I made my own bread this week.
It’s okay. I have no idea who I am anymore either.
An Irish highlight for me was waking up each morning on our trip and no matter where we had slept the night before—in a bed & breakfast in Cork, looking out at Kinsale harbor, in a lovely village full of thatched roofs, in a farmhouse off the beaten path, in a Dublin hotel—the morning started out the same: Coffee. Strong. No drip. Homemade brown bread. Butter.
There’s comfort in consistency.
Delicious, delicious consistency.
We spent a day, Friday, I believe, at a cookery school in county Cork called Ballymaloe. Much like every day in Ireland, it was a life-changing experience. After having lunch with the students and amazing faculty at the school, eating the food they had spent all morning preparing, we were given a tour of the gardens.
And then we got to sit in on a cookery demonstration class and lecture; we got to watch the food being prepared for the next day’s lessons.
Traditional Irish meats and potatoes and sauces and soups and breads and vegetables, complete with tips and tricks and tales.
I walked away with a heart full of inspiration.
And with a recipe for Irish brown bread.
And a challenge to perfect this little piece of Irish heaven in my own Toronto nosebleeds kitchen.