I have always felt an affinity towards water. All of my favourite memories take place on/in/beside a body of water. I know, I know, 70% of the earth's surface is made up of water so it's pretty much 70% unavoidable but nevertheless, I feel the need to proclaim my undying love for this viscous element. I also think fire is swell but hey, I'll save that for another post.
My earliest memory is spending my 3rd birthday on Silver Strand beach in Co. Wicklow. When I was learning to ride my bike I somehow managed to slide down an extremely steep bank into the river at Enniskerry, Co.Wicklow. I honed my rounders (baseball to any Americans out there) skills shadowed by the mist of Powerscourt Waterfall. I once spent a weekend in Sligo at my friend Suzanne's aunt's cottage by a lakeside surrounded by lush green trees, eating boxty and listening to traditional Irish music. Give me a view of the stunning bridges of Porto or the tranquil splendour of Lake Windermere and I guarantee you, I could gaze upon them for hours. The spell-bounding rhythm of the ocean, the overwhelming crash of a wave, the magical depths of a lake, the curious meander of a river, the diving grace of a waterfall all fascinate me.
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| Beach babe |
This post, however, is about a perilous incident involving some washing detergent, h2o and my dirty laundry.
Before I embark on the epic tale of my undergarment escapades let me just say that I've done my own washing countless times. I guarantee you, it's a whole other ball game when not in the comfort of your own home.
So below is a blow by blow account of an incident I am hereby calling 'Washer-woman Wednesday'.
To say that I made it painstakingly obvious that it was my first time doing laundry would be an understatement.
I walk in, donning my laundry day rig-out which is a pair of trackie bees, odd socks and a striking yellow sweater with the words 'worlds greatest grandad to be' plastered across the front- conspicuous is not how I would describe this look.
I go up to the lady carefully folding some undies and asks how 'the system' works, naively thinking that she works there. She doesn't, in fact, work there but explains it to me regardless with complicated and confusing hand gestures.
Having topped up my new laundry card, teaming with excitement and anticipation, I begin my mission.
I separate my clothes into whites and colours, which I realise I could've done at home with a helluva lot more ease.
I successfully get my whitewash goin'. Ah sure, it's all plain sailing from here on out....you'd think. Turns out I had used a 60lb machine instead of a 10lb machine. That's a solid $6.50 per machine as opposed to $2.50. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if I've ever owned 60lb of clothes. Maybe if you add up all of the clothes I've ever owned?... But as you can see from the photo of me on the beach, it seems I had an aversion to pants as a child.
Card topped up for a second time, I realise I've already put the detergent into the second 60lb machine so I may as well swipe through another $6.50.
Garments removed from the washer, I then lovingly toss them into the tumble dryer only to find that my brand new card won't read in the slot anymore. Stressed out to the nines at this stage, seriously questioning all my life choices, I not so lovingly throw the sopping wet clothes in my laundry bag so I could get the hell out and get back to the safety of my own home as quickly as possible. As I crossed the threshold I decided that after hanging my clothes off every nook in my apartment I was going to make suman' delish to soothe my bruised domestic-goddess ego. And so I rustled up some Boxty with smoked salmon, caper ricotta and kale. Boxty is a traditional Irish potato pancake which is both easy to make and a great way of utilising any leftover mash. There's a rhyme associated with boxty that claims if you can't make it you'll never get a man...classic old wives tale from the old country. Antiquated as it is, I've never actully made boxty before which may explains my single status. Let's hope that this starch spell works and that my future beau won't ask me to wash his clothes. Boxty, yes. Boxers, no.
I walk in, donning my laundry day rig-out which is a pair of trackie bees, odd socks and a striking yellow sweater with the words 'worlds greatest grandad to be' plastered across the front- conspicuous is not how I would describe this look.
I go up to the lady carefully folding some undies and asks how 'the system' works, naively thinking that she works there. She doesn't, in fact, work there but explains it to me regardless with complicated and confusing hand gestures.
Having topped up my new laundry card, teaming with excitement and anticipation, I begin my mission.
I separate my clothes into whites and colours, which I realise I could've done at home with a helluva lot more ease.
I successfully get my whitewash goin'. Ah sure, it's all plain sailing from here on out....you'd think. Turns out I had used a 60lb machine instead of a 10lb machine. That's a solid $6.50 per machine as opposed to $2.50. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if I've ever owned 60lb of clothes. Maybe if you add up all of the clothes I've ever owned?... But as you can see from the photo of me on the beach, it seems I had an aversion to pants as a child.
Card topped up for a second time, I realise I've already put the detergent into the second 60lb machine so I may as well swipe through another $6.50.
Garments removed from the washer, I then lovingly toss them into the tumble dryer only to find that my brand new card won't read in the slot anymore. Stressed out to the nines at this stage, seriously questioning all my life choices, I not so lovingly throw the sopping wet clothes in my laundry bag so I could get the hell out and get back to the safety of my own home as quickly as possible. As I crossed the threshold I decided that after hanging my clothes off every nook in my apartment I was going to make suman' delish to soothe my bruised domestic-goddess ego. And so I rustled up some Boxty with smoked salmon, caper ricotta and kale. Boxty is a traditional Irish potato pancake which is both easy to make and a great way of utilising any leftover mash. There's a rhyme associated with boxty that claims if you can't make it you'll never get a man...classic old wives tale from the old country. Antiquated as it is, I've never actully made boxty before which may explains my single status. Let's hope that this starch spell works and that my future beau won't ask me to wash his clothes. Boxty, yes. Boxers, no.
8 regular sized spuds (I also chose some purple ones cause thought the colour was fun!)
Half grated, half mashed and cooled.
3 eggs beaten
1 cup of milk
1 cup of flour
250g of smoked salmon
250g ricotta
Extra virgin olive oil
Capers
Salt and Pepper
Kale
A Wedg(i)e of Lemon to garnish
Half grated, half mashed and cooled.
3 eggs beaten
1 cup of milk
1 cup of flour
250g of smoked salmon
250g ricotta
Extra virgin olive oil
Capers
Salt and Pepper
Kale
A Wedg(i)e of Lemon to garnish
Method (to my madness)
Grate the uncooked potatoes
Mix together the flour, eggs, milk, mashed potato and grated potato until it resembles a goupy mixture.
Heat olive oil in a pan and the dollop the batter in and fry for 4-5 minutes on both sides.
Mix the ricotta with a generous shlurp of olive oil and as many capers as your heart desires (I used 150g)
Shred the smoked salmon and layer atop the boxty with a dollop of the ricotta and a handful of kale.
Grubs up, kids!
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| Mmmmmmm fried spudz |
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| Mmmmmm grated and uncooked spudz |
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Boxty on the griddle,
Boxty in the pan,
If you can't make boxty,
Boxty in the pan,
If you can't make boxty,
You'll never get your man.
LOL
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| Look at that lough |
