Sláinte!

Every St. Patrick's Day I think back to the one I perhaps could have spent differently. It was 1997; I was studying abroad at University College Cork in southern Ireland for the semester and enrolled in 7 or 8 classes, including 20th century Irish history, Modern Irish, Irish folklore, Myth, History and Hagiography in Irish history - you get the picture.

Ua Flaitbeartaig pub, pronounced O'Flaherty

My Irish ancestors would have been proud. Well, except perhaps of my Irish. The priest met me every morning with a glare and it never got better. I do not have "the ear" for language, especially one where "dh" is pronounced "v."

I, you, he, she, we, you (pl), they

Michael Collins had just come out and I saw it in Ireland which of course made it more powerful. I saw bullet holes in the Dublin post office. I kissed the Blarney Stone twice (does that negate the effect or multiply it?) I watched curling and drank plenty of the national drink. Living with two music majors, I tried playing a bodhran and tin whistle. I learned to eat tuna on with buttered bread. Everything was "grand" and "brilliant."

Guinness for Strength, Bulmer's for fun!

As much as possible, I drank in (heh) Irish culture. So what did I do on St. Paddy's Day, that day of all days??

I left.

Spring break in Ireland is wonderful. Nearly a whole month off. And it began March 13. The dilemma: stay and be in Ireland for St. Patrick's Day or begin my tour of the continent? It was tough, but ultimately two factors led me away.

The Daly bridge near campus

First, I was itching to see more. When would I ever have the freedom to spend a month traveling around Europe? I had a Eurail pass burning in my pocket; why sit in my my flat watching Australian soap operas when I could be eating baguettes and brie on the banks of the Seine?

The wall of my room;
note the Irish study sheets my friend made to help me pass the class.

Second, believe it or not, St. Patrick's Day is more of an American holiday than an Irish one. Or an Irish diaspora holiday, I should say. Anywhere Irish emigrants ended up does St. Patrick's Day up big. In Ireland, however, March 17 is more of a religious holiday. Remember, St. Patrick brought Christianity to the Emerald Isle. At least it used to be religious. Now the descendants of those Irish emigrants come to Ireland and expect to find Chicago plus Boston plus, plus, plus!


When I was there the bigger cities were accommodating the tourist expectations and having parades, etc., but villages were quiet. I actually ended up spending St. Patrick's day in London, one of the diaspora communities, but didn't even have a pint that day. I do recall perhaps doing something rude in the general direction of Oliver Cromwell's statue at parliament, but we don't have to discuss that.

 

Cromwell's statue

My Irish friends tell me I wouldn't recognize Ireland today, with the boom and now bust of the Celtic Tiger, but I have so many memories to treasure on this day on which we're all a little bit Irish. 

Hi to you, too

A good friend of ours who loves animals was walking through a parking lot recently and spotted two dogs in the back of a truck who desperately wanted to say hello.

One dog was a Jack Russell terrier and the other was a Welsh Corgi. They wiggled and jumped and generally expressed their appreciation for his visit. He greeted them with a pat on each head and said, "Hi, Jack. Hi, Cory."

Snack bar

Before:

After:

Spontaneous combustion

When we went to bed, there was a glass sitting on the counter next to the sink. When we woke up, we found this:

No noise, no movement, nothing. A mystery.

Semantics

During the last post I wrote about visiting friends of ours in their calving shed. It was my first visit, but not Jack's. The last time he was there he was presented with a delicious meal of lamb and beef ribs. He ate like he was at a Renaissance Fair, which grease running down his grinning cheeks. (Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe.)

A few delicious bites in, Jack looked over and said that if I were there I'd be insisting on vegetables.

Our friend jumped up and hopped to the kitchen. "You're right - I forgot to fry the sausage!"

Last I checked...   yep, still true:

Putting two and two together

We had dinner with friends the other night in their calving shed. Isn't that where you choose to dine?

This place is impressive. It is nicely outfitted with a sleeping loft, full bathroom and a woodstove, plus a kitchen with a wall of bookshelves lined with veterinary supplies. They are such a nice couple; we enjoy visiting with them as often as possible.

The main course was steak (of course). Grass-fattened delicious steak fried in its own tallow. That led to discussions about the taste of ranch-raised (grass-fattened) beef vs. beef from the store (corn-fattened at a feedlot). That brought us to how smart it would be for local ranchers to move toward selling grass-finished steers rather than shipping calves off to feedlots to be finished on expensive corn.

In our county, most exports are agricultural products. I forget which is top, but the number one and two are beef calves and hay. Why not put the two together - let the calves grow up here eating that hay and charge more for the value-added product at the other end? Most of Jack's conversations revolve around this lately, so more blog posts will come, I'm sure. Any questions you want him to answer?

More on grass-fed beef:
Stockman Grass Farmer
Time Magazine article
Cameron Ranch

Good news, bad news

I'll give you the bad news first:

The frost is leaving the ground faster than we thought and Jack got stuck while feeding the bulls today (note how much they minded).

We couldn't even pull the truck out with the other 4x4 truck. Good thing there is a tractor around!

And now for the good news:

We have greenery! I tried to prune the lilacs today but I was already too late. When I went to prune some leftover hollyhock stalks I noticed a flash of something not brown. Yes! Green! Spring is coming!!

The great divide

In another life Jack was quite the horse trader. It was the main fact I had to overlook when we began dating. I grew up more of a horse for life kind of person, not one who sees them as an investment to trade on.

The marriage books all tell you to make sure you are clear with each other about money, child-rearing and household chores. Lay out your positions and come to consensus about how these traditional relationship challenges will be overcome, they say. For us, children weren't part of the equation. We're fine on money and housework. But even from our first date, animals were a sticking point.

"Animals should have jobs," he said, eating another chicken gizzard. (Yes, he ate chicken gizzards on our first date. I married him anyway.)

"What do you mean, jobs? Animals are companions, helping you on your path."

"Hogwash. Cats should be eating mice. Dogs should be working cattle or guarding or something. Horses should be vehicles, pulling plows or rounding up cows."

And so it went. We stared at each other over the deep abyss of the restaurant table. I don't know what he was thinking. Probably something along the lines of how silly and naive I was. But I was as intrigued as I was appalled; I'd never met anyone like him before.

Eventually, curiosity eventually won out over the philosophical divide and we fell in love. But before we married we made a pact. Some people survive better with separate checking accounts; we had separate animals. His were his to sell or keep as he wished and my animals were my animals to keep as long as I wanted to. There would never be any joint animals for us to argue over.

This detente was important when we started out, but now we've met in the middle. Mater has taught Jack how animals can be the best companions and life on the ranch has taught me about working animals actually like to work.

So now Jack spoils Mater while I chastise the cat for not catching enough mice. Who could have predicted?

Fade to black

First of all, is it just me or does she look tired already?
Most ranches around here have moved to raising Black Angus, which are solid black. There are a few red Angus around, but that’s the extent of the variety for most of the county. Occasionally we’ll see a random Longhorn, Charolais, White Park or Belted Galloway while driving around and I get very excited simply because they are different. (Note: look at me knowing cattle breeds. When did that happen?)
Which is one of the reasons I like this ranch. For generations this ranch has run Hereford cattle, the red and white ones. Why is this better than living on an Angus ranch?  Because red and white cows are far easier to photograph than solid colored ones!
But now they are introducing black Angus bulls into the herd and we’re getting black white-faced and black mottle-faced calves like this little guy (or gal). Even more variety! All the better to photograph.

Prosthelytizing

Jack was invited to speak about Dutch oven cooking to the local chapter of Back Country Horsemen last night. In addition to the Ode to the Dutch Oven poem by Bruce Kiskaddon, he shared some history and lore.
For example, did you know the rim on the lid was supposedly invented by Napoleon’s cook because the Emperor did not appreciate ashes in his food? Or that the legs on the bottom that allow it to stand in a bed of coals were supposedly added by Paul Revere?

Oh Happy Day