Week 8 - Andy - Recipe

I cook a lot. Maybe obsessively.  I would really like to become good at it. Really, classically, years of humiliation and discipline, good. I don’t just want one or two signature dishes, or be able to cobble together something delicious from the fridge. I want to be able to produce perfect, photogenic golden chicken breasts from copper pans in the french countryside.

At this point, I’m a little part of the way there. I can confidently knock up a sauce that will hold together on a plate, I can deliver a well cooked piece of fish, on top of a salad that will make you forget that you’re on a diet. I can plate up a decent meal from a few different national cuisines, and I’m finally happy with the way I roast a chicken. Also, I can make a beautiful rose from a tomato skin.

One - potentially concerning -  aspect of this obsession is that I’m mostly doing it alone. Without a mentor, I’m trying to learn how become  a classical chef from books. I’ve learned that most cookbooks follow a standard formula - probably set down by Julia Child. She explains how to cook, and encourages anyone to follow suit. Her recipes are complicated, and unforgiving, but she’s helpful, and through the prose, you have the sense that she wants you to succeed.

But I don’t really believe that i’ve learned anything until it’s been humiliated and drilled into me through failure - nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. Jamie Oliver grinning and gently reminding me to throw a glug of olive oil onto a pan while I’m knocking up ‘Jamie’s Gorgeous Slow Cooked Duck Pasta’ doesn’t give me the full operatic range of emotions I’m looking for.

Last year, I found a book - or maybe it found me - called The New Complete Techniques, by Jacques Pepin.

Jaqcues Pepin is a french chef. The inside jacket of his own book (his own book!) says the following: “Jacques Pepin is universally lauded as the grand master of culinary technique”. The Complete Techniques is 734 pages of step by step techniques to produce exactly the kind of precise, perfect food that I’m looking to feed to people I like. It isn’t just recipes, but basic skills, like how to Prepare Marrow or how to Eviscerate a Chicken or Other Poultry. (For when you have someone coming over in twenty minutes, and only a pigeon full of viscera in the fridge)

Pepin has made me a better cook. This book has provoked huge changes to our small apartment kitchen. Brunch went from bacon sandwiches to eggs benedict, with homemade hollandaise. Duck breasts went from intimidating to perfectly seared. Chickens were boned, apples cored and carrots were julienned in ways and at speeds never before seen.

Pepin is the printed mentor I’ve been looking for. When I’m making a dinner, always, I’m thinking ‘What would Pepin do?’ Am I skimming my coq au vin correctly? (by the way - skim your coq au vin, trust me - actually, don’t trust me, trust Pepin!)

But like every good mentor, he’s not just looking to help me cook better. He’s trying to help me grow as a person.

Dotted throughout the book, Pepin has decided to stick in photos of himself, overlaid with hints and tips. This isn’t sensible, Julia Child advice - ‘Make sure all the ingredients for your mayonnaise are the same temperature before beginning’. These are small sermons from Pepin, instructing the reader on living a better life. For instance, under Pepin’s recipe for Fast Brown Stock, he says "Any good cook knows that good cooking and good health are inseperable".

So, with Pepin ringing in my ears, I have been trying to jog more. I’ve found that taking exercise every day, either walking to the train, cycling to work, or going for a jog has allowed me to be more focused and clear. This translates into the confidence with which I pan fry a sea bream.

Pepin is quick to praise and criticize, encourage and discipline - after all, in his own words: “There is nothing more exhilarating than a great chef in action. There is nothing so frightening as a bad chef in charge of the stove”.

Even when I’m pouring milk onto cereal, I can feel Pepin looking at me, and i wonder if he’s exhilarated, or frightened.

And then, sometimes, Pepin’s advice seeps into my real life. When I’m cycling, or talking to a client at work, or If i’m thinking about changing the brake pads on my car, I can hear Pepin. Most of his advice is very clearly based on one principle. Learn the basics. Build on a strong foundation. In fact, in Pepin’s words - “You may be very imaginative and creative in the kitchen, but you cannot take advantage of those qualities if you don’t know the basics’.

And then, on one page, Pepin casually gave me advice I would nearly have tattooed across my back, on how to deal with the chaos of a difficult year - Advice I came back to again and again. Pepin’s version of ‘Keep on keeping on’.

"Creation in the kitchen follows your mood. Somedays are clear and sunny, some dark and cloudy. The only control is technique."

PS - Pepin had the following to say about Thing a week: To have talent in the kitchen without technique is like being a great writer without possessing the mechanics of language - an impossible struggle.

Pepin is saying that I need to re-read Elements of Style, and study up on story structure before throwing together another chapter on hitmen in run-down hotels.

Week 8 - Laura - Recipe

Sara tasted Huguenot Torte for the first time on our honeymoon, in a fancy restaurant on a former slave plantation in South Carolina. She declared herself in love, before quickly qualifying the declaration by explaining that falling in love with food was an entirely different thing and wouldn’t affect her love for me at all.

I still remember the number of bookshops we had to trawl through before we eventually found a cookbook with the recipe in a marketplace the day before we left.

I can’t think of Huguenot Torte without thinking of Sara. She couldn’t wait to try her hand at making it as soon as we got home, and after that first successful trial it became a Kirwan family favourite. ‘Huge No Tart’ Beth used to call it when she was a little girl, trying to twist her tongue around strange words. But like father like daughter, she always welcomed the dessert with the same wildly enthusiastic ‘yes please’ that I did.

The ten weeks since Sara died is the longest I’ve gone without Huguenot Torte in 23 years. There’s been no place for its sweet stickiness, even if I knew how to make it. I’ve been falling from the awful emptiness of one day without Sara to the next, living - no, just not dying- on a mixture of Cornflakes and Domino’s.

It’s been 66 days since I’ve seen Beth. Like me, she’s been wrestling grief alone. She went back to college the day after the funeral. She tells me during stilted conversations on the phone that the end of semester is a busy time, but assignments and exams never stopped her coming home for the odd dinner before.

She’s coming by tonight. She says it’s just a quick stop to pick up some textbooks, but enough of the fog has lifted for me to know I have to do something to stop losing her too.

Being more au fait with football than food, I’m not sure my attempt at dessert has been very good. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to do. Sara would know whether unsalted butter was strictly necessary, or whether cheating with the regular kind was ok. My translation of what a quarter cup of all-purpose flour is was a rough guess at best. I’ve no idea what a two quart baking dish looks like, and I know I added some tears that the recipe didn’t call for into the vanilla extract.

The sound of the back door opening jolts me from my reverie and suddenly Beth is in the kitchen. Looking straight past me, she sees my attempt at Huguenot Torte sitting on the hob.

‘Oh Dad, it never looked like that when Mum made it,” she whispers tearfully, allowing herself to fall into my desperate hug.

As my tears fall into Beth’s hair I know that I’ve lost Huguenot Torte and Sara forever. But I think I’ve just found my little girl again.

Week 7 - Andy - Speech

Ladies and Gentlemen, wow. Thank you so much. This - this has always been a dream for me. To stand here, in front of all of you, with the oscar for best screenplay? Thank you - there are so many people!  I’d like to thank my wife, Aoife, my family, all my friends in Dublin.

The really surprising thing about me winning this award is that I have no memory of writing this screenplay! I remember wanting to write it, thinking about writing it, and I remember putting off writing it, but no memory of actually writing it, or sending it to a studio, or any of the other steps along the way.

So - (turns around to look at montage of film) - who stars in this? Huh - De Niro, Nicholson, Meryl Streep? Wow - we really pushed the boat out. And you’re saying Scorsese directed it? Jesus, must have been a good script. And do we live in LA? Wait - look at me asking these questions - I can sort all these out backstage.

I want to say to all the people out there who think they can write something! You probably can! Keep heart, and don’t work memorably hard! That way, you too can win the oscar for best screenplay!

They’re playing the music for me to get off stage.

So strange that the orchestra do a version of ‘Marimba’ for iPhone...

Week 7 - Laura - Speech

Apologies for the absence. I blame it all on getting married. Speaking of, that’s what my “thing” is based on this week. I didn’t make a speech at my wedding for fear of turning that part of the day into a sentimental communal cry. Or worse, having an audience of about 160 as I blubbed my way alone through a tearful soliloquy. If I had made a speech, it would have focused on my new husband Sean (naturally), but also on my family, who got me to and through the day (which was amazing by the way) in the best shape possible. Ideally it might have gone a little like this…

Getting married teaches you a lot. One of the big lessons I suspect my sister Avril and I have taken from the whole process for example is that it’s very difficult to get sheet music for the Champions League theme tune.

In case you’re a bit confused, cast your mind back to the music I walked up the aisle to, speed it up and add in some choppier bass notes.

By the time we finally got our hands on the music Avril was already halfway through making it up herself, so now she can - without lying - say she composed some of the Champions League theme tune.

For learning two difficult new piano pieces, for spending half a day in a recording studio so she could provide the music as well as walk behind me as I made my way up and down the aisle, for keeping us all on track as we did our best with today’s hymns, for being our chauffeur from the church to the reception venue and a thousand other things, thank you Avril.

Avril totally had the music under control

Next up is my second-from-youngest sister Jean. Jean lives in the UK so missed most of the mad wedding preparations. She knew exactly what was going on however, because she got married herself to David only last August. Jean’s great to let off steam to, and many minutes were spent on the phone moaning about all sorts over the past few months.

Together with her husband David, Jean was responsible for one particularly significant detail in our wedding plans however. We all went over to Jean to get the bridesmaids’ dresses last October. In 45 minutes flat we had found what we needed and went home, delighted with ourselves.

Shortly after, Jean shared the great news that she was pregnant, with who in the context of today I’ll refer to as Challenge Bermingham!

Her original purple polka dot bridesmaid dress very quickly became a non-option. The shop couldn’t furnish us with another dress, and - of course - the material proved almost impossible to find.

Clearly we got around the issue (literally!) and I can’t wait to meet my new little nephew/niece to tell them all about their part in today. For that, for listening to me moan and for a thousand other things, thank you Jean, and David.

I've no photo of Jean and David together, but here's Jean singing away with Sean's sister (and my bridesmaid) Orla

My sister Christine is heading up Team Bridesmaids today. Christine got a new job in Kerry recently, and moved down there last week. We’re lucky - she doesn’t sound like Peig Sayers yet!

Christine took the reins in organising my hen. I won’t bore you with the details, but it included swing dresses and dancing, embarrassing stories, drinks, catch-ups and more tea than alcohol. Had I been arranging my own hen I couldn’t have done better. For that, for all the thoughtful things you noted that might help make today more personalised, for being my chief bridesmaid and for a thousand other things, thank you Christine.

Christine looking lovely in red polka dot during the wedding ceremony

I only have one brother. I think it’s because he’s all the brother any sister can cope with. Ah no, more seriously I think he’s such a good brother there’s no need for any more.

I’m going to give Glenn’s number out to everyone before they leave here today. No, not like that. He’s a happily married man. No, while Glenn is great for a number of reasons, one of his stand-out talents is his ability to challenge Google Maps when it comes to directions. Honestly, if you’re ever stuck just give him a shout, describe your surroundings and tell him how long ago you left home and where you were heading for. Google Maps might tell you to take a left after 2.5km for example. Glenn will further tell you that the left turn is just after a bend to the left that comes just after a dormer bungalow on the right hand side that’s painted a pale yellow and has a blue VW Bora parked in the driveway.

Glenn did a cracking job as usher in the church, and as general gofer here. For that, for reading a lesson and for a thousand other things, thank you Glenn.

Glenn reading a lesson during the ceremony

I might just mention Glenn’s wife Isla at this point. I usually stay in Longford on Monday nights. For the past number of months Isla has sent me off to work on Tuesday morning with a packed lunch. She was also integral in sourcing the purple polka dot material - with polka dots of exactly the right size - for Jean’s new dress, and she willingly mucked in to help with all the pre-wedding day tasks that had to be done over the past few days.

Which brings me on to my Mam, Joyce.

The super talented Joyce Ryder!

As a little girl I always loved hearing the story of how my Mam made her own wedding dress. Now if I was to have done the same I’d be wearing a dress with staples today, by necessity rather than design. So, shortly after Sean and I got engaged I asked my Mam if she’d take on making my wedding dress.

I think you’ll agree she’s done an amazing job. To continue the homemade theme, the crochet flowers in my hair and my beautiful blue shawl were made by my gran. Neither my Mam nor my gran are shoemakers unfortunately, so I got my friend Jimmy Choo to help me out with those.

My dress turned out better than I even imagined.

For my dress, for helping to make our wedding cake along with Sean’s Mam Teresa, for our Tuesday morning walks, for your support and guidance and a thousand other things, thank you Mammy.

Sean is the main man today, but my Dad Victor gets more than an honourable mention. My Dad and I are very close, so the start of today was a bit stressful for both of us. Now’s probably a good time to apologise for snapping “Don’t be asking me questions like that now” at him when he innocently inquired in the car on the way to the church how I was feeling.

My dad Victor, enjoying an ice-cream after a stressful wedding morning

Suffice to say that rather than losing a daughter you’re gaining a son. And we have our work cut out if we stand any chance of turning him into a culchie. I’d also like to reassure you that I’ll still be looking to you when the oil in our car needs changing and other stuff like that.

And finally to Sean.

I’ve known Sean almost four years, and I’ve loved him for about three and a half of those years. We’ve had challenges though, arguably the biggest of which was when I moved from Dublin to Tullamore for work.

Now Sean has lots of things going for him, but his phone manner isn’t one of them. Living relatively far away during the week, I’d call a couple of evenings in the week for a catch up and maybe to hear him tell me that he missed me or loved me. Instead, I’d end up feeling like a cold caller trying to sell him an unwanted set of encyclopedias or something. Coupled with the fact that Sean doesn’t believe in overusing the phrase “I love you”, we were in a bit of a pickle.

We solved it with the introduction of Love Bomb™. Love Bomb is a game I learned on the Trans-Siberian train back in 2005. From Moscow to Irkutsk my friends Andy, Sinead, Sam and I shared a carriage with two Dutch pirates whose names I can’t remember and two Swedish guys called Yani and Thomas. Thomas fancied my friend Sinead but was shy about it, so he introduced this game called Love Bomb whereby we’d pass around compliments.

If I was sitting next to Andy I might tell him that he really pulled off the weird fleece we chose for him in Uniqlo. Andy might continue by telling Thomas next to him that he liked how sociable he was with strangers for example and then Thomas might tell Sinead she was beautiful.

So in 2011 I resurrected Love Bomb. Any time I needed to, I’d ask Sean for a love bomb and we both went away happy.

I thought nothing would be more fitting than sharing a few love bombs about Sean today.

Sean trusts me 100 per cent. He’s calm and calming, he’s comfortable in himself, he keeps me grounded, he’s generous and he gets on well with my family. I love how he cooks me dinner every so often, but I also love how he makes sure to thank me for every meal I make for us. I both love and hate his neatness. I love his love for football, which sometimes extends to watching Yeovil FC or some other such team late at night. I love how he waits to watch episodes of How I Met Your Mother, New Girl and Modern Family with me. I love that he loves me.

And today, how can I but love how sharp he looks in his beautiful suit.

Sean looking sharp!

I’ve spoken for long enough so I won’t go into the spin-off game I’ve since introduced called Development Bomb™. You can keep that in mind for your own relationships, but perhaps as you raise a glass now you might turn to your neighbour and give them a little love bomb to brighten up their day.

To love!

We did it!

Week 6 - Brief plot outline for a romantic comedy - Andy - Take 2

This is the first time i've taken a second run at a thing a week. It's still before deadline. The previous effort was a bloated shambles, that took the idea and ruined it.


Untitled Amy Huberman project.

Mary Ryan seems to have it all, she's 29, and already the marketing director for Irish Foods. Sure, she has no time for her beloved cooking, and her boyfriend is cheating on her, but who cares about that when you're the head of marketing for Ireland's biggest food company!

Driving home one night, she is caught in a mysterious storm, and whipped back to 1951 Ireland.

Trying to survive in this strange time, she finds herself to be the most modern chef of the era, the most forward thinking businessperson in Ireland and an unlikely feminist leader, as she rouses the women of 1951 Ballybeggan to step out of the house.

She also attracts more than a glance from rich farmer, Liam, and mysterious, silent pub landlord, Aidan.

But as she confronts the social mores of mid-century, small town Ireland, it isn't long before Mary finds herself at odds with powerful forces in the community.

Week 6 - brief plot outline for a romantic comedy - Laura

Working title: In the nick of time

Unlucky-in-love Rachel Walsh (31) looks to the psychology books from her time in college to figure out why happy-ever-after has been passing her by. Instead of finding an answer she happens on a love note unseen until then from former classmate Nick Turner. Rachel’s tentative excitement is quenched when she sees her former classmate and best friend Paige Ryan’s name written on the book’s inside cover. Disappointed that love has once more overlooked her, she resolves to play Cupid instead.
Keen not to come on too strong after seven years with no contact, Rachel pitches a casual catch-up to Nick, Paige and another old classmate.
Nick had in fact written the note to Rachel back in college, who’d long since assumed ownership of the book originally bought by Paige. Single and still in love with Rachel, he jumps at the chance to meet up again.
An enjoyable reunion night out sets the tone for many other outings, with the chemistry between Nick and Rachel obvious to everyone but Rachel herself, who is hell bent on facilitating Nick and Paige’s happy ending. She presumes that’s exactly what’s in the making when Nick and Paige begin to meet up outside of the group, though in fact Paige is simply helping a hapless Nick figure out a failsafe plan to convince Rachel to go out with him. Convinced a pre-destined love is blossoming, Rachel dismisses their strong denials there’s any attraction between them as coyness.
One alcohol-fuelled night an ill Paige leaves Rachel’s house early. With Rachel’s defences down and Nick’s courage up, they finally spend the night together. Soon after Rachel realises she’s pregnant.
Sick to the stomach that she’s betrayed her best friend, Rachel cuts Nick out of her life and after weeks of working up the courage confesses all to Paige. Before Paige can tell Rachel there’s nothing going on between her and Nick and that he’s only ever had eyes for Rachel, Paige collapses.
Doctors discover that Paige has a potentially life-threatening pulmonary embolism, and quickly put a treatment plan in place for her. With the preciousness of life and love never clearer, Paige summons Nick to her hospital bed and convinces him to take hold of his destiny. When Rachel arrives he sets straight everything she has misunderstood.

The final scene sees everyone confident of their happy ending - Nick and Rachel as a couple, Paige back to health, and an unborn baby girl delighted even in the womb of being free from the embarrassing name she would no doubt have been burdened with should Paige have died.

Hilarious, no?!

Week 5 - description of the 'flu or similar - Andy

The distance stretched out ahead of him, endless. But still, he couldn't go back. To go back would be failure. He could only press on - the promise of the end of the road spurred him on.

 Before he begun this journey, he had planned for an eternity. It felt different, from safety. He hadn't contemplated the physical extremes he would go through. In the calculated calm of planning, he couldn't imagine the pain over every inch of his body.  He had put off leaving until the situation became unbearable, until the only thing worse than making this journey would be to  stay in place.

The first step was the hardest, leaving warmth and comfort, and venturing into a cold unfeeling world.

On and on, the journey went - he could barely remember a time before he started walking, and couldn't dare to hope for a day he would be able to rest.

Getting out of the bed to go to the kitchen for some Nurofen seemed like such a good idea.