Irish enthusiasms

Traveling to Northern Ireland this Christmas was totally delightful. Maybe it was because I spent time with my nephew, who sort of pulses with barely contained joy, as only a three year old can. His newest thing (copied from adults in the spirit of the season) was to exclaim in his adorable Irish accent, "I love this! It is just want I wanted!" Even if it wasn't, as in the case of the delicious (but decidedly exotic) shrimp burritos my Boston brother-in-law whipped up one night. Even if Adam didn't try a single bite, you couldn't fault his enthusiasm.

I felt the same way many times during the vacation. In the moment, however, it was rarely appropriate to gush. (Culturally, Northern Ireland is perhaps less stiff-upper-lip than England, but it definitely lacks the emotional, Danny-boy vibe of the republic to the south.) So I'm going to gush now.

More cool things about (Northern) Ireland:

Singing priests! Maybe you have heard them on the radio--three priests from the Belfast area who have taken the international classical music charts by storm. Turns out, one of them is the parish priest at the Catholic church where my Irish brother-in-law sometimes attends. So our family rolled into midnight mass on Christmas Eve and were treated to a service sung by the church-music equivalent of Bono. He did have a wonderful voice. My mom was beside herself, having heard them on the classical music station in San Francisco all through December. We found out later that the singing priests were the top-selling artists on the US Billboard Traditional Classical chart in 2010, though are keeping it real in the diocese. The midnight mass we attended was filled with local parishioners, not autograph seekers. (In fact, my mom may have been the only groupie there...) The priest on the right is the one we saw.

Festive Christmas tea! Nothing beats a traditional English tea: little sandwiches, scones and clotted cream, dainty desserts. Unless that tea also comes accompanied by a glass of prosecco. My Irish sister, mom and I went to tea at the Merchant Hotel in Belfast, and you should, too, if you ever find yourself in town. The domed lobby doubles as a tea room, complete with comfy chairs covered in chintz and red velvet, all beneath an elaborate Victorian chandelier. The tea things come on those layered trays, and everyone gets her own teapot full of loose-leaf tea. At Christmas, the whole thing comes with the aforementioned glass of prosecco, the main selling point in my book. English teas are done to death for tourists, I realize. Sort of like eating clam chowder at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco or a hot dog on the streets of Manhattan. But I can safely report that we were the only American accents I could hear in the place. The tables next to us were filled with real British people (or at least real British tourists) enjoying their traditional meal with an extra-elegant twist.

Peat! They sell peat in the grocery store! Real peat that presumably real Irish people still use to heat their homes. Why is this so cool? Because peat is such an ancient fuel and makes me think of skeletons, thousands of years old, recovered fully preserved in peat bogs with all their belongings intact, as if they had just stepped out of their hut the day before. The fact that people still burn peat connects us to that time somehow. These days it comes in pressed bricks which sell for about 3 euro each.

Jacksons' pies! Here in the States, we don't really do meat pies, unless you count frozen potpies, anemic and distant cousins of the robust and delectable meat pies of the British Isles. And the most delectable of all come from Jacksons Butchers in Ballynure, Northern Ireland. My Irish sister lives literally around the corner from this nirvana of meat. Years before it was trendy, Jacksons was buying local, grass-fed, organic meat, butchering it with the greatest of skill and selling it at reasonable prices. In fact, they apologized profusely to my sister, who ordered a turkey (out of season over there) to celebrate American Thanksgiving this November. The man was bereft because the bird came from 20 miles away. My sister didn't have the heart to tell him that most American Thanksgiving turkeys travel hundreds if not thousands of miles to get to the dinner table.

Jacksons' pies (beef and onion or chicken and mushroom), peat for sale, fancy tea and singing priests are enough to bring out the three year old in anyone. Or at least in me. I loved them all--they were just what I wanted.