Irish Soda Bread
I wasn’t sure why I woke up with an unusual, confrontational feeling. I slept well through the night but felt like starting something with someone. It was as if I had planned to attack someone today, but who? Or is it whom?
Anyway…
Our cat, Edgar Allan, entered the kitchen while I made a pot of coffee. He meowed and rubbed up against my leg. I had no issue with Edgar; he just wanted food in his bowl. Nova Mae nudged me to get my attention. I’ve no problem with Nova; she just wanted to go outside before breakfast
I heard my wife moving about in the bedroom. “Ah ha!” Now I remembered why I was feeling the way I was. My wife went to bed wearing her gray Irving Farms Coffee Roasters T-shirt from New York. It has a big
raven on the front and is one of her favorites for sleeping. She wore buffalo plaid flannel pajama pants with the shirt. The next morning was Saint Patrick’s Day, and I knew I would catch her without wearing green. Pinching rights would be all mine! For safety purposes, I double-checked to ensure I was wearing something green.
Melissa was working at the counter with her back towards me. I sneaked up and gave her three or four good pinches, laughing as I did so. “What are you doing,” she demanded to know.
“It’s Saint Patty’s Day,” I announced, “and you’re not wearing green!” I laughed and gave her another pinch.
My wife tugged on the collar of her T-shirt. “This IS green.” She wore a green t-shirt from the Green Door Lounge in Beaver Bay. “You don’t just sneak up on people and pinch them when they’re making oatmeal,” she said. “Especially when they are wearing green.”
I retreated in defeat.
(Just the Other Day cont’d on pg 4)
A Little Old Man
Jag, the terrier, is getting up there in dog years. Nobody is quite sure how old he is as he moved from home to home during the early years of his life. He first came to our house to live when other families could not put up with his proclivity to kill the neighbors’ chickens and cats. Since we have no close neighbors, chickens, or cats, we ended up adopting him a number of years ago. He has enjoyed the freedom of never having to be tied up and being able to go hunting whenever he wanted. For the first eight or ten years of living with us, he wanted to be only outside except on the coldest of nights and would guard the homestead faithfully. Occasionally, there would be a dead raccoon or opossum in the yard, evidence of a failed invasion by the local wildlife. He has always been a tough little dog, almost as tough as he thinks he is.
Because of his toughness and refusal to admit pain or fear, I was surprised a while back when I heard him yelping outside. I jumped up to see him running toward the house as fast as his little old legs could carry him. He was yelping in fear while being pursued by two coyotes They were rapidly gaining ground on him when I stepped out with my rifle. The coyotes both
screeched to a halt when they saw me. Jag did not break a stride, heading for the house. I pulled up and dropped the first coyote where he stood. The other took off across the yard and started to run across the dam. My bullets were following close behind and he was at top speed when I finally got in a lucky shot. People that say a person does not need a twenty-round magazine in a hunting rifle are either much better shots than I am or they have never shot at a coyote running away at full speed. I had somewhere between twelve and fifteen rounds down range before I connected. Jag ran up to me and stood behind my legs before he looked back to see if the coyotes were still coming. He stood on the porch trembling. He realized he was almost in a fight he could not win. I am sure this was the first time in his life that he knew he was not the toughest around. This close call took a lot out of Jag. He still guards the area, but only during the day. Now he prefers to stay
in the garage at night, on his bed with food and water close by. He will occasionally go out hunting by himself but does not venture as far from the house as he used to. If he is going to go hunting any distance from the house, he prefers it to be with a person that is well armed, just in case. The little dog is getting gray hairs and moves more slowly, much like a little old man. He does though, still have the ability to run really fast in case of an emergency.
(Just the Other Day cont’d from pg 2)
“When did that happen,” I questioned. “I swore you were wearing the gray T-shirt with the raven on the front when you came to bed.”
We took our bowls of oatmeal and went to the dining room for breakfast. “Saint Patrick’s Day is on a Friday this year,” Melissa noted. “What will the Catholics do about eating corned beef and cabbage on a Friday during Lent?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose that would be up to each person.”
“But, doesn’t Saint Patrick’s Day land on a Friday every seven years?” she wondered.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t know how to calculate such a thing, but leap years would mess up your theory.” Unfortunately, neither of us knew enough about this anomaly to speak with knowledge on this matter.
Melissa changed the subject, “Do you have a recipe for Irish Soda Bread?”
“Nope,” I replied. She pursued her idea. “Do you think you could make it?”
“Of course, I can. I can bake anything,” I boasted.
“Would you make a loaf of Irish Soda Bread for Saint Patrick’s Day? We could have it with vegetable soup.” I liked the idea. A meatless Irish meal as an alternative to corned beef when Saint Patrick’s Day falls on a Friday during lent. I began searching for recipes.
I looked at several recipes and variations. “Honey check this out,” I said. “The ingredients for Irish Soda Bread are flour, butter, sugar, baking soda and powder, salt, buttermilk, and an egg.”
“Okay,” she replied. “What’s your point? Do we have everything to make it?”
“Yes,” I said. “But those are the exact same ingredients used to make buttermilk biscuits. Except for the egg; there are no eggs in buttermilk biscuits.”
“Is there a point to all of this,” Melissa asked.
“I think the Irish have stolen the recipe for buttermilk biscuits, added an egg, and
are trying to pass it off as an Irish original,” I said. “This could be one of the biggest scandals in the history of mankind.”
Noting my confrontational attitude of the morning, my wife spoke out. “Tom, don’t be starting anything with the Irish.”
“Something has to be done about this,” I said passionately.
“You can’t just take someone’s buttermilk biscuit recipe, toss in an egg, shape it into a loaf, and call this oversized biscuit an original Irish recipe.”
“Can’t you just leave it alone? There’s enough trouble in the world without you adding to it,” My wife pleaded. “Irish Soda Bread has been around for hundreds of years.”
“So,” I questioned her reasoning. “What would it matter if the Irish stole the recipe yesterday or three hundred years ago. Plagiarism is plagiarism; theft is theft; wrong is wrong. We have to do something about this.”
“There are a lot of Irish people in America, you know,” she warned. “You’re going to ruffle a lot of feathers.”
“I know that,” I said. “My mom’s maiden name was Griffin, and her mom’s maiden name was Morgan. I’ve got Irish roots myself, but still….” I quickly looked up the statistics, “There are only 31 ½ million Irish people in America,” I said. “That’s only about ten percent. I think we can take ‘em.” I quickly sensed my wife would not be a part of the ‘we’ that would right this wrong. Reluctantly, I made the loaf of Irish Soda Bread and put it in the oven. While it was baking, I researched Irish Soda bread origins, as well as the source of the buttermilk biscuits. Both were created for some king’s wife because yeast made her sick. Each used baking powder to leaven their bread rise. Next, I looked up baking powder. I found several people/countries claim to have created baking powder. However, I couldn’t find a clear answer.
What if I am wrong?
What if someone stole the recipe for Irish Soda Bread, deleted the egg, and formed it into miniature loaves, calling them biscuits. Speaking of biscuits,
why do the British call cookies biscuits? My theories of conspiracy were running rampant.
What we have here is a world-class case of which came first. I plan to research this more after finding the truth behind the chicken and the egg.
The oven’s timer buzzed. I opened the door and pulled out two beautiful loaves of Irish Soda Bread or two large buttermilk biscuits, depending on your beliefs.
The recipe said the Irish Soda Bread was best eaten hot out of the oven, with jam, jelly, or honey. So we sliced the loaf, and I ate a piece plain. I honestly couldn’t tell the difference between the texture or taste of this bread and a buttermilk biscuit.
My wife opened the cabinet and pulled out a jar of honey that was a gift from our Virginia friends who have beehives. She drizzled honey on the bread, “Wow,” she said. “Pete and Karen really know how to make honey.”
“Pete and Karen didn’t technically make the honey; the bees did,” I said.
“Wow,” my wife rephrased, “Pete and Karen sure know how to sweet-talk bees to get their honey.”
I was still confrontational and now considering conspiracy too.
“I wonder if the bees gave their consent before Pete and Karen took the honey?” My wife rolled her eyes and dripped the golden sweetness on another piece of bread, giving it to me.
“Oh my,” I declared.
“This is wonderful, but what if we’re eating stolen honey, Honey?”
(More rolling eyes.)
The next time I bake this treat, I will make buttermilk biscuits because I prefer the individual serving size. Unless it happens to be Saint Patrick’s Day. Then I will make Irish Soda Bread to celebrate the Irish holiday.