A couple of weeks ago, Richard asked me if I’d help out with herding a group of cattle. The cows were going from a paddock about three kilometers up the road back down to the home farmyard. He just needed someone to block off one of the lanes along the route until he passed through with the girls.  Of course, I said no problem. I was delighted to give him a hand.

He explained that all I had to do was simply drive up to the crossroad near the graveyard and park the car three-quarters across the lane so that traffic would not be able to get through. He instructed that if someone came along, I would just need alert the driver to the fact that cattle would be crossing soon. No bother. Easy enough.

I swiftly pulled my hair into two braided pigtails, slipped on my lovely new wedge-heeled wellies brought back from NYC, grabbed my rain slicker and off I went out the door with a big smile on my face.

The minute I arrived at the crossroads, it started bucketing down rain. That was okay because until I suspected the cows were coming I could sit in the toasty car and page through my new Make Bake Love cookbook in search of something lovely and sweet to bake for tea that evening.

However, within minutes, cars started approaching from front and back. I was popping in and out of the car and letting drivers know what was going on. No sooner was I back in the car when a new vehicle would drive up again.

For some reason, every single person that I spoke to seemed to stare at me in disbelief as I shared the reason why I was blocking the road. I knew it was an inconvenience, and I was making apologies, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the look on their faces actually had anything to do with the cow-crossing situation.

Did I look suspect wearing my elevated wellies? My bright, flower patterned jacket? Perhaps the mere fact that I probably over-explained things a bit {as we Yanks tend to do} seemed peculiar. I’ll never know, but I suddenly felt very self-conscious as I stood there in the rain waiting on the cows with cars piled behind me on the road.

Finally, I could hear hipping and hollering from down the way. They were coming! We waited. And waited. Hipping and hollering carried on, but still no sight of them. I glanced back at the waiting drivers. I was soaked to the skin. Then, after fifteen more minutes, I began to hear the loud clicking and clacking of hooves and I spotted Richard, running fast and leading the girls who were following behind him like lightning. It was quite a sight to behold.

And just like that, the cows passed, the cars peeled out of sight, and I was on my way back home.

I believe I’ve advanced one step closer to becoming a cowgirl.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photo by Imen McDonnell

Tags: American, farm, farmer, Farming, food, foodie, foodies, I Married An Irish Farmer, Imen McDonnell, ireland, Irish, irish foodies, Kilcolman, love, marriage

Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. {Thank you so much for your kind comments..really, really heartwarming}

In other news, I ate rice pudding for breakfast yesterday.

This is significant because rice pudding was not a popular treat in our home growing up. That is not to say that other families in America didn’t enjoy the benefits of this beautiful, creamy delight (but, umm..did they?) It’s just that our place was more of a chocolatey….butterscotchy…poppyseed-y kinda joint.

Having said that, I secretly always loved tapioca pudding. I enjoyed how you could feel the pearls of tapioca rice in each mouthful…how you could roll those velvety little lumps around in your mouth this-a-way and that-a-way and then try to bite down on just one pearl which never seemed to work. I guess you could say that I loved the very thing about tapioca that puts many people off: the lump factor.

When I moved to Ireland, it took me awhile to get used to the Irish repertoire of confections. In particular, I found it peculiar that jam is used to sweeten many desserts and sweet treats. Jam on scones. Jam on sponge. Jam donuts. Jammy Dodgers. And, of course, jam on rice pudding. I had been accustomed to thick, buttercream frostings or custard fillings as a conduit to the sweet.

I discovered the glory of rice pudding shortly after moving out to the farm. We ventured to a lovely inn for a family Sunday lunch and in between bites of my roast lamb and three versions of potatoes, I noticed the constant flow of rice pudding in fancy dessert glasses being carried out by serious waiters to various patrons in the dining room. When it came time to order our final course, my mother-in-law, Peggy, ordered the rice pudding and I followed suit. It came with a dab of raspberry jam and a dollop of freshly whipped cream. It was ravishing. And, suddenly, jam made sense.

This week I received a long-awaited, anxiously anticipated parcel from my friend, Heidi Skoog. Heidi is a florist in Minneapolis and now also purveyor of gorgeous jams and jellies which are aptly named, Serious Jam. I got to sample some of her new jams over the summer and instantly fell in love. I couldn’t resist ordering some from her website to have in our cupboard for the winter. And, I specifically couldn’t wait to for this jam to grace the top of a dainty glass of rice pudding.

I found out later that rice pudding is actually Peggy’s favorite {with Victoria Sponge a close second} although she only eats it when dining out.  I decided to bake up a batch in the morning (with a taste-test for brekkie) and bring it over to share over tea yesterday afternoon. Popped a sprig of rosemary in the baking dish and topped it off with Heidi’s violette + plum jam and a wee bit of cream and that is all that needs to be said.

Happy days.

Recipe is pretty standard. Here it is excerpted from a classic Irish secondary school cookery book, All In The Cooking.{Moderate oven = 300 F or 150 C}

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Photos & Styling by Imen McDonnell. Jam by Serious Jam.

Tags: bastian skoog, farm, farmer, foodie, heidi skoog, I Married An Irish Farmer, Imen McDonnell, ireland, Irish, irish food, Irish food photography, love, rice pudding, Rosemary, serious jam

This is a continuation of “From Jet-Set to Farmette, Part I”, which you can read here. As I said previously, often people ask just how exactly myself and himself met, so I thought it would be handy if I put together a little series of posts laying out the low-down with as many details as can tastefully be shared. If you are not into sappy love stories, I’d give it a skip.

After shedding a few happy tears, I gathered myself and gave MDF a ring to say thank you for the flowers and card. “no thanks needed”, he’d explained, “just a chance to get to know you better please.” How could I refuse? When I thought about it, I had nothing to lose. His endearing attentiveness certainly felt wonderful and he always seemed to be in good humour, which made me smile more often. {and by more often, I mean ALL THE TIME}

We nattered on via email, daily phone calls and text messages for over a year. I had 2-3 production trips scheduled overseas, so whenever I’d wrap shooting he’d fly to meet me and we would venture off to some quiet European seaside locale, drink gorgeous wine and discuss every corner of our lives. Our lavish conversations were followed by mammoth kissing sessions that went on for hours and hours. It began to feel like time stood still when we were together. We were becoming more and more heartbroken each time we had to say goodbye which, according to the accounting department, was clearly evident by my increasing tissue expenses.

Once, after a commercial shoot in Barcelona, I decided to surprise MDF by showing up to collect him from the airport in a really fast, over-the-top convertible sports car {specifically one that he mentioned he’d love to drive one day}. Tipped off by a location manager that I was working with, we hopped into the car and sped up the Costa Brava with the sun in our eyes and the wind in our hair, to a special place called Cadaques. Nestled on a bay on the Mediterranean coast, Cadaques is a stunning and quietly exotic (aka non-touristy) Catalan village which is also the birthplace of Salvador Dali.

Having made no arrangements or reservations, we just drove up though the town until we couldn’t go any further with the car and found ourselves stopped in front of the sweetest little hotel. I waited as MDF went in to see if there was a room. When he came out with a smile, I knew we had gotten lucky.

We checked into our room, changed and went for a walk to explore our little romantic weekend hideaway. In the rear of the hotel, there was a lovely pool and garden along with a café/bar. We sat down at a table and each ordered a glass of chilled rosé.  Ironically, as we looked at the group of people sitting poolside, we noticed a cigar-smoking Neil Jordan and his family happily chatting away and having fun. This was surprising because earlier MDF had mentioned how tickled he was that Neil was on his flight from Dublin.  Both admirers of Mr. Jordan’s work, we found it wonderfully serendipitous that we had found ourselves at the exact same “secret” place.

Those three days were like a living in a dream; an experience in which you almost need to pinch yourself to see if it is all really happening. We lounged, talked, gazed into each other’s eyes for far longer than any sane person would and just reveled in the complete abandon of our “real worlds” that we’d left behind, if only for a short time.

One evening, we stumbled upon a charming little restaurant, which, to our amazement, just happened to be named “Waiting for Richard”*. There, we lingered over a sensational meal for what seemed like hours. Afterwards, we walked quietly along the harbour holding hands. We stepped down to the little pebble beach outside of our hotel and MDF turned to me and nervously asked, “If I…ahem…provisionally…ahem…asked you..ahem…tomarrymerightnow…would you?” I was completely caught by surprise, but so, so in love at that very moment that I instantly blurted out, “Yes!…I mean…ummm, provisionally…yes..I..would.” Cue {yet another} mammoth kissing session.

The next morning we packed up and reluctantly made our way back to reality. His being a two hour flight back to his cows and chickens and mine being three bad movies and thirteen hours in the air, immediately followed by being back in my 27^th floor city office where a long editorial process +  hundreds of emails awaited.

Inside one of those emails was an airline ticket to Ireland.

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

*MDF’s proper name is Richard.

Tags: Cadaques, farmette, Farming, ireland, love, marriage, modern love, Neil Jordan, Salvador Dali. Spain

It’s Spring at last, which means here on the farm it’s also time to tend to the bees and plant the fruit trees.  We made our way down to the wood over the weekend to check on our sweet honey bees whom, much to our delight, survived the long winter freeze and were gleefully buzzing about their hives. It also just happened to be the most splendid, sunny day and as I glanced around at the blossoming buttercups and wild garlic leaves popping up through the ground, I couldn’t help but ponder: isn’t life sweet?

Many Irish bees did not survive this winter, which was seemingly never-ending and brutally cold. But, our bees persevered as if they knew something really good was to come. And like us, they hunkered down and waited for things to brighten up. We must remember, things always do turn the corner. A day or two of good weather can be absolutely transformative on the farm. You look around and suddenly grass is greener, new calves are being born, a carrot seed has sprouted, your little boy has learned to pedal his tractor, and the bees start making their sweet honey.

A family of bees will only swarm around the sweet stuff.  And much like the bees, we tend to drift towards our own type of delicious nectar.  Even though I may not be out milking cows and checking the chickens, I am all for beekeeping, market gardening and lest I forget, helping my husband with his aspirations for growing hops to use in his experimental craft brewing. You see, for us, the “sweet stuff” lies in what we can create together on the farm as a family.  I have to say that there is nothing more fulfilling (not to mention, no easier way to get your kids to eat veg) than spending an afternoon teaching your toddler how to help mummy and daddy plant seeds in your kitchen garden.  And nothing, and I mean, nothing, tastes better than using your very own tasty honey in your morning porridge.

Years ago, Irish farm beekeepers used to say,  “A swarm in May is worth a speck of hay. A swarm in June is worth a silver spoon, and a swarm in July isn’t worth a fly”. This old adage could also translate to something like this: if you wait too long to start creating and enjoying the sweet joys of farm life, you’ll really be missing out on some very special things.  After all, isn’t it the “sweet stuff” that makes farming all worth it in the end?

Slan Abhaile,

Imen

Tags: beekeeping, craft brewing, farm, gardening, honey bees, Irish, Life, love, sweet

Our Dromoland Wedding – Keith Woodard Photography

The Irish Wedding. A divine specimen to behold. And to imbibe. And imbibe. Oh, and did I say imbibe? There is no leaving an Irish wedding until at least 3AM. Not even if you are the bride and groom. In fact, the bride and groom are always the last to leave. It is customary that the two lovebirds maintain their life-of-the-party-personae until every last guest has turned in or collapsed at their feet from “too much drink taken”.  And yes, wedding ceremonies usually begin early in the afternoon as in the States so it is one long, lush, lovely day in which to participate. This is particularly fresh in my mind as we attended a friend’s wedding this week in Tipperary (pronounced Tipper-RARE-ee).  And I am still recovering (2 days later).  But it was such a beautiful day; a fabulously fun-loving couple, their sentimental church ceremony that began with the Irish Uillean pipes, a lovely part of the service which was recited in Irish and a reception that took place at a hotel at the foot the dramatic Glen of Aherlow. (sidebar: I love that Ireland has glens and reeks and skrees and gorgeous folkloric topography like that).

As weddings do, we were reminded of our very own romantic Irish wedding and began feeling nostalgic. Our day, to an American girl, was the stuff that fairy tales are made up of… The ceremony took place in the most charming old church, which is said to be the finest remaining example of the “barn” church in Ireland. We borrowed Seamus, the spirited violinist from Bunratty, and he gleefully performed our chosen music. We also enlisted the help of Michelle McDermott, a brilliant wedding planner since I didn’t have much knowledge of the who’s who/what’s what here at the time. Our reception was carried out at the idyllic and distinguished Dromoland Castle in Newmarket-on-Fergus, Co Clare. When we arrived at the gates, we were greeted by two beautiful white stallions and a vintage carriage awaiting to transport us into the estate (see photo above). We meandered down a path passing by ponds and geese which eventually lead to a walled garden. I had never felt so taken away by feelings of awe and joy and love in my life as I did on that day, it was truly spectacular. (For those of you who don’t know, I should tell you that these fabulous feelings set in AFTER the actual ceremony…the before and during part is, well, you’ll find out).

Because I am American (and a former “particular” producer) we had to keep some of my traditions, however, little did I know that almost all of what I was strenuously requesting during the planning process was exclusive to weddings in the States so all of my wishes could not be granted, but still a good few were. I really wanted commercial hair and makeup for myself and my girls so we hired an editorial makeup artist from Dublin that I had read about in an Irish fashion magazine to come down and be there for the day. The hairstylist stayed on for the evening for touch ups. Very OTT for Irish standards and possibly everyone else, but I wanted to look my very best all day AND night. Also, we designed the wedding invites with a studio in the States and used a die-cut embossment of the McDonnell family crest which were produced using a combination of letterpress and engraving techniques. Die-cut embossed invites in Ireland? Again, OTT for Irish standards, but hopefully respected (jury’s still out). Here, the bride and groom to-be actually handwrite the name of each guest on the inside of the invitation on a line as shown here. I initially thought that seemed a bit slapdash, but perhaps that does add more of a personal touch.

Our meal at Dromoland may have been the best I’ve eaten in Ireland to date (really, I am not just saying that). To start, a delicate monkfish and crab velout with garlic and chives (so unforgettable that my mouth is watering writing this) followed by a gorgeous and light savory parsnip and thyme soup and after, a smooth pomegranite sorbet was offered to cleanse the palate. For the main course, a filet mignon that was so gloriously juicy and tender that you could cut it with a butterknife served with fresh organic potatoes and various roasted vegetables. Our wedding cake was round  and 4-tiered with little vintagey strands of icing creping and beading across each level. To me, it looked very timeless and classic which is exactly what I had hoped, but I had to make a serious compromise on the top tier, for when we met with the cake maker I was informed that the top is always fruit cake. What!??? How not tasty. I seriously thought she was joking (we really do make jokes about fruit cake in the States you know). But she wasn’t and R really preferred it that way too so there was no way out of it. I just could not fathom why anyone would want to eat fruitcake at a wedding.

We hired an 8-piece traditional Irish music group to start the entertainment who performed beautifully and encouraged many guests to do jigs and reels on the dance floor, the most popular being the Siege of Ennis. An example of the Siege of Ennis (or as I like to call it, the Electric Slide-Irish style) from the Tipperary wedding can be seen here. When the trad music was ended we had a deejay who creatively served up tracks until every last person left in those wee hours of the morning.

But, as any proper married American couple, R and I disappeared into the night long before that and began our life anew…..

Next week: 3 Fabulous Irish foodies-2 living in Ireland and one in Paris-and their deliciously scandalous cookbooks. And, for a few lucky food-loving readers, a free copy will be sent to you!

Slán Abhaile and Happy New Year!

Imen

Tags: bunratty, clare, cratloe, dromoland, farmer, glen of aherlow, ireland, love, marriage, siege of ennis, tipperary, wedding