Location: Terminal Highway, Norfolk, VA
Spotted: Large white van boasting ” We move seniors”
Disturbing mental images
November 26, 2009 at 9:20 am (The Traveling Crone)
Tags: disturbing mental images, Norfolk, terminal highway, VA, we move seniors, white van
Deer Jerky and Our Lady in A Looking Glass
November 21, 2009 at 9:55 pm (food, friendship, itchy ankle)
Tags: beef, Blarney Crone, BVM, carcass contest, catholicism, chambermaid, cow, deer jerky, food, Gloucestershier Old Spot, itchy ankle, lamb, Mexico, miracle, on the hoof, Our Lady in a Looking Glass, pig, pork, ranch, rawlplugs, religion, Saddleback, sheep, Shrine, Thanksgiving, travel, Virgin in a mirror, Virgin Mary, Weatherman Sam, Wild West Laura
Should the Virgin Mary ever appear in a mirror near you, the Crone implores you to put the details on the internet, pronto. This will not only help bloggers eager to write about your shiny shrine but will also allow you to make the most of your miracle, marketing-wise. The Crone has spent an interesting evening in Itchy Ankle with Weatherman Sam and his new love, Wild West Laura. The two are in town for Thanksgiving and arrived with a miraculous story to share–sadly unverifiable as the faithful have failed to tag it so it can be tracked down in cyberspace. Anyhow, Sam, who was raised in Mexico was talking to a friend who owns a hotel. The hotel employs a chambermaid who had a very sick daughter. The chambermaid was going about her duties one day when the Blessed Virgin Mary (BVM) appeared to her in a mirror. Spotting an opportunity, the chambermaid prayed to the Virgin and, lo, her daughter was cured. The chambermaid, understandably, tried to steal the mirror but was caught ripping it from its rawlplugs and so was forced to share the story to keep her job and stay ahead of the law. The room is no longer available at rack rate but now has a nun on the door to collect the takings as locals and visitors line up to pray to the Virgin in the Mirror. If you, like the Crone, have waited a long time to see a virgin staring back at you, you may want to investigate this story further…
Wild West Laura, it turns out, was raised on a ranch and knows a lot about meat. During the evening the conversation centered on livestock and the various ways to slaughter and serve it. The Crone knew she was outclassed when Laura confided ” I don’t much like venison–just deer jerky”
Laura and her daughters used to take part in carcass contests at fairs in California. First, you show the animal “on the hoof”, then off it goes to the abattoir (“you can go on the slaughter floor”) and then back comes the carcass to the fair where it is hung and judged upon, among other things, color, firmness and marbling. Laura and her girls, and of course their sheep and cattle, won prizes for lamb and beef ” We never cracked pork” she confided sadly “it’s a matter of genetics”
The Crone, ever competitive, wonders if she should invest in couple of Saddlebacks and Old Spots and see if she could do better–or maybe a better route to riches would be to discover Our Lady in a Looking Glass?
Learn more about carcass contests here.
Eccentrics by Estero Bay
November 15, 2009 at 10:03 pm (Culture with the Crone, The Traveling Crone, food)
Tags: angels, Bat Mitzvah, Blarney Crone, Bonita Springs, casino, ceviche, CIA, dollars, Doo-Wop, double bass, Estero Bay, flea market, Florida, George Gershwin, Gulf of Mexico, Hyatt Coconut Point, Iraq, Irish, Jean Frye Sidwell, manatees, mangroves, Master Bait and Tackle, masturbate, mojito, South West Florida, Tip O'Neill, trailer parks, weddings
The Crone finds herself in Bonita Springs, FL, on the Gulf of Mexico. She is staying in the very lap of luxury–a hotel where they insist on giving her a glass of champagne every time she passes reception. The hotel has 3 outdoor pools although so far the Crone has found only two of them, possibly because the third is nowhere near reception. Last night the hotel hosted 3 weddings and a Bat Mitzvah and still managed to pay individual attention to every need of the Crone. A mojito. Some ceviche. The works of George Gershwin rendered by a singer and double bassist. (Check them out here) None of it was too much trouble.
This morning, the Crone ventured out into the environs of the Estero bay to discover that all around the luxury resorts are trailer parks. The super-rich and the staff who serve them live hugger mugger–talk about a service economy.
The area is famous for mangroves and manatees. The Crone saw neither but did bump into eccentrics at every turn.
Up bright and early to go to the Fleamarket (budgies, golf balls, shamwows, gold chains by the yard, knives, guns, fruit and vegetables, vintage t-shirts, a Doo-Wop band–although this last was not for sale), the Crone stopped at Dolly’s for breakfast and was quickly joined by an elderly gentleman: “You all by yourself honey? Mind if I sit down? These high seats are easier for me to get out of…” In Crone world this passes for a pick-up line. Her breakfast companion, a man of at least 75, then proceeded to tell the Crone that he had been on active service in Iraq but had had to come back to get his knees replaced 6 months ago. He went on to share that he was in the CIA (which surely they’re not supposed to mention?), that his son had worked for Tip O’Neill (ahhh, still sentient enough to work that old Irish connection…) and that his wife had died 8 years ago after winning $50,000 at a casino so she would leave him well off. “She spoke to God and he told her what machine to go to. She went straight to it and put in 4 quarters and won $50,000 dollars. ” His wife didn’t last long after that ”An angel came and got her. She said she’d seen this angel and she got me to get all the kids together and then she sat her in seat and put out her arms and the angel came and took her. Now what do you think of that?” Truly the Crone didn’t know what to think. She told him to take care of himself when he went back to Iraq (“I’ll serve as long as they need me” ) and went on her way. And bumped right into Master Bait and Tackle, a fine emporium meeting all South West Florida’s fishing needs.
The owner came out to chat when he saw the Crone stop to take a photo. As you can see, he is very proud of his store. The Crone didn’t ask him what he says when he answers the phone…
The Montpelier Races
November 7, 2009 at 9:49 pm (The Traveling Crone, friendship)
Tags: bets, horses, Montpelier, picnic, races, Virginia
To Montpelier, VA, 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.
You can check out Tom’s photos too, here.
And find out more about tailgating at the races here.
A half baked story of wee buns
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.
Two Go Wild In Washington
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.
Boating on the Bay, Crab Dip and Crusty Bread
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
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]")
Halloween in Ireland
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
Halloween and the perils of vampire kisses and hot wax
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?
