Róisín Ingle: My tragedy is that I’ll never become my mother

Oscar Wilde famously wrote that every woman becomes their mother. He also declared that becoming her mother is “every woman’s tragedy”. As I often muse when reading quotes from long deceased men, he’s very lucky he’s dead because he’d be shot for saying that now.

Anyway, Wilde was wrong. I’ve long ago come to the realisation that however much I wish to become my mother, it’s never going to happen. My tragedy is I’ll never become my mother.

This sensible approach is very on-brand for my mother, who for some reason is not plagued by self-doubt

Evolution has been unkind to me in this regard. Ann Ingle is a better person than me in too many ways to count. I’ve learned to accept this and to just feel grateful to have her in my life showing me all I might have become.

A stark example of how much I have failed to become my mother occurred recently when twice I was invited on live radio with her. I did not sleep properly the night before each broadcast, terrified I would say something stupid or be a complete waste of airtime.

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There is a version of me who lives in my head that contributes on live radio with such verve, style and eloquence that people miss important appointments because they are so transfixed by my banter that they can’t stop listening. This version doesn’t usually emerge from my head, though, and inexplicably sends the more pedestrian, scared and rambling version out to bat for her, hence all the tossing and turning the night before.

My mother, on the other hand, slept soundly before both of our broadcasts. It was the sleep of the confident, the self-assured, the nonchalant. “If they are asking me on the radio,” she reasoned, “then they want me to be on the radio and they think I will be good on the radio. Why should I be afraid?”

This sensible approach is very on-brand for my mother, who for some reason is not plagued by self-doubt or the need, for that matter, to appear humble for appearances sake. A friend sent me details of an exchange he witnessed recently between my mother and the chief executive of a State body as she attended an event surrounding the publication of her memoir, Openhearted:

Chief executive of [redacted]: Ann, great to meet you. And congratulations on your book, it’s fantastic.

Ann Ingle: Have you read it?

Chief executive: Not yet, no, but I’m planning on it.

Ann Ingle: Then don’t be saying that to me. Just clear some hours in your day and read it.

Maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe in 30-odd years when I am also 82 and my mother’s soul is off being fearless in another space time dimension, I’ll be similarly blithe about talking to Brendan O’Connor on RTÉ on a Saturday morning. But I doubt it.

Going on live radio with my mother was definitely less scary than going on my own. Being with her was like being wrapped in a security blanket. Her fearlessness was catching. She gave so few fecks that it made me almost as feck-less, and by the time it was all over and the researcher was telling us there had been an avalanche of flattering text messages (“mostly for your mother in fairness, Róisín, sorry”) I felt, for a brief while, buoyant. “You were great,” I told my mother and her being great made us both great. I was great-by-association.

I’m telling you all this because it’s time to make my Christmas chocolates, and this is one area where Wilde got it spot on. I spent years as a child watching my mother making her carefully rolled Christmas truffles, packing them into little boxes to give to her friends and colleagues and anyone she wanted to thank for their kindness the previous year.

Something must have stuck because for years now, I too have made chocolates to give out at Christmas time. Mine – that is mine and Nigella’s – are perhaps less sophisticated and easier to make but they are (highly addictive) chocolates nevertheless. And in the Christmas spirit of giving I will share it with you now.

Nigella Lawson’s Sweet and Salty Crunch Nut Bars

Ingredients (This is for one batch but I usually make double for gifting purposes)

200g dark chocolate

100g milk chocolate

125g butter

3 tbsp golden syrup

250g salted peanuts

6 x 40g Crunchie bars

1 baking or foil tray, approximately 30 x 20 x 5cm.

(If using a baking tray, line with parchment paper)

It couldn’t be easier. Just break up the chocolate and melt it gently on a low heat with the butter and golden syrup. (This will make your kitchen smell like Willy Wonka’s Inventing Room. You are welcome).

Meanwhile, place your Crunchie bars in a clean tea towel and bash them up with a rolling pin. You could also just break up the Crunchies with your hands. Mix the Crunchie pieces with the peanuts in a big bowl. When it’s melted, pour the lovely, gloopy chocolatey liquid into the nutty, Crunchie mix and give it a good stir.

Next, spread the mix over the foil or baking tray. Smooth the top of the mixture and make sure it gets into all the corners. Put it in the fridge for a couple of hours and then chop it into even(ish) pieces.

You can either divide it up and give it to friends in little Christmassy gift bags or eat it all yourself. No judgement here.

For balance I should give Wilde his full quote: “Every woman becomes her mother. That’s her tragedy. No man does, that is his.”

But by making this sweet, salty, Crunchie nut deliciousness and giving it to friends as Christmas gifts we can all, every man, woman and child, become a little bit more like my mother.

And that is a very tasty little Christmas miracle.

roisin@irishtimes.com