...spud love
I BLAME MY mother. She’s English, you see. Born within the sound of London’s Bow Bells, which makes her a bona fide Eastender. She says “caw pawk” instead of “carr parrk”. She listens to The Archers. She claims she’s more Irish than the Irish themselves, having been here nearly 50 years but she still says things like “go to hell and Halifax!” and “Gordon Bennett!” When we younger, we were forever sending people “to Coventry” which I don’t think any properly Irish person does. Although, having said that, what would I know?
I blame her Englishness for my underdeveloped Irishness. It’s her fault I have a tendency towards saying Boxing Day instead of St Stephen’s Day. She is also directly responsible for my love of BBC Radio 4. Until the age of 10 I sounded like one of the Famous Five, again completely her fault for teaching me to speak, if not the Queen’s English, then the BBC’s.
We used to send recitations to her brother, my uncle Ron, at Christmas. There is a cassette tape of me somewhere from circa 1977 where I am reciting a classic AA Milne poem. “What is the matter with Mary Jane? She’s perfectly well and she hasn’t a pain, and it’s lovely rice pudding for dinner again . . .” or another forgotten classic called I Don’t Care which went: “I don’t care if I did upset the jam and I won’t say I’m sorry till I feel that I am, I’m glad I stamped at Nanny, and I’m glad I pulled her hair, you can stand me in a corner but I don’t care . . .” The Irishness odds were stacked against me literally from birth.
I blame my father, too. He died too soon to pass on the whole of his great pride in being Irish and – more specifically – being a Dubliner, although I did inherit his passion for the songs of Percy French.
Although when you put this beside the fact I have never been to a GAA match, despite living a stone’s throw from Croke Park, Percy kind of pales in insignificance.
On all this evidence the Deputy First Minister Martin McGuinness would probably call me a West Brit before quickly apologising for his “off the cuff” remark. But, actually, Mr McGuinness, I don’t find it offensive. In a way, it’s useful that a word exists for those of us who find ourselves in that amorphous place between the shamrock and the Union Jack.
Whenever I occasionally worry about my underdeveloped Irishness and the fact that my daughters also sound like children brought up in the Home Counties (I blame Peppa Pig) I think about how much I love potatoes. Then my Irishness suddenly seems more pronounced and I feel worthy of the name Róisín. Fadas and all.
You see I love spuds. Boiled. Mashed. Baked. Deep fried. In a gratin.
In a curry. Regular readers already know how I feel about chips, particularly from Borza’s on Sandymount Green. Since having children I’ve grown to appreciate them more and when my children say “more potatoes” I feel a kind of glow of national pride that cannot be dimmed even by the fact they follow it with a clipped “please Mummy”.
Elsewhere in this potato issue of the magazine you can read an interview I did recently with potato farmer Tom Keogh, who opened up a whole new world for me when he told me that the very best thing to do with potatoes is to steam them.
I’ve been doing it ever since and even my English mother, who prides herself on her Irish way with potatoes, can’t believe how much better they cook and taste. You don’t even need to butter them – they are beautiful all on their own. You want a proper floury, fluffy potato that isn’t falling apart? Then stop boiling them to death and steam them, people. Consider it a St Patrick’s Day gift.
You’re very welcome.
I was on a train recently when I got into a conversation with a German man about his new diet. He had given up grain. No bread. No rice. It was quinoa and buckwheat all the way for him. Then we got on to potatoes. He put two hands up beside his face and said in a stage whisper: “Potatoes are evil . . . all that starch.” Given my love of potatoes and the fact that I had just interviewed a top potato farmer, it was provocative to say the least. So I hit him with the facts.
“One potato has more vitamin C than an orange. More potassium than a banana. They are packing more fibre than an apple. It’s dangerous and ill-thought-out phrases such as ‘potatoes are evil’ that have contributed to potato sales declining by 50 per cent in this country in the past decade. Your stance is, at best, irresponsible and, at worst, constitutes sabotage of our national vegetable.” I couldn’t have felt more Irish if I’d stood up and led the entire carriage in a rendition of Amhrán na BhFiann.
Luckily for him, his was the next stop.
I may not be Irish proper. I might not know or particularly care when Ireland are playing in the rugby. (Today you say? Against England, you say? Hmmm, being half-English I’m a bit torn.) But slag off our spuds agus in ainm Dé, I will not be held responsible for my longwinded potato lecturing.
In other news ... There’s still a couple of weeks left to check out the latest ReFound pop-up shop in Belfast, where past-its-prime furniture is transformed into unique artwork. Pick up your own ‘work of furniture’ at 9 Wellington Place, Belfast until March 31st. See refoundonline.com