, is actually at a diagonal to the north-south axis.

This didn’t have anything to do with us getting lost, mind you, but it is a convenient excuse. We managed to exit the park at the southeast corner and found ourselves at Harcourt Street with no idea whatsoever how we’ gotten there. We ducked into a convenient Starbucks (they ARE everywhere) and managed to work out how to get someplace that served food.

Or, as it turned out, would have served food had it not been after 5:00 PM on Sunday. Fortunately, the waitress at Duke’s took pity on us, and brought us delicious open-faced smoked-salmon sandwiches on lightly buttered brown bread, and two glasses of Harp.
So, at the age of 35, I had my first beer ever. I had to go to Portland (Oregon) in order to learn to like coffee, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised.

Saturday, March 3rd

I don’t fear flying, so much as I loathe it. I don’t need to go on about it at length, but the last time I went to Europe, it was on Air France, and the food wasn’t just edible, it was good. (Not great, but definitely good.) And the drinks were free. This time, the drinks should not only have been free, but compulsory…and not just because of the singularly wretched food. We were seated across the aisle from a small boy who, while not quite so bad as Bill Cosby’s Jeffrey, would’ve been a brilliant understudy. Fortunately for all involved, Housemate had the aisle seat, pinning me neatly against the bulkhead and thus preventing me from assisting the little tyke in playing outside for a while. Over Greenland.

And thus the jet lag began.