November 7, 2009 at 9:49 pm (The Traveling Crone, friendship)
Tags: bets, horses, Montpelier, picnic, races, Virginia
To Montpelier, VA, home of James Madison, for the races.
Half the fun is making the picnic, which Ramadan Susie has hosted at James Madison’s estate for the last 22 years.
And then there’s the deep joy of walking around and criticizing other people’s picnics, with their Triscuit packets, shop-bought dips, and bottles of Mountain Dew. This year though the Crone will admit to a certain begrudging respect for some of tailgate efforts pictured below.
Then there is form to be studied…
Bets to be placed…
and horses to be followed.
A very good time was had by all.
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November 6, 2009 at 11:31 am (Cooking with the Crone, Gangsta Hansel & Ghetto Gretel, Life's vexations, food)
Tags: baking, Belfast venacular, Blarney Crone, centigrade, Crocker, cup cakes, fahrenheit, fairy cakes. American English, Gretel, imperial, metricm, Nigella Lawson Domestic Goddess, Northern Ireland, reading the recipe, wee buns
In Northern Ireland there is an expression used to indicate that an activity will present no challenge at all. The expression is “Wee buns”. So, if some one asks you to do something you consider easy peasy, you respond ” Wee buns” or ” It’ll be wee buns”. It indicates something you can do in a moment, without even thinking about it. A piece of cake, you might say.
In Belfast, wee buns are what Americans call cupcakes and the English call fairy cakes. In the Crone’s estimation, wee buns are not wee buns at all. The Crone likes to cook but she is very bad at baking. It’s too much like chemistry and calls for a dedication to instruction-following and recipe-reading that doesn’t suit the Crone and her slapdash ways.
So imagine the Crone’s horror when Gretel on a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon expressed a desire to bake. The larder was stocked with all the essentials, they had a bun tray and pastel paper cases–the only thing lacking was a set of functioning scales. Undeterred, the Crone pulled out her copy of Nigella’s Domestic Goddess. Sure, the instructions on oven temperature were in centigrade (American ovens offer only fahrenheit) and all the measurements were in grams but, since they couldn’t weigh in either imperial or metric, what difference would it make? Together, Crone and Gretel Crocker creamed arbitary amounts of sugar and butter, added a guestimate of flour, plus vanilla and eggs and spooned the mixture into the bun cases. So far, it all seemed to be going extremely well.
Into the oven went three trays of wee buns for the prescribed 12 to 15 minutes. Gretel opened the door several times to check on their progress, despite the Crone’s admonitions, and eventually reported that they had risen to the challenge of filling their paper cases and were the required shade of brown on top. Teatowel in hand, the Crone opened the oven with a flourish and lifted the first tray on to the countertop. Before their very eyes, the wee buns sagged and slumped. “It’s like a cartoon” cried Gretel Crocker and she spoke no word of a lie. The Crone tried to argue that the collapsed and concave cupcakes would still make acceptable eating but Gretel was having none of it. And so to Epicurious.com for a fail safe wee bun recipe where the ingredients were listed by measuring cup size. Turns out that 125g of sugar is not the same volume as 125g of flour–only half a cup of the sweet stuff matches the weight of a full cup of flour. Remember this and your buns will always rise and rise.
The second set of buns, as you can see, were a triumph and were taken to school to share with the friend who must never be referred to as a boyfriend and Gretel’s beloved Miss Fleming. The Crone picked at the reject buns and tried not to feel deflated.
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November 3, 2009 at 4:18 am (Blarney Family, Culture with the Crone, food, interior design)
Tags: a nice cup of tea, apppetizers, Blarney Crone, breast cancer awareness, calamari, crab cakes, French boudoir, high heels, hooker, Hotel Washington, ladies of the night, Members of Congress, photos, red patent, samosas, The Cackler, two go wild in washington, W hotels, Washington DC, White House
Readers who tire of hearing of the Crone and the Cackler’s get together will be glad to learn that reports of the trip are drawing to an end. But there are some excellent photos, and it seems a shame not to share them with you.
A wet Monday found the duo glumly staring at the rain coming down in stair-rods and considering their options. The Cackler expressed a desire to see the White House which, that day, was to boast a pink ribbon in honor of breast cancer awareness. The thought of trekking to Jackson Place to see the home of the first family festooned in saturated satin filled the Crone with dread–until she remembered the Hotel Washington, licensed premises that overlook the White House.
It has been years since the Crone was last in the hotel and, during that time, it has very much changed for the better. It has been taken over by the W chain and is now the last word in opulence and style.
The downstairs lobby has pinstripe-suited soft furnishings cheekily supplemented by sofas upholstered in hooker high heel red patent. It makes the lounge look like it is filled with Members of Congress and Ladies of the Night. Tongue in cheek high taste–beyond that, the Crone couldn’t possibly comment. The general ambience is French boudoir. It was all too much for the Cackler who had to sit down and order a nice cup of tea.
A velvet rope and a hostess bar the way to the lift for the roof terrace but, it being the middle of the day, the haggard and hungry managed to make the grade to ride roofward (at night, only the beautiful people are so elevated). Once upstairs, it was Kir Royales all round and the most delicious selection of appetizers–crab cakes, calamari and chicken samosas. They almost forgot to look out the window and over the White House.
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November 1, 2009 at 5:21 pm (Blarney Family, food, friendship, itchy ankle)
Tags: Blarney Crone, Boston Whaler, Chesapeake bay, Crab Dip, Crusty bread, itchy ankle andy, sunset, The Cackler, wine
![16440_1188320623484_1092387630_30552419_3546388_n[1]](http://blarneycrone.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/16440_1188320623484_1092387630_30552419_3546388_n1.jpg?w=300&h=225 "16440_1188320623484_1092387630_30552419_3546388_n[1]")
The Cackling Crone and Sawhorse Marilyn aboard the Boston Whaler
Back to the report of the Cackler’s visit. A
Sunday lunchtime drink and a bracing walk home still hadn’t exhausted the Cackler. When Sawhorse Marilyn offered a trip around the bay on her Boston Whaler she jumped at the chance, donned her fleece and her kagoule, and was at once ready to ride the waves.
Home just before dusk, the sisters decided to remain rugged and outdoorsy and lit a fire in Andy’s firepit in the Crone’s front yard. The Crone collected kindling while the Cackler got busy with the matches. Sawhorse Marilyn turned up with some crab dip and crusty bread and it seemed as good a time as any to open a bottle of wine and watch the sun go down over Itchy Ankle.
![16440_1188320703486_1092387630_30552421_8275828_n[1]](http://blarneycrone.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/16440_1188320703486_1092387630_30552421_8275828_n1.jpg?w=300&h=225 "16440_1188320703486_1092387630_30552421_8275828_n[1]")
![16440_1188320743487_1092387630_30552422_3304978_n[1]](http://blarneycrone.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/16440_1188320743487_1092387630_30552422_3304978_n1.jpg?w=300&h=225 "16440_1188320743487_1092387630_30552422_3304978_n[1]")
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November 1, 2009 at 11:50 am (Cooking with the Crone, Culture with the Crone, Tales of a Belfast girlhood, itchy ankle)
Tags: apple fortune telling, apple tart, baking, Belfast, Blarney Crone, bogeyman, false faces, fireworks, Guy Fawkes, Halloween, Ireland, Irish History, itchy ankle, Northern Ireland, Protestant, rutabaga, South Belfast, sparklers, tales from a Belfast girlhood, the Troubles, turnip, witch
The Crone would love to tell you that ardent readers have been clamoring for more tales of a Belfast girlhood but in fact her revelations about Halloweens gone by in late 20th century Ireland have been met by worldwide indifference. Nonetheless she is in the mood to reminisce (it’s a cold, wet, Irish sort of day in Itchy Ankle and there is little to do but wax sentimental and write about times past) and so in addition to memories of wax (sentimental) brace yourselves for the complete rundown on the Halloween habits of the Blarney Family of Belfast–a little social history to help while away a miserable Sunday.
Events would begin with apple fortune telling. The trick was to peel the apple all in one piece to create a long, snaking skin. This was then hurled over your left shoulder on to the floor. The shape in which it landed was a fail-safe indicator of the name of the person you’d marry. The nature of apples, (round) meant that we always had a lot of Charles’, Colins, Stephens and Stuarts in our futures. Any suggestion of Cahal or Conor, Shane or Sean was quickly dismissed. These were dark days in the dark ages for Protestant families in suburban South Belfast. It may have been that boys were encouraged to do this too, learning to look out for Cathys, Susans and Sarahs (never Ciara or Sinead) but the Crone remembers only her sister and mother being involved and this may have been because all the apple peeling was preparatory to making apple tarts and baking was, of course, a girl thing. The trick, you see, was to bake charms into the tart: A sixpence and later a five p piece to predict those who would be rich. A brass ring for those who would marry well. A thimble or a button for those who would work hard all their lives. The charms were wrapped in greaseproof paper but this didn’t stop the juice from the apples turning the brass ring a delightful green in the oven. When the tart was cut, the adults spent all their time warning the kids not to choke on a charm, and the kids spent all their time secretely hoping they would.
Masks back then were called false faces and were made of cardboard moulded and held in place by a thin piece of elastic. There was huge anticipation in the period leading up to their purchase, although really you were always a witch or a bogeyman. It was fun to lick the cardboard from the inside, making the mouth of the mask all soggy and loose.
Mask in place and lit rutabaga in hand, you went from door to door soliciting money in return for your party piece. Then you came home to bob for apples or eat them from strings, a custom the Crone introduced to Itchy Ankle when her own children were little. In the 60s, there were fireworks before the Troubles put an end to all that. In the 70s there were sparklers, for in Ireland people celebrate Halloween, not November the 5th, and the downfall of Guy Fawkes. Even the most elementary student of Irish history should be able to work out why…
The holiday always smelt of cordite and charred turnip, wet leaves, damp wool, cardboard and baked apples. It was an excellent excuse to play with fire, make some money and stay up late. And once your wounds from the turnip carving healed over, you could remember it fondly as the very best of times.
Hansel bobs for apples in Itchy Ankle, 2003
A little bit of Ireland comes to Itchy Ankle, 2003
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November 1, 2009 at 9:45 am (Blarney Family, Culture with the Crone, Tales of a Belfast girlhood, food, itchy ankle)
Tags: Belfast, Blarney Crone, church on Sunday, Gretel, Halloween, Heloise, hot wax, Housekeeping tip, Ireland, itchy ankle, Northern Ireland, Presbyterian, pumpkin, Rapunzel, removing spilt wax from fabric, rutabaga, Scream, teen vampires, turnip, Twilight movie, Vampire, vampire kisses
The Crone, visited last night by a Vampire and two of his faceless friends, 
found
herself in conversation with the undead. ” It’s bad being a vampire” said the toothy terror ” You live forever”
“Yes” said the Crone ” And that probably means you’ll be in school forever and of course you can’t kiss anyone” (The Crone has seen the first Twilight movie, and knows this is a big concern for teen vampires and those poor mortals who like the look of them)
“You can’t see if I’m crying” said the Faceless One and Scream let out a terrible scream.
The conversation then turned to the new
Twilight movie which will premiere on
Thanksgiving weekend. Rapunzel and
Gretel have already pre-booked their tickets and the Crone was interested to discover if the movie held the same appeal for teenage boys, particularly those with a proclivity for horror.
“They think it’s stupid” said the Vampire, gesturing to Scream and the Faceless One, but I call it an opportunity–all those girls” and with that he let out a sinister laugh
and left to flash his sharp-toothed smile at the rest of Itchy Ankle.
Post Halloween Housekeeping Tip:
The Crone last night was wearing a rather lovely grey linen shift to offset her purple and orange witches hat. The yard was decorated with candles, including a delightful candle-laden chandelier.
In the process of dismantling the outdoor decoration, the Crone splashed wax on her shift. As this is a common Halloween occurence, and one the Crone has suffered before, she hopes it may be useful to share the solution to the problem with you.
Should you spill wax on fabric, let it harden and then place the garment or tablecloth or whatever on an ironing board, wax side up. Put a piece of brown paper–a shopping bag or parcel paper on top of the spot, then use a warm iron on top of the paper. The wax melts and soaks into the paper and Voila! problem solved.
Now regular readers of the Crone’s ramblings will know that she is no Heloise so how does she know this handy household tip? It is a piece of intelligence that has stayed with her since Halloween 1972 when, aged 12, she wore her new maxi coat (size 10 from C&A) to go door to door in her Belfast neighborhood in Northern Ireland.
That was before pumpkins reached Ireland and so children carved turnips or rutabagas to make their lanterns. Or maybe there were pumpkins there all along but Presbyterian families just persevered with turnips as some kind of puritanical punishment? Anyhow, children risked life and climb taking carving knifes to rock hard root vegetables and it’s a wonder that the Crone’s hands don’t still bear the calluses from scooping out the cold wet pale turnip center with a spoon ( “Don’t bend my good spoon”)
Once the turnips were carved and lit–long candles placed into a holding hole in the base of the turnip and then sealed around with wax–kids would go from door to door. There was no trick or treating in those days. You had to offer to sing or perform some other party piece for your neighbors who mostly, wisely, handed over some pennies, sometimes a 10p piece, to get you to go away. Candy wasn’t part of it.
Anyhow, on this particular Halloween in 1972 the Crone’s lantern sprung a leak, dripping wax all down the front of her new double-breasted, rust-colored coat. The Crone thought she’d be killed–the coat was brand new and meant for church on Sunday–and started trying to pick it off with her thumbnail, a mistake as with the wax came lumps of the felted surface of the coat. There was nothing for it but to confess–and to the Crone’s surprise her father took the news calmly, having a piece of brown paper and a hot iron to hand. Perhaps he’d once survived a Halloween mishap or two himself?
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October 31, 2009 at 7:34 pm (itchy ankle)
Tags: Blarney Crone, blog, Halloween, Hansel and Gretel, Irish novel, itchy ankle, Rapunzel, trick or treat, witch
If the Blarney Crone was writing the definitive Irish novel you would expect to be moving about between different locations and time periods but on a humble blog a certain simple respect for a linear chronology is usually expected. Sorry. For now, we remain in Itchy Ankle but have come bang up to date. In posts to follow, there will be more news of the Cackler and her exploits and some deep history as the Crone attempts to catch you up with events at Transparency Towers. But first, Halloween 2009: The green-haired ghoul is Rapunzel, bewitching niece of Hansel and Gretel and the rest are trick or treaters who stopped by.
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October 31, 2009 at 1:41 pm (Blarney Family, Gangsta Hansel & Ghetto Gretel, food, itchy ankle)
Tags: autumn, bar snacks, Blarney Crone, Chesapeake bay, food, itchy ankle, nature, seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness, Snug Harbor Inn, Sunday, The Cackler, walk, wine
It was all very “seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness” last Sunday in Itchy Ankle. A beautiful day.
The Cackler, of course, had sprung out of bed and put the coffee on shortly after sparrow fart, and so by the time the Crone was up, frocked and ready for action, the Cackler was raring to go and revving on all cylinders. But what to do without wheels? The Cackler suggested an autumnal walk and so, wearily, the Crone pulled on her Crocs, grabbed her camera and hit the byways by the Bay. Actually, it wasn’t so bad.
Anyhow, after a couple of hours the rosy glow of the rustic scene had begun to wear thin and the parched pair couldn’t help noticing they were in the vicinity of a local hostelry, the Snug Harbor Inn. What better way to end their nature ramble?–except they were there so early the bar hadn’t yet opened its doors. The landlord was there, enjoying a cigarette and a scratch before the business of the day. He took pity on outdoorsy types who now longed to be indoorsy. “Go get a paper and by the time you’re back I’ll let you in” he said. Ten minutes later the sisters were installed at the bar, enjoying Pinot Grigio, chicken wings, onion rings and crab dip. It was very heaven. When the Chesapeake Boys arrived to take up their customary seats for the football game, they were surprised to find the Crone and the Cackler firmly ensconced. It is not often anyone beats them to the bar.
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October 31, 2009 at 12:33 pm (Blarney Family, Gangsta Hansel & Ghetto Gretel, The Traveling Crone, itchy ankle, yard sale)
Tags: Blarney Crone, itchy ankle, Barkis, Hansel, food, Five o'clock somewhere, yard sales, witches, Margarita, Mexican restaurant, car, breakdown, Triple A, Patron, mechanic, The Cackler, RIP
Saturday found the Crone and the Cackler out in search of yard sales. They didn’t have much luck as the day was wet and cold. Wiser witches would have taken this as a sign and gone home to bed but the gruesome twosome pressed on, piling more and more packages into the Blarneymobile and ending their shopping extravaganza at the supermarket . Pulling out of the parking lot, the Crone observed that the car’s temperature gauge was shooting alarmingly high. She stopped outside a nearby Mexican restaurant and ordered the Cackler out of the car–and not a moment too soon. Within seconds, steam was surging skyward and disturbing gurgling noises could be heard from under the hood. The Crone called Triple A and the Cackler repaired to the bar at the restaurant and ordered a margarita, frozen, with salt. The Crone, still believing that she might drive home, asked for a glass of water. Both drinks arrived within moments–and so did the tow truck. While the gloomy mechanic ( ” Say goodbye to it–your head gasket will have gone” ) hoisted the hapless hatchback on to his flatbed, the Cackler did her best to down her Tequila-laced slurpee. But the drink had been served in a bucket and was brain-freezingly cold. It was only possible to glug a mouthful a minute and the Crone and Mr Misery were getting impatient. Ever enterprising, the Cackler asked for a plastic cup to go, only to discover that Maryland prohibits portable Patron, forcing her to leave nearly a quart of her cocktail undrunk. This, combined with the effrontery of the day before’s beach charge forced her to the conclusion that America is perhaps not so much the land of the free as she had originally been led to believe…
Riding high above the hardcore, the Crone and the Cackler arrived in Itchy Ankle in the cab of the tow-truck and were deposited at the excellent shop of Kent Boone. From there, Barkis rode to the rescue, delivering the two to their own front door.
Between the drama and the stiff drink, both were exhausted, but, as it turned out, in much better shape than the car which not even Boone’s Automotive can save. RIP Blarneymobile, pictured below with Hansel the Handsome in happier days for all.
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October 31, 2009 at 11:30 am (Blarney Family, The Traveling Crone)
Tags: Amish, Blarney Crone, Breezy Point Beach, Cake Boss, Calvert County MD, conference, England, fossil, Loveville MD, Mammon, Mennonite, menopause, Miocene, prehistoric, shark, thresher shark, TLC, Yorkshire
Gentle readers (including my latest Blog Buddy, Barbara), I’m back. The Crone has had a lot going on, and very little time in which to report it. Details of the conference ( a triumph) the car blow-up ( terminal, and involving a ride home in a tow truck), the flood (in the middle of the night) and the two flat batteries will follow, but for now be satisfied with a report on the rugged and outdoorsy weekend enjoyed by the Crone and her sister, the Cackler.
The Cackler blew in from Yorkshire, England, just as the Crone wrapped up a particulary packed week at work. It is hard to believe the two sisters sprang from the same gene pool. The Cackler is small, spare and has a whizzy metabolism. She sleeps little and likes to walk a lot. The Crone, as you know, has the habits of a sloth and is built to be static, not speedy.
The Cackler and the Crone
Hauled out of bed before dawn last Friday morning, the Crone decided to take her sister to the beach in the hope she could tire her out. The two repaired to Breezy Point in Calvert County, and joined two other early risers (welly-booted women of middle years–the menopausal find it hard to cling to the mattress, unless, of course, they are stuck to the sheets) and a whole lot of gulls.
A bit of a flap at Breezy Point beach
The two would have had an invigorating walk were it not for the fact that the beach is closely monitored by Calvert County curmudgeons who first chased the sisters from the stretch of sand (deserted) in front of the caravans (deserted) and then charged them $8 each to walk along the remaining 100 yards of shale. The Cackler, being from a land where seaside walks are free and positively encouraged was outraged.
She recovered her cool somewhat when the Crone introduced her to the delights of shark-tooth hunting. The two then spent a Miocene age hunting for fossiled shark’s teeth by the bay shore. They did better than the other welly-booted women who had come equipped with sieves and plastic bags and all manner of fossil-finding accoutrements. Some of their spoils are below.
What's the Point? Shark's teeth from a long ago age
The Crone found the most teeth but the Cackler found the biggest one–a Thresher shark tooth according to the fact sheet begrudgingly supplied by the beach bully behind the Calvert County cash register. Pursuing the prehistoric is curiously compelling. Once you find one tooth, you want to find more, or a bigger one, even though you have no use for the toothy treasures once you’ve brought them back from the beach. “What do you do with yours?” the sisters asked the welly-booted ones “Keep them in a jar in the bathroom” they replied and, in truth, there is little else one can do. Good fun to find them all the same.
By now convinced that they were both rugged and outdoorsy, the pair continued their exploration of Southern Maryland, travelling to Loveville MD to visit the Mennonite market.
Shame about the plastic bags
Pot mums
The Cackler was completely entranced, and was all for buying a bonnet and a buggy for herself. “I think we could be Amish” she said, stocking up on homegrown fruit and veg and buying a bird house that was probably mass produced in China. ” Look at us—we already live a simple outdoors life” Hmmm. Only two hours later she was watching the Cake Boss marathon on TLC with a glass in her hand. She’s way more Mammon than Mennonite.
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