belgianwaffle

Ireland

Confirmation


Posted in: Ireland, Princess

The Princess is in a mixed 5th/6th class and, as a consequence is experiencing confirmation preparation a year early [she’ll get to do it again next year when she actually makes her confirmation which does not fill me with delight, but, small school: advantages and disadvantages]. For confirmation, children get to pick a confirmation name and this is all very exciting.

Me: What kind of names are the children in your class picking?
Her: Well, D, has chosen Razor.
Me: Razor as in razor blade?
Her: Yes.
Me: What did the teacher say?
Her: There is no St. Razor.

They are also doing lots of religion. Herself said to me that the she, the two atheist children and the Protestant child have been told that they are to stop answering questions put to the class. I was very indignant until she explained that they had been answering all the questions and the teacher wanted to give other children a chance. To no avail according to herself as, confirmation class or no, none of them seem to know anything about the Bible or catechism or indeed religion. Catholics, we’re not great on knowing the details of our religion; we’re more broad brush people.

When the teacher put the 10 commandments on the board and asked whether anyone knew them. No one, except for the foursome, did. Is this not a little surprising? The teacher explained them to the class [more necessary in an Irish medium school, I suppose]. “How did she get on with adultery?” I asked. “She stopped before she got there and said we’d come back to it tomorrow, but, I don’t think she will,” she said sagely. I suppose, if they can cover even 5 of the 10 commandments it will be a triumph given the low base from which they started. And to think that for my confirmation [or, possibly, even my communion – it’s all a bit of a blur now] I knew a little yellow catechism off by heart [Did anyone else have this catechism?]. We were told that if we didn’t we wouldn’t be allowed to make our confirmations. I now suspect that was a lie. We were told that the previous year a child had failed to answer the question “Who is God?*” correctly [as in word for word from the catechism] when the parish priest visited and she had not been allowed to make her confirmation. This [false, I now realise] tale was much discussed and focussed our minds on accurate memorisation.

*God is our father in heaven, the most wonderful person ever.

Training


Posted in: Ireland, Travel

With my mother unwell, I have been up and down to Cork a fair bit on the train. It’s not a bad service but I am quite tired of it. I particularly disliked the weekend where I got back to Dublin on Sunday night and realised that I had to go to Belfast the following morning for work. It did give me the opportunity to verify that it was raining on the whole island of Ireland.

How bright am I to be going to Cork this weekend and up to Armagh on Tuesday?

That is all.

Fishmonger to the Queen


Posted in: Cork, Ireland, Siblings

You may not remember this, but when the Queen of England visited Ireland, she went to the market in Cork.

She chatted to one of the fishmongers and he has made it his business to keep this in the forefront of people’s minds, inter alia, by hanging a large picture of himself and herself over his stall (“Rebel county, indeed” as Mr. Waffle remarked sardonically at the time). This drives my brother insane and my sister and I have had hours of harmless entertainment pointing to the marketing abilities of Mr. O’Connell.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, he published a book. This is from the blurb:

In this heart-warming story, Pat O’Connell recalls the historic visit of Queen Elizabeth II to the English Market, which left a lasting impact not only on the market itself but also on his own life.

This is from my brother when he heard the news.

Why are they doing this to me………………I’ve had enough..this guy makes me want to buy frozen fish from an industrial fish farm in the south Pacific, with 3 gizillion food miles, online from a faceless global retailer that pays no tax, headquartered in the Caymen Islands (or maybe Ireland)….

And look, only look, at the cover of today’s Examiner: Pat getting fitted out for his trip to Buckingham Palace.

Hours of harmless entertainment for all the family.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day


Posted in: Ireland, Princess

On Friday, the school allowed the children to dress up as a figure from celtic mythology or Irish history. The Princess spent weeks thinking about her costume and putting it together and eventually went as a druidess [is that actually a word?].

However, in her year, the whole dressing up thing seems to have peaked and most of the other children just wore Leprechaun hats and t-shirts saying “Kiss me, I’m Irish” [thank you America, sigh].

There were three other children in her class who had dressed up: a girl as Aoife (the evil step-mother in the Children of Lir), one boy as Michael Collins and one boy as Bobby Sands. There are quite, um, green, elements in the school.

“What did J wear as Bobby Sands?” I asked.
“His swimsuit and a blanket.”

I’m really sorry I missed that.

In other news, even though it is a bank holiday, there is still GAA training. Horrific. We skipped it. We’d already been to the parade; how much should one family have to suffer?

Climbed the Sugar Loaf over the weekend. Obligatory photos:

And a happy St. Patrick’s Day to you too.

#tycdinners


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

Look at me with my trendy title. You will never guess what I did last night. You don’t have to, however, because I am going to tell you.

I saw a competition on broadsheet: to enter you had to tweet a picture of the statue of Grattan at College Green and add the hashtag tycdinners. If you won, you got an “intimate dinner for two” in a secret location. So I entered, but you know, just because I was passing really.

So you can imagine then, my surprise, when this popped up in my notifications:

I never win anything; I was delighted. And then horrified; the nature of the competition was that night or never [and I’d only seen the notification at lunchtime]. This competition is designed for trendy young people who don’t need to get a babysitter before they go out. Not just that but Daniel and Herself were scheduled to sing at the First Confession between 7.15 and 8.15 and somebody had to look after Michael at home. It looked as though the first competition I had (possibly ever) won was slipping from my grasp. My husband, who is, as you know, a saint, said, why not ring your friend F and see whether she can go with you instead of me.

I rang friend F.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Her: I have to work late doing some tax prep (she is a tax lawyer so not as bad for her as other people, or, who knows, actually, maybe worse).
Me: Oh dear.
Her: Well, I could be flexible, why, what is it?
Me: [Slightly garbled explanation]
Her: Feck the tax, I’m in. [She was accepted for art school but decided to do law at the last moment, I feel this makes her my most alternative friend].

With the excitement of dinner at 8 in a secret location; me only getting home from work at 6.30; and two of the children to be bundled out in their best bib and tucker by 7, it was all a bit of a scramble. Mr. Waffle bought chips for the children for dinner which I didn’t touch (my body is a temple etc.) and which they regarded as a hugely welcome unexpected bonus. I cannot reflect on my children’s meals this week with a sense of anything even approaching virtue.

Never mind. My friend called round to collect me [obligatory phone call – do you know the way punctuality was never my strongest point? – I’m running a bit late] and I navigated us to the secret location with some success. I read aloud to her from the email: “just go in the steel gates”. “Really?” said she. “Through the steel gates to this unknown man’s garage. Are you sure about this competition”

Anyhow, we were met by the organiser who is part of a company rejoicing in the unlikely name of Designgoat who was charming and F was reassured. He said he made furniture which was lovely and everything but, you know, dinner. We were brought to an enormous room where he had made a little house and inside the little house [which matched the one at the bottom of the Grattan statue] was our table, our chef and our kitchen.

Aside, I said to Mr. Designgoat, I know somebody who works in the creative business; my husband’s, brother’s wife’s sister is a stylist and her husband is a graphic designer [go me – and such a close link]. He paused for a moment and said, “Oh you mean A who is working upstairs as we speak”. Welcome to Ireland. Also about were me&him&you who were involved in a way that is not entirely clear to me but they were lovely young men and they took our pictures. It was an environment where I was finally able to sample an extensive range of this hipster beard I hear so much about.

Our chef was called Essa and he was young and charming and we were filled with hope. And hungry. He mentioned that Mr. Designgoat had only finished the restaurant kitchen half an hour before he had to start cooking and it looked a tiny bit primitive [he only implied the latter but as, it turned out Mr. DG was his brother so he was, perhaps, more frank about the logistical shortcomings than a stranger might have been].

There was mild apprehension in the air. It was misplaced. The food was amazing. And there were loads of courses. I was particularly taken with the granita and the cod [two separate courses – focus]. And Essa chatted away merrily to us while doing all kinds of fancy things with no apparent effort. He was doing this on his night off, so I felt slightly guilt ridden – chefs and junior doctors the home of the long hours cultures – I felt he needed his night off. Never mind, it was all good for us. Did I mention the homemade Snickers dessert? Are you screaming with envy? Rightly so. Also, I now know what a micro herb is. There will be no stopping me now.

While somebody else worried about washing up we got to look at the Mr. DG’s studio and workshop – I nearly asked how much it would cost to make some furniture for us but then I remembered about my piano costs (I’ll tell you another time) and scuttled out into the night before committing any terrible extravagance.

I can tell you, this is what I always thought the romance of the big city was all about.

Tomorrow morning, however, I will be standing at the side of a windswept pitch somewhere in North County Dublin looking at determined 8 year olds playing Gaelic football.

Insert your own sage comment here. Did you know that sage can be grown as a micro herb? Really, I can stop anytime.