“The holly green/ the ivy green/ the prettiest picture you’ve ever seen/ is Christmas in Killarney/ With all of the folks at home…”

We couldn’t help ourselves, the husband and I.  Every tidy town in Ireland is in a nascent state for the holidays, but Killarney is fully there.  Yesterday, after a short hike to Torc Waterfall – stunning and loud, then Muckross House where we imagined ourselves living while Erin attends Trinity College, and then Ross Castle — medieval and cold, all in Killarney National Park, it was into town for tea and hot chocolates.  I know Dickens was from London, but as it started to rain and we ducked in and out of storefronts on the main street, the only thing that was missing was Tiny Tim and snow…and Bing Crosby.  Christmas was indeed in Killarney – we only stopped singing the song when we got back to Kenmare and waded into an Irish shop filled to the brim with Aran Island sweaters.  It reminded me that my own – given to me by my parents after their trip here nearly thirty years ago – was zipped in plastic under my bed in California.  I’d tried to wear it when I lived in New York, but quickly discovered it was too warm for indoors.  There’s a reason you don’t feel sorry for all those sheep grazing in the fields, even as the temperature dips below freezing.  They’ve got those sweaters on.

Today, we said goodbye to County Kerry and made our way to County Clare, via the ferry from Tabert to Killimer.  It rained through the night but the weather has been good to us during the day.  The sun started peaking through an hour into our trip so by the time we arrived at the Cliffs of Moher, the skies were blue.  The backlit scenery didn’t make for the best photos, but when you’re there, taking in the dramatic majesty of it all, it’s hard to care.

Instead, I thought about the girls before they were born, and how each time we thought to name them, we thought of Ireland.  Now here I was watching the three of them laughing together and looking into the sun with their sparkling blue eyes, standing at these cliffs, arguably the most emblematic of Ireland’s scenery.  It was perfect (and also windy and very, very cold.)

Though the Ring of Kerry was stunning and varied in its offerings and I loved every moment, the drive today through Clare heading toward Galway was my favorite.  Most of it was along the ocean, with stone walls breaking up green meadows where sheep, horses, and cattle gathered to do whatever it is they do.  The villages were picture postcards – each with their own Murphy’s Pub or Finnegan’s Bar – and I made the husband stop the car so I could capture a rainbow in the distance.  Pots of gold and leprechauns were just beyond.

We’re finishing up the night in Galway now, after a lovely dinner on Quay Street.  You learn to say ‘lovely’ a lot more here.  I’m looking forward to a morning run in along Galway Bay before heading back to Dublin and our flight home.  There are several hours between now and then so I won’t say goodbye just yet.  I can’t.

What’s an Irish Thanksgiving, you ask?  It’s when you’re forty-nine years old and the husband asks what you want to do for your fiftieth and you casually say something like, “We should go to Ireland.”  Then you forget about it because you have three children to attend to, among other obligations, and approaching the half-century of your life doesn’t seem like an actual event because you’re still seventeen, immature and oblivious to the process known as aging, even though it may explain the inordinate length of time it takes your mind and body to wake up in the morning, the reading glasses you’re now required to use all the time, and the occasional conversations you have about the inner workings of your digestive system.  It might also clarify the AARP card you received in the mail the other day, compliments of the sister-in-law who insisted you have one.  The husband brings it up again – Ireland – asking when you should go.  “In the summer or closer to your birthday?”  You mumble something; he mumbles something back like “It’s cheaper in the fall,” and then you find yourself on a plane with your three daughters and said husband heading to Dublin right after you actually turn fifty and right before the fourth Thursday in November, also known as Thanksgiving in the great country of America.

We arrived at 5am Dublin time on Wednesday and no one in this fair land wakes that early.  In fact, they sleep quite late – like 8am – which was about the time we finished breakfast in Navan, just a few miles from our morning destination, the Hill of Tara.  For years now, those who don’t personally know me, and even some who do, refer to my youngest daughter as Miss T because that’s what I dubbed her when I started this here Daily Cup.  (Somewhere, I got the idea that using my children’s real names wasn’t appropriate.)  If you knew her, you’d know that ‘Miss T’ fits Tara to a T.  And not only is her mother Irish-American (that’s me), but her father loves all things from the Emerald Isle, so much so that he thought it wise to marry a lass.  When it came time to naming the kids, it was easy.  Our oldest Erin (to you, ‘Goldie’) would have been Kevin if she’d been a boy.  Kerry (‘Bun Bun’ – the middle one) would have been Sean.  Instead, we were gifted with three daughters and each has a place in Ireland.  The country is Erin.  The county is Kerry.  The hill is Tara.

Naturally, we fit in here.  Our American accents give us away the moment we open our mouths, but to look at us, especially after the cold has turned our cheeks and noses red, we look like the ruddy natives.  Fair skin, fair hair, we embrace the clouds and rain with open arms.  It suits us, this place.  We’ve been here less than 48 hours and already, the husband and I know our way around Dublin.  The girls have seen that Hill of Tara and the ruins at Glendalough.  We’ve crossed the River Liffey and toured Trinity College, Dublin Castle, and Christ Church.  We’ve tasted scones the way they’re supposed to taste (and look, like doorstops) and are even beginning to understand more than half of what people are saying.  (Who knew the accent was so strong?)  By tomorrow morning, before heading down to Kenmare, it’s likely that we’ll officially be on “Irish” time, eight hours ahead of Los Angeles.

Tonight, we didn’t try to find a turkey dinner or even a piece of pumpkin pie.  Instead, we dined with our California friend Clem, a student at Trinity College, and listened to her regale us with stories of her ‘lads’, the history and politics that she studies, and her Irish friends whose names I can’t pronounce.  I had pork wrapped in bacon (Clem’s dad would approve) because, well, wouldn’t you?

Turning fifty, so far, has been perfect if a little busier than I’d imagined.  I’m here in Ireland, inspired and grateful.  So ‘thank you’ to the husband who makes wishes come true, and to all my friends, my family, and my readers – sláinte!  An Irish toast – to health!  And Happy Thanksgiving!

To the victims of Hurricane Sandy, my thoughts and prayers are with you.  Forgive me for this stupid post:

I hate Halloween.  My husband would be quick to say ‘hate’ is a strong word.  Yeah, well, f**k that.  Costumes for at least two of my three children are the bane of my existence.  I don’t sew.  Neither ‘artsy’ nor ‘craftsy’ is my middle name.  (It’s Michelle or Michele – can never remember how to spell it.)  I do the best I can with felt and Elmer’s glue, and visiting every Target in the southland.

Last week, Goldie and Bun Bun needed their costumes by Friday night for the middle school Halloween dance.  At thirteen, Goldie takes care of herself and pulled off an easy cowgirl ensemble.  Bun Bun wanted to be Minnie Mouse but create the costume herself – translation: figure it out Mom.  Oddly, last Monday through Thursday, the perfect red skirt did not exist anywhere on the planet we call Earth.  After five stores, I opted for a wraparound sheer number from a dance store and glued on white felt circles after a trip to Jo-Ann Fabrics.  The little black blazer she wanted for a dressy Minnie at the first Target didn’t fit.  Five Target trips later, it was apparent all children are a size Medium and so I made an executive decision while she was at school and got her a different Medium in a different jacket.  She liked my choice but naturally needed a Large in this particular style and so back to Target I went.  “Pick up yellow shoelaces please!” she shouted before heading off to school Friday.  In case you’re not aware, yellow is the pariah of the fashion world.  How do I know this?

Miss T wanted to be Winnie the Pooh.  Yellow tights, sweatpants, and leggings do not exist in this solar system.  I know because I’ve been to eleven stores.  I did however find mustard-colored jeans at Forever 21 that would go perfectly with the Winnie the Pooh headband/ears I gave my life for last Saturday night.  They were the last pair I found available at a costume store after 45 minutes of calling seven different places.  Plain red t-shirt?  Six stores at the mall (after Forever 21) and then finally – you guessed it – Target.

I was nearly wringing my hands yesterday afternoon in anticipation of Miss T’s reaction to the work I’d done for Pooh.  I told her of my journeys before handing over the goods and let out a sigh of relief when she gave her approval.  “This is great, Mom,” she said, agreeing with me that Pooh isn’t yellow so much as mustard/gold.  I went on my soccer carpool way, confident that I’d escaped yet again the wrath of Halloween.

Last night before bed, Miss T finally had a chance to try on the ensemble I’d bought, including a mustard-colored shirt to pull down over the jeans and under the red T-shirt.  When she marched down the stairs to show me and Bun Bun, the three of us spoke simultaneously: me/Bun Bun – “That looks great,” and Miss T, “I don’t look like anything.”

F**k Halloween.

Miss T went off to bed in tears.  Eventually, we agreed I’d go back to Jo-Ann Fabrics for yellow felt, cut out the word ‘Pooh’ in those f**king Disney-style letters and glue them on the f**king red T-shirt in case no one knew, despite the Pooh headband with the little yellow ears, who she was at the school Halloween parade in a few hours.  Oh and I have to get a f**king helium-filled red balloon.

What’s worse is that, despite the fact Miss T doesn’t read this f**king blog, today will be some kind of cosmic exception and then I’ll spend the rest of fourth grade convincing her that I’m not really mad at her, I’m mad at the dirt.  (“Mommy Dearest” anyone?)

This morning, we were under the belief that only middle school (Goldie and Bun Bun) had free dress – orange and black – and that lower school was to wear their uniforms before getting into costume after lunch.  The husband just called after dropping the girls off and told me that lower school had free dress, too, and that Miss T was inquiring in the office how to start the paperwork for emancipation.  She wants new parents.

And I haven’t carved a single pumpkin.

(The election?  Yeah, there’s that.  I’m on it tomorrow after the candy has been handed out.)

I consider myself a redhead still, despite the gradual fade to blonde two weeks after the dye job, notwithstanding the natural gray that comes out of my follicles.  I was a towhead until I was seven or eight, then strawberry for five years after that, but for the next twenty-five years, whenever asked to put down hair color, I always scribbled in ‘red’.  Together with my last name – Egan – I was telling the world I was Irish and proud of it.

May you always have walls for the winds,
a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
and all your heart might desire.

Forgive me while I generalize about the Irish on this fine St. Patrick’s Day, to explain my pride.

Firelight will not let you read fine stories, but it’s warm, and you won’t see the dust on the floor.

You can’t kiss an Irish girl unexpectedly. You can only kiss her sooner than she thought you would.

Sure, we can be a melancholy bunch especially when we’re too far into our cups, but more often than not, even sober, we’re rosy-cheeked and gregarious especially among friends.  We generally hail from large families and find comfort in numbers, so we’d rather eat with a crowd than alone – the louder the better.  Don’t fight with us because we don’t like losing.  Instead, stand with us and learn how words, more than fists, are our favorite weapon, and our greatest pastime.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. – William Butler Yeats

Read all of Yeats, read Joyce, read Edna O’Brien, and the essays of Nuala O’Faolain.  The Irish never stop talking, or writing.

A face without freckles is like a sky without stars.

That’s why I’m proud.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m proud to be Irish but I’ve never really embraced the cuisine like I do Italy’s or Mexico’s.  There are specific items in Ireland’s culinary cupboard that I love – potatoes, for one – but not a lot of dishes that I regularly put together.  Despite a growing number of well-known Irish chefs – Rachel Allen among them – few of us ever say “Let’s go out for Irish tonight.”  On St. Patrick’s Day, however, it’s worth giving the Emerald Isle her due when it comes to answering the question, “What’s for dinner?”

Last year, I offered you a basic Guinness Stew.  This year, it’s Shepherd’s Pie.  Sure, there are similarities between the two – beef, carrots, potatoes, beer – but enough differences to make me feel okay about myself.  (That’s what this blog is all about: Jo feeling good about Jo.)

This dish can be made with either lamb or ground beef, but I don’t really like lamb.  Also, I’m going to include carrots for the recipe I give you here, though I’ve actually made my shepherd’s pie without because the husband just cannot abide cooked carrots.  What’s your weird little tick when it comes to foods you can’t stomach?  (Mine’s watermelon.  Like the taste, hate the texture.)

I’m serving this with broccoli because we need a good, green vegetable on the plate.  Of course, there’s also a loaf of Irish soda bread I’ve sliced.  Can’t do St. Patrick’s Day without it.

Shepherd’s Pie (serves eight)

Meat filling:

1 T. olive oil (or bacon fat if you have it on hand)

1 cup chopped onions

1 lb. ground beef (lean is fine, or even ground turkey)

1 cup carrots, cut into bite size pieces

1 cup frozen peas

1 T. minced garlic

2 t. chopped fresh thyme

2 T. tomato paste

1 T. Worcestershire sauce

½ bottle dark or amber beer

½ cup beef broth

1 T. flour

salt and pepper

For mashed potatoes:

5-6 large Russet potatoes

½ stick butter

milk

salt and pepper

1 cup grated Irish cheddar

salt and pepper

Carmelize the onions in the oil over medium heat, about 3-4 minutes.  Add the beef and brown, then drain the fat.  Add carrots, peas, garlic, thyme, tomato paste, and Worcestershire.  Stir to mix and let simmer for about five minutes.  Add the beer and broth, bring to a boil, then sprinkle in the flour to thicken the sauce.  Reduce heat to medium and let cook for five minutes.

Make the mashed potatoes.  (I don’t have to tell you how, do I?)  I saved myself one step and simply mixed in the Irish cheddar instead of browning it on top later.

In a large deep-dish pie pan or simple oven-proof casserole dish, spoon the meat mixture over the bottom at least one inch thick, then spoon the mashed potatoes over and spread evenly.  Bake at 350° for 35 minutes or until the edges are brown.  (The dish I made mine in was too shallow – see photo above – but that didn’t affect the taste, just the presentation.)

Don’t forget the soda bread.