Maighdine Muire

Re-Entry

To bed at midnight. Awake an hour later
certain that it's dawn. Asleep. Awake
at three with the same certainty. Awake
again at five and I said "fuck it."
Still awake, six hours later. I staggered
around Whole Foods for an hour shopping
for coffee and somehow the coffee (which ended
up taking the entire basket) cost $200. Oh.
Damn.

It's glorious summer in Seattle with lovely
cool mornings, a bit of a breeze. I must go
shopping for herbs, now that I'll be in town
for a while: thyme, sage, chives, oregano.
Big bursting terracotta pots of sun-hungry herbs.
Must pick up my geraniums which friend Drew
babysat for the month, and kitty Sally at Melinda's.
Must stop in and see my boys, see how my Brandon Street
garden fared in the heat minus my puttering.
Hang with Tip, Flip & Alice, my abandoned cats.
(Who don't seem to miss me or even notice me
when I visit them on Brandon Street where they reside
with my sons. How quickly allegiances shift.)

A desire for dinner parties: a bounty of summer's
harvest, berries & cake, jugs of Sauvignon Blanc.
The deck out back was restained when we were away
and now I can walk out there barefooted, no splinters!
Come one! Come all!

Signs, Various & Assorted

After the long flight, the need for air,
great gulping lungsful of fresh Seattle air.
Nothing processed, filtered, scented, forced.
Just the open windows, and a nearly full moon.

On the Road to Carrowholly

This is a bit herky jerky because we were in the car,
and for some odd reason it repeats (and I'm am so
inept when it comes to iMovie) but here's a short
piece taken on the road to Carrowholly Point --
(the white horse!) until my batteries ran out!

Gaelic Football

Another day so full to bursting I almost cannot contain
what is in my head....and this damn bandaged finger
gets in the way and prohibits speedy typing.

Began this morning with a GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association)
Connacht Minor Football Championship Final in Castlebar.
Our friend Ian invited us -- Gaelic football is a little like
soccer with some basketball-type moves mixed in,
an abundance of shoving and pushing, and lots of very colorful
cheering by the mostly-male crowd. ("Feckin' bollox, etc.")
( I brought my camera but did not remember to charge the battery,
so the photo is borrowed from the internet.)
The big Mayo-Galway (Maigh Eo-Gaillimh) match in the senior
(over 21) division was won by Galway (boo-hoo),
and the crowd of nearly 32,000 fans was orderly and convivial.
Concessions consisted of pop and candy bars, and the restroom
doors were marked in Irish ( oh!) so I held it. We stood for the
Irish national anthem (sung in Irish) while the teams and a marching band
circled the stadium. Irish president Mary McAleese arrived
by helicopter. Fun! Fun! (Even if we sat on concrete benches
for four hours.)

We bemoaned our loss over dinner across the cove at Ian and Mina's
along with their friend Tom from Belfast and his two sons Alex
and Patrick. As usual, wine flowed like rain from the Irish sky --
we sat for hours and laughed ourselves silly over dahl and rice
and turkey and bacon and salad and potatoes and apple strudel
and frozen yogurt and berries and coffee and tea and, finally,
champagne. We invited all of them to visit Seattle and instructed
them to arrive on Wednesday, this week. I don't think it'll happen.

As we lurched home (on foot, thankfully) we noticed that our
neighbors just west of us had arrived from Dublin, and since
I'd never met them, I strolled up and introduced myself.
Of course this was followed by an invitation into their ultra-
modern home, and tea and cake. Two hours later, we staggered
across the yard, filled to brimming with information on:
1) where to go in Spain (south, and then to Morocco)
2) Berlin
3) an annual arts & crafts show in Dublin
4) a book on early French settlers in Quebec (my relatives)
5) etc.
Declan and Mary. Mary told me that you're pretty safe
calling any woman "Mary" who's over fifty in Ireland --
chances are you'll be right.

Tomorrow we pack, bid goodbye to Carrowholly.

I tried to cut off the tip of my finger today,
and went into a tiny panic because of the drip, drip.
Considered calling into town to try to find the husband
who was probably at a pub, and who could do what, exactly?
Hold my hand above my heart?
Refresh the bloody rag?
Perform a nifty jig for my amusement?
Well, no, I did not call Matt Molloys or The Porter House
and ask if there was a bearded middle-aged man with glasses
sitting in the corner reading. As if.
Instead I applied pressure and sat calmly until all was well.
Then I wrote poem of the day #2:

Error

A slip of the knife and the skin peels open,
releasing a quick red flow. How easily
the wrapping on this bodily vessel tears;
so much the epidermis must contain:
each organ with its lifetime assignment,
the bones with their rigging, the ease of tendons.
And O, tender brain!
O heart!

Once it clots, I patch the incision
with my clumsy wrong hand,
grateful for this mechanism
that staunches the river from my finger.
Acutely aware of the possibilities
of the blade, the meager protection
afforded by physiology. Alive,
I am alive and bleeding.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

--Yeats

Geez we're getting dotty. Zipping around Westport
searching for a "card reader" so I can load my film
onto my computer, when suddenly P. has a moment
of brilliance, and realizes that my new camera came
with a cord which, miraculously, attaches to both
my camera and my computer -- get this -- at the same time.
Whoa. Back in business.

Beerista Magic

More from the pub at the top of the world, lovingly presented
by the very cute bartender in the video clip below.

Farren's, the northernmost pub in Ireland

Another camera death, this time involving water.
(And I will not mention exactly what kind of water.)
What sadness doth befall us!
And the thinga-ma-joob with which I transfer my photos
to my camera was left tangled in the sheets in Donegal,
in this house:




Four hours away. And Westport is not exactly tech-city.

We attended a book launch last night for Sean Lysaght,
a Westport poet whose most recent publication is translations
of epigrams by Goethe, at Sea Sand Shore Gallery.
We were cosily crowded into the lovely space, surrounded by the
quirky paintings of James Lawlor. I met Sean online after
finding his books at Seamus Duffy Books in Westport.
Hoping to make more connections in the writing community here.

Fort Dunree, Famine Village

Just returned from two nights up in Donegal -- the northernmost
county in the Republic. The photos are from an abandoned barracks
at Fort Dunree -- don't you love the graffiti?!!

We saw so many things yesterday, I lay in bed last night and tried
to recount my day and was bombarded with images. We decided
to spend our day in Inishowen, a peninsula at the northern tip
of the country. It's remote, rugged and rural. (Inishowen is also the
title of one of my favorite Joseph O'Connor novels [brother of
Sinead].) Started with a ferry ride across Lough Swilly --
tiny boat, perhaps could hold 15 vehicles, open air.
Tooled up to Fort Dunree, built in Napleonic times to defend
against French marauders. Spectacular views from the top!
Windy, fiddlehead-fern and heather hillsides, no one but us.

Our next stop was the Famine Village. Our host at the guest house
recommended it to us, but I knew nothing about it. I expected
something much like the Famine Village on Achill Island --
was I in for a surprise! We drove up to a cluster of white huts
with thatched roofs, with doors and window frames painted
in whimsical blues, pinks, red, greens. Upon entering a courtyard
we saw a busload of senior citizens sitting on benches, heard
quaint music being broadcast over the public address system. Hmm.
As we began to wander, our path took us into long, tin-roofed huts
where inside, lifesize scenes from the famine had been re-enacted --
all very spooky and quirky (and dark): peasants digging potatoes,
attending mass at a penal altar, children attending "hedge schools,"
emaciated bodies in an open grave. We learned later that this is a
labor of love by a local man, who apparently is so shy he finds it
difficult to even say "hello" to someone. At the finish of our
self-guided tour, we were served tea and one very small slice
of corn-soda bread with butter and jam.

I was pretty blown away by it all -- initially because I had expected
something else, and then the seeming whimsy of the scene upon
our entrance (famine? what famine?), followed by the not-quite
lifelike dioramas, complete with baby-dolls and skeletons.
When we left, the woman attending the front desk asked up
repeatedly and enthusiastically if we enjoyed it -- we did!

Our Lady of Flotsam

O she who keeps watch
over the rubbished, the odd shoe, the cracked
crockery flung in rage, the zipper pull,
chunks of airborne, waveborne styrofoam.
Vigilant mother-of-pearl, of cockle & scallop.
All ruin, all glorious sand-glinted treasure
is welcomed into her oh-holy-arms.

Tides strew a briny indulgence
at her feet. She makes incarnate the shred,
the bit, the fragment. Grants goodness
to the twist-top, the peach pit, the tangled line.
Gull-beaks beseech her name, crab-hulls
praise the stones which tumble upon her strand:
an ocean of miscellanea become sacred.

Heading up north to Donegal for a few days, back late
Thursday; don't know if we'll find an internet connection,
so I may be absent until then.

Went to listen to Kevin Burke and Cal Scott last night
in Castlebar. Terrific show, we sat in the front row
about three feet from the musicians.

More Jellyfish

Hannah, Elizabeth and I walked the beach this morning and spotted
stranded jellyfish left and right. Most had been flung up into the grass
by the tide. They are the most amazing creatures! Hannah, who just
turned ten, asked how it was that I could have a twenty-two-year-old
son and just have gotten married last December. Well. When I told
her that I'd been married first to another man, had children, and my first
husband had passed away, she said, "Oh! I'm sorry! Perhaps I shouldn't
have asked you that question?" She had more presence of mind
than many adults -- dear girl! What a joy it is to be around these
lovely children. I sent them each home with one of my collage cards
and a bag of six chocolate chip cookies, which, I told them, they
were not obliged to share.

Hannah and Elizabeth...

...came to the door last night bearing gifts of wildflowers and buns.
(I kept calling them muffins or cupcakes, but I was quickly and
repeatedly corrected: buns. B-U-N-S. [Elizabeth spelled it for me.])
Their family owns the holiday house next door, and they come over
from Drougheda (near Dublin). No, they are not twins, and are
exhausted by that question, although they are just over a year
apart. They have a four-year-old brother and a baby sister. I've often
watched them fishing for mullets with their father Peter.
(The first time I saw them they were a blur of pink across the cove.)

Messing Around with Color

The Craft Fair and The Camera

Drove up to Castlebar Saturday to take in the Craft Fair and look for
a new toilet seat. The Craft Fair was big by Western Ireland standards --
instead of the usual four or five booths there were forty, and a nice
assortment of jewelry, hand-turned wood, pottery, glass beads,
felting and stone carving. We happened upon the piece above --
it's a one-of-a-kind collaboration between the jeweler Martin
Fitzpatrick and a print-maker Anne McDonnell. The pendant
is acid-etched sterling, and they're priced as a single unit.
Score! (We did not score on the toilet-seat front, though.
My response to that is bummer!)

So, a little rant on the fragile nature of The Camera:
I've been known in my day to break more than one piece
of Waterford crystal (which, incidentally, is manufactured
in China these days -- it's designed in Ireland, and there
is a certain small amount made here to satisfy the heritage-
hungry eyes of tourists), and taking out one's persnickety digital
camera in order to capture a moment is not unlike
whipping out a Waterford Champagne glass from your
pocket. Delicate! Fragile! I'd even venture to say that
the crystal glass is possibly more durable than The Camera.
Of course, Waterford would shatter with more magnificence than
The Camera, all sparkly and such, but you can really get your
hand around its stem, wrap your fingers around its bowl --
it's probably not going to fly from you at this point!
(Especially if it's bubbling with Champagne. I mean,
who would risk losing a glassful of that lovely stuff?!)
The Camera, on the other hand, is a slippery and sleek
little-weasel-of-a-creature, all polished steel and teeny hinged
doors and doll-sized buttons and an honest-to-goodness
screen. Nearly a midget television, right here in the palm
of your hand. It's a hold-your-breath kind of toy,
a take-good-care-of-it-or-you'll-be-sorry gadget,
sorry to the tune of a couple of hundred euros, which
translates to a lot more dollars than it was a few years
back, the dollar being stuck in the toilet. Ah, the toilet.
Or rather, the toilet seat. A new camera is more easily
had here than a new toilet seat. And, well, Waterford
crystal, I just might have some in my pocket. I just
have to figure out how to get it to take a picture.

White Horse Frolic

We were driving by and saw this horse running and kicking
and leaping across his pasture, so of course I had to
stop and record it, only, when he saw me, his curiosity
got the best of him, and he also stopped to check me out!
Run horse, run!

Apple Pie and Eggs

Actually, Apple Galette. The Official Apple Pie
has been consumed, digested, and converted to pounds
which are at this moment settling somewhere undesirable.
And check out those eggs! I scrambled some this morning --
the speckled one was nearly too beautiful to crack open
but it wasn't going to do me any good in the fridge.
The yolks were orangeorangeorange. Absolutely delicious,
along with some 'streaky rashers' -- bacon.

Danny Boy a la Jonny Cash

This always makes me cry.

Happy Apple Pie Day

No fireworks here: no sparklers, snakes (well, duh, it's Ireland)
Roman candles, no cones of fire. But we are hosting neighbors
for dinner: homemade pizza and apple pie. Here's my pie recipe:

Crust

1/2 cup butter
1 egg yolk
pinch of salt
2 T. sugar
5 T. ice water
1 1/2 cups flour

I use a Cuisinart to make my crust, but if you don't have one,
I'll include manual instructions in a sec.
This is a very easy crust recipe to work with -- if made
properly, the dough handles like play-dough.
In food processor bowl put chunked-up butter, egg yolk,
salt, sugar and water. Process with metal blade, quick ons-and-offs,
until the mixture approaches pea-shaped pieces. Add the flour
and turn processor on until the mixture just begins to form
a ball. Scrape onto waxed paper or plastic wrap, flatten into
a disk, wrap and refrigerate for about an hour.

Lacking modern technology, place dry ingredients in a bowl.
Add chunked-up butter and cut-in with a pastry blender,
or if you're really primitive, used two table knives, cutting the
blades together. (I know this sounds really weird but it works
if you're patient. ) Continue until the mixture approaches pea-
shaped pieces. Whisk egg yolk with water and add to flour-butter
mixture, and mix quickly with a fork until it begins to hold together.
Working the dough too much will result in a hard, tough finished
product.

Filling

Apples -- I prefer a mixture of golden delicious
and Granny Smiths -- the goldens because of the sweetness
and because they soften up nicely in the oven; the GS
because of their slight tartness and firmness.

I use about 8 apples -- four of each, give or take
1/2 cup flour
1 cup sugar
1 t. cinnamon
dash salt
2 T. butter

Peel and slice-up apples into large bowl;
toss with flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt.
No need to mix dry ingredients together first --
just toss them all together. Hands work well for this!

Roll out pie dough, fill with apple mixture, dot with butter,
top with remaining crust. At this point you can glaze
the top of the pie if you want -- many things do the trick:
an egg yolk whisked with a tablespoon of water, milk,
or just plain old water. A sprinkling of sugar adds sparkle
and the glaze holds the sugar in place.
Be sure to cut vents in the top crust!

Bake in a preheated 425 oven for 10-12 minutes,
then lower heat to 365 until crust is dark golden
and filling has begun to bubble. The temperature
is a tricky thing. It all depends on your own oven
and whether or not it runs hot or cold. It's going to be
tricky for me today, because I'm dealing with celcius
oven temps and even though I've done the conversion,
it always runs hot. Plus it's a convection oven.
Every time we come to Ireland I have to readjust
to this oven.

I love this apple pie! There is always lots of debate
in pie circles (are there really "pie circles"?!)
about whether to use lard, shortening only, butter only,
or a combination. And then there are those
who swear by the addition of vinegar to the crust,
and I've even read recently of a pie crust recipe
using vodka. Hmm. My French roots scream out for
the all-butter version. Plus, it's better for you.
And think of this: if you cut a pie into eight slices
and eat only one slice (yeah right), you are only
consuming 1.5 tablespoons of butter. Not really that much
in the scheme of things. And the egg yolk fat is negligible
when you divide it by eight.

*

Back in the 1960's and into the 70's, my mom and I
used to devote an entire summer day to pie-making.
When the "pie apple" tree out back began to groan under
the weight of its abundance, we carted heaving boxes
of green apples to the kitchen and began our marathon.
The most pies we ever made in a day was 29, which we froze
and enjoyed one a week throughout the fall and winter.
Those were hazy, hypnotic days, the air afloat with flour,
peels curling from a brimming sink. No surface was without
a pie tin. This was where I learned to pare -- quickly! -- with
a sharp and efficient paring knife, and where I learned to enjoy
the taste of an apple slice coated with its flour/sugar mixture.
Heaven! Leftover bits of dough were rolled flat, buttered,
sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, then rolled-up, sliced
and baked. We called them "roundies."

Sis-n-Gov

My sister Kath and Governor Christine Gregoire!
(Watch for her in an upcoming campaign ad.)

We drove down to Galway today....new camera!
My husband is a prince. Galway traffic is insane,
the streets are impossibly narrow and I'm guessing
were intended originally for horses-and-carts.
But we persevered, and spent a good six hours
exploring the shops and pubs. Nice to be back
in a big city for at least a few hours, but it is exhausting.
Getting used to hanging in a town with a population
of 4,500. We came home to a spectacular sunset.

Little Nuthatch!

Thanks to Melinda for sending me this photo, taken on her
front porch. Baby nuthatches in Seattle, sent to you from Ireland!
I'm tempted to write yet ANOTHER baby bird poem. But I shall not.

Crash

Groovy photos, yes? My camera spontaneously snapped these
as it tumbled to its death. Bounce, crack, shatter.
The lights are out now until we can find a suitable
replacement. Boo. Hoo. (Can you see the consternation
wrinkling my brow?)

*

Errand day. Paul took more than a dozen pub-front photos.
We bought Official Trash Sacks so that our Official Trash
can finally be carted off by the Official Trash Collector.
Found some interesting paper at the stationary store.
Mailed art-cards. Bought the current copy of the Mayo News.
Stopped in at the Jesus store looking for holy cards. (No dice.)
Bought a blue woven wrap. Drank a Coke-Zero. Checked out
the pamphlets at the Catholic church. Sat by the river
and read the Mayo News. Drank a brandy-port at The Jester.
Talked to assorted people. Ate bangers and mash
at Twigs. Listened to two young boys play trad. music
on an accordian and concertina at the Gig Rig in the center
of town (outside). I'm sure there was more but that's enough
to mention, I think.

Warmth! Sun!

*

Paul has posted a quite marvelous entry today.
Not to be missed.

Alas, grim muse.

After the Fox

Not my ankle splayed there, stripped
of meat, not my ribcage, my skull
discarded on the bog. Solitary horn.
Most likely an unlucky sheep,
spinal tissue still visible.

Behind me a stone cottage hunkers
in decay, vulnerable to stars.
One black boot, god knows how long.
A steel trap, teeth locked
on decades of rust.

How easy to be this victim:
a simple slip, a trip, collision
of flesh and rock. Rendered
immobile in peat, tucked back beyond
hill after hill. The distance out

measurable only in the fleet foot
of the fox, for whom this day
quite possibly promises abundance.
But not me, not these precise steps
around, away from, abandoning

this boneyard. Not this hand,
this ear, this throat. I press
a relentless path into the wind,
keep watch, go quickly
quickly.

*

Doo Lough, July, 2008

Magic

After the Fox

Our Lady of Armagh