Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda -- Emly, Ireland

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I’m angry. It isn’t really George’s fault, but I’m angry. Frustrated. It isn’t really George’s fault, but I’m frustrated. I’m angry, frustrated, lonely, smelly, and tired. When I asked to stay at Knockara for the month of June, I’d expected it would be similar to the experience of last November. I suppose I didn’t fully understand what Maria not being here would mean.

Maria not being here means I spend a month in isolation with George and horses I can’t ride. I can’t work on my yoga videos because the weather would ruin my camera. I can’t work on my interview project because I can’t get out of the house and George doesn’t believe it is “relevant,” anyway. I can’t pursue any of my challenges because I have only this house and the surrounding fields at my disposal. My friend Roisin asked me to spend a weekend with her in Westport, but George said it would not be safe to leave him and the horses for a weekend. I am able to do nothing I wanted to do while traveling. I try to keep my chin up and not think about what I’m missing and focus on how I’m helping, but it’s hard to stay cheerful.

I have to remember to be flexible and open and non-judgmental. My stay with George isn’t anything like what I’ve been dreaming of, but it’s not the end of the world. I need to work harder on not turning everything into a catastrophe.

Besides, it is only 14 more days I spend here.

The place itself is lonely, but not so bad. I am primarily frustrated because I think of all the fantastic things I could be doing. My last stay with George was incredible, and I should have just left it there. I rode the most beautiful horses I’ve ever seen through absolutely breathtaking forests. I went to farmer’s markets with Maria at least once a week, and there were several foxhunts I got to tag along in. It was a completely satisfying cultural experience.

Now?

I am feeling very much stuck at Knockara. I clean up after sick horses and weed and feed dogs and cook dinners George doesn’t like.

My hands hurt. George told me to weed, but did not give me gloves. Stinging nettles are everywhere, and my hands have been throbbing for days.  When giving the sick foal his medication yesterday, my thumb was jammed against a wall. I now have no feeling in the top half of my left thumb.

George wouldn’t complain. He never complains about his sick body. George only complains about my cooking and when I track straw into the house.

I cleaned the stables today and while packing down the shavings, the rake broke. I am afraid of George’s reaction. I was using the rake in the way the rake was meant to be used and the rake was very old, so perhaps he won’t mind so much. But I think he will. Money is so tight around here that he cannot find the funds to replace his broken kettle. When someone in Ireland doesn’t replace a kettle, you know times are bad. And George already makes me feel guilty about my eating habits.

“Vhile you are here, ve eat meat and vegetables?”

“I can cook you pasta and rice, George. You don’t need to eat what I eat.”

“No, ve eat together. Vhat you eat, I eat. Meat and vegetables?”

“That’s what I eat. Is that okay?”

“It is not za cheapest vay of eating, but it is okay. I am villing and ready to lose veight again.”

He did not enjoy my chicken butternut squash lemon tagine. He took a couple of bites and asked me to clear his plate.

“For 50 euros, zhat vas a disappointment.”

In my culture, we are taught to clear our plates regardless of likes or dislikes, hungry or stuffed. While I don’t particularly agree with this philosophy (I believe firmly that when one is full, one should have the right to stop eating), but to not eat something because a flavor is too strong has never seemed a good reason to not eat a healthy meal.

If George doesn’t like something, he pauses, “One spice dominates... vhat is za spice zhat dominates?”

“Maybe cumin?”

“Ayah, it is za cumin zhat dominates. I cannot taste anything but cumin.” He took a few more bites and then, “It is too much for me, take it avay, please.”

I took his dish to the sink and morosely finished my own bowl of chicken and lentil tagine. Lentils give me terrible indigestion, but I’d cooked them because I know of George’s fondness for lentils. Cumin, I thought. All he can taste is cumin? Can he not taste the sweetness of the dates? The tartness of the tomatoes? The spice of chili and the earthiness of lentils? I taste all of that.

George cooked the next night. He made a tasty pork chop and a vegetable dish that tasted of nothing but turmeric. I ate it all and did not complain.

I’m dreading the noise of George’s door opening. Everything can be heard in this old house. I hear Kiki scratching herself on the chair. I hear Leon snoring under the table. I hear the sounds of the horses and birds and George hears the sound of my “typink on za computer” every morning.

At least I don’t hear mice this time of year, although I find their droppings about the house and barn.

Preconceptions: 

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Challenges: I got one! Sara and Jessie were gracious enough to change my beginner challenge in Ireland (and each country thereafter) to asking what people say when they raise their glass of alcohol in celebration. In Irish, they say "slainte!"

It is pronounced “slon-sha”

Irish is weird.