Butter Sandwiches and Boiled Eggs in Donegal
It has been eight years since I was in Ireland. It was boom time back then, and the country had been transformed into one of Europe’s wealthiest countries. Now, returning to visit my Great Uncle Charlie and my ancestral home in a remote Gaeltacht region, I am curious to see what’s changed (post–credit crunch) and if the shine has rubbed off Ireland.
My best mate, Jason, and I begin our visit at the Winding Stair Café (I highly recommend this place), situated above an old bookstore in Dublin, where we eat simple Irish fare made from local organic ingredients. On the advice of our server, we head to Cobblestones Pub in the Smithfield area to take in some traditional music (or “Trad,” as they say in Ireland). We arrive early but it isn’t long before customers pile in, ordering up their pints, and musicians gather in the corner with their instruments. A fiddler strikes his bow, music fills the room and the Guinness flows.
The following morning, tired and bleary-eyed, we go for the quintessential Irish breakfast—fried sausage, fried tomato, fried egg and fried black pudding. Feeling cured, we are off to Crolly in County Donegal, the home of Uncle Charlie. It isn’t long before we are in Sligo and then up to Killybegs, and finally weaving through stunning Glengesh Pass.
As we get closer, I begin to recount memories of my last trip. I explain to Jason that my Uncle led a simple life, enjoyed the craic and had a penchant for butter sandwiches. As we drive up the long road to the cottage, my uncle comes out to meet us, having probably heard us coming a mile away. He looks great—at 85, he acts and looks much younger.
In the evening, as we sit enjoying the wonderful smell of a peat fire, we catch up, sharing stories and listening intently as Uncle Charlie drifts between Irish and English. He leaves the room and we hear some noise in the kitchen, and out come the butter sandwiches.The butter is so thick, it could easily be mistaken for cheese. I do not tell a lie. Jason looks over at me with disbelief.
After a restful sleep, we have our morning tea and out come the butter sandwiches AGAIN. A few boiled eggs add a touch of protein, which we are thankful for. Oddly enough, I find the butter sandwiches comforting—they mean nothing has changed since my last visit.
As I head home, I feel drawn to the simplicity and solitude that my uncle enjoys. But sadly for me, it’s back to the grind of London.With a touch of the holiday blues and feeling nostalgic, I head into the kitchen to make my Mom’s Irish soda bread, in Uncle Charlie’s honour.
Michael Clark
Michael is a banker with a love for bread. His desire was kindled by morning visits to a local bakery while holidaying in France. He was struck by the passion of the bakers and the simplicity of hand made bread— 4 ingredients; flour, salt, water and yeast. He soon found himself experimenting in his own kitchen, before recruiting a master baker to show him the ropes. Wanting a taste of the real thing, he traded his holidays for midnight shifts in one of Canada's leading artisan bread bakeries. To quote Michael, “there is nothing more satisfying then the solitude of waking up early, hand kneading the dough, smelling the aromas coming from the oven and then slathering a hot piece of bread with some delicious butter”. An avid traveler, he seeks out crusty loaves and the people who make them around world. When not working in The City, Michael can be found in his London kitchen or his local pub