Vitchcraft -- Emly, Ireland

It’s a cold morning. Wind rustles through the branches of the trees and sends ripples through the puddles of last night’s heavy rain.

My head feels foggy and my scalp itches. I think I must drink less coffee. Get with it, Bourget. Remember what happened in France. You know, that time you couldn't leave the couch because your psoriasis was so painful that it felt like you had arthritis in your hips?

Color seems no different from yesterday, except the roads have soaked up the rain and become blacker, the driveway has soaked up the rain and become browner, and the yellow fields of buttercups now glisten as they wave about in the wind.

I do not want to go outside to weed today. I probably will venture out in an hour or so, but the cold seeps through my skin and chills me -- which causes me immense dismay to realize how intolerant to chilly weather I’ve become. I woke up with a sore throat this morning. I wonder if it’s from my cold hands or from sitting outside in the rain as I waited for the foals to suck.

George watched the sale all day yesterday. I sat at the kitchen and helped him with the computer every so often. I taught him how to forward emails, to copy and paste, and to hit the refresh button on a browser to download more information.

“Aimee,” he admired, “You are a vitch. Hundreds of years ago, you vould haf been burned at za stake for vitchcraft.”

“I can hardly swim, George. They would have thrown me in the water to see if I floated, and I would have sunk and drowned. I would have been a dead, non-witch.” But I laughed as I helped him upload his photos to an email and thought about my truly nerdy friends. If I am a vitch for copying and pasting, then my web designer, Jomas, would be the devil himself. 

I made a beef tagine for dinner, and George approved of the dish. We are having a bit of a cooking competition, George and I. He made his famous goulash for me on my first night. The second night, I cooked up a stroganoff. George bit into the beef and sighed, “It is a good sink I haf good tees, za meat is a bit tough.”

The next night, George made a meatloaf wrapped in bacon and some vegetables with cream and sundried tomatoes. I ate the flavorful, warm, fatty meat and sighed, “George, you have beaten me. A hundred to one.”

“No, no,” tsked George. “Zhat is too much. Fifty to one is sufficient.”

I made a chicken lemon tagine the fourth night of my stay. I loved the strong sour flavor, but George found the zest and juice of an entire lemon far too acidic and would not finish. I believe he only ate three bites before he handed me his plate.

Strike one.

The fifth night, I made the lentil soup George loved so much the last time I was here. I added too much red wine vinegar, and feared I’d destroyed the meal – so I frantically fluttered about, adding more cumin, thyme, bell pepper, butter – anything and everything to mute the vinegary taste. I dreaded George tasting the soup, furrowing his white brow, and saying in disappointment, “Ach, it is not za same as za last time. It vas much better zen... Zis... zis is too sharp.”

But my last minute Ratatouille-esque spice dowsing seemed to make the sausage and lentils more than palatable.  

“You haf a success,” George emptied his bowl.

The butterflies in my stomach settled down, and I finished mine.

Preconceptions:

I haven’t been out and about all that much, but when I do go out, it is not all too often that I notice a redhead. Hence, red hair does not dominate all the heads – just claims dominion over a few more than other places.

Challenges:

Blood Sausage! I bought it in a grocery/petrol station/animal feed/stationary store on the way back from Emly. George says that this is a commercial brand and I need to go to a butcher's shop to get the real stuff. However, I wanted to read the ingredients so I could make sure there was no barley or wheat stuffed into the sausage. In France, the blood sausage is made primarily with blood and meat. In Ireland, they add barley, wheat, or oats into the sausage to give it an extra crunch. This celiac wanted the oat variety.

"Make sure you cook it until it is crispy," George advised. 

Fried in Kerry Gold butter, crunchy and bloody and delicious. Challenge completed and thoroughly enjoyed.