One Easter we flew to Ireland. We arrived in Dublin on a rainy morning, and our first meal at the hotel was a traditional Irish breakfast: black pudding, fried ham, grilled tomatoes, sunny side up eggs, soda bread, and tea.
After we ventured into the countryside, scones and oatmeal began to appear on the menu. The combination created a filling breakfast, and for once I didn't think about food as I traipsed through valleys and rolling hills. The land was a thousand shades of green--far brighter than Tennessee--
and the air was spiced with peat . . . yet it reminded me of home.
To this day, when I am lonesome for Ireland, I make oatmeal and scones.
This morning, while I listened to music by The Frames, I prepared a Tennessee version of an Irish breakfast. I laced the oatmeal with granola and heavy cream.
Then I "dressed" a scone with whiskey jam.
The first time I saw Rattlebridge, I thought of Ireland. True, the farm is a world away, and very different from the Emerald Isle. The day we saw Rattlebridge, I was entranced by the sky--a wash of blue, clouds like spilled cream. I remember thinking that those clouds might eventually wing their way to Ireland. When you love a place, it becomes a part of you. One day you might walk on a Tennessee farm, and your thoughts are like those clouds, rushing to the places you love while your feet never leave the ground.
Today, renovation began at the farm. Past remodelings have been filled with angst and second guessing, but Will and I feel excited. While I ate my Irish-Tennessee breakfast, I made notes.
I have inherited a cottage garden, wild turkeys, a pond full of bull frogs, a small cemetery,
and fields of daffodils.
I'm hoping for many Irish breakfasts and blessings.