Slightly Bemused writes:

“I am heading back upstairs”

“Fine. Love you” to the retreating pounding of footsteps on the stairs

“Love you too” comes back, softened by the pace of upward departure and the closing door keeping the heat in. Through the now secure portal a deeper voiced rumble comes in response, as a certain fiance type person thought the comment directed at him. Who knows, maybe it was.

It got me thinking about the little terms of endearment we use for each other. Some used in my family, and I know regularly across Ireland, occasionally brought an askance eye when I was in the US. My mother always called us ‘sweetheart’, a term seemingly reserved for beaus and belles there. If we were ill, or my Mum just thought we needed a little more love, we would get the appellation of ‘dearheart’. Now that one is definitely one between fasted partners in certain parts of the mid-western states. But I recall several times when I was feeling poorly in my bed, and this angel with a cigarette in one corner of her mouth would bathe my forehead and mutter words like ‘Don’t worry, dearheart. This will help you sleep.’

I am not sure it really did. The cooling cloth felt good on my fiery brow, but the smell of the ciggy was, and still is a trigger for me to come awake. As a child it presaged the maternal alarm clock arriving in the bedroom to roust us out for school. But the words were soothing, and treasured even to this day.

I do not want to make the mistake I made with my parents. I never told them enough that I did love them. I think they knew, I hope they did, but verbalising it would have done no harm, and may even have warmed my heart a little more each time as it did when they said it to me. I cannot recall which of us asked, to some comment about who was the favourite, ‘how can you love us all equally?’ To which the one replied succinctly ‘we don’t’, and as this sunk in the other said ‘you are all too different to love equally. We love you each as you are.’ A subtle difference lost on me at the time.

There are those I know who are in constant touch every day, even when they will see them that night. My boss’ partner calls him several times a day. We were, and still are not that type of family. In one of my many travels I was unable to call home for months. Communication was via the old airmail letter, with coded missives carefully handwritten on both sides of paper lighter than a tissue. Occasionally more important news had Dad steam open the envelope, and the message was continued inside, before being resealed for the journey to whatever part of the world I was in.

A problem with this is that while you can hear the voices of your loved ones in your head, hearing them for real is more important. So I got a break, and set about trying to call home. In those days, where I was still used old mechanical telephone exchanges. Getting an international line could take an age, and halfway through dialing may just drop out. Finally after what seemed like hours there was a click, and the sound of a phone ringing at the other end. An inevitable delay, and an echo which did not help, and my father’s voice answered.

I said hello, this is me, to which I got a glad reply, followed immediately by ‘what’s wrong?’ We only called when we needed help. Thankfully all that was wrong was I needed to hear their voices. Talking in a verbal code not unlike that used on the letters, we caught each other up on the events of the days, a little like what Slightly does waiting up for me each evening to get home from work.

And I learned that I had a niece. Not even a new one – she was a year and a half old. In the interim I had received several letters, and even been home, but somehow this important bit of information eluded me. She still occasionally ribs me about it.

As with many Irish people, the language used between people who are actually fond of each other, while unprintable here, really does say how much they think of each other. I am occasionally reminded of a time I was at my cousins’ place where my brother was staying. Apparently the terms we used to each other caused wincing amongst this group who were not shy of telling their own siblings where to go and where to get off.

One eventually asked my brother, Glitter’s dad, although she and Little Slightly were way in our futures then, and she wondered why we spoke so seemingly unkindly to and of each other. Maybe it is a Cork thing, because I know it comes in part from my Dad and his side of the family. But the response was along the lines of ‘of course I love him. If I did not, I would not even mention him!’ If anyone is familiar with the film Freaky Friday with Jamie Lee Curtis, Lindsay Lohan, and Gibbs, there is a point where her little brother admits to the woman he thinks is his mom that the reason he gives his sister such a hard time is that it is so much fun when they fight. I guess our interaction was somewhat like that.

I do recall telling a very lovely lady of my acquaintance, from another land, that there is little to worry about in general when Irish people eff and blind at each other. It is more like punctuation than anything else. It was time to get serious, though, when they called you ‘friend’ with that particular emphasis. Time now to cut and run before it becomes ‘listen, friend!’

But my Mum and Dad gave me advice when I was getting married. Never, they said, go to bed angry with each other. Life is hard, and there will be tough days. But let the last words from your mouth be ‘I love you.’ And if you are together in the same room, always cuddle while standing for long enough for the tension to ease. Not a cure-all, they emphasised, but it was the first step in taking the next day on as a couple, not alone.

As my partnership started coming apart and I did not know what to do, my mother gave me more advice, based on those simple but tough concepts. ‘Love,’ she said, ‘is a decision you make every day.’ And as my beloved daughter went to snuggle under the covers with her loved one I realised something. It is a decision I am still making. Not the same, it never can be, and not just for the sake of this amazing young person that somehow we brought into this world.

Maybe I did not call her sweetheart enough. Maybe neither, dearheart. Maybe we did not cuddle enough before bed, being separated by oceans and skies. And maybe I failed to tell her I loved her enough. But I still do, and in a strange way I blame my father for that. As my mother ailed into her final months and weeks and days and hours he never left her. When asked by the doctors if he was sure he could support her he replied in surprise ‘Of course! I made her that promise 47 years ago.’

He once told me that to be born a gentleman is nothing but blind luck. But to die a gentleman is an achievement. He would then get a wicked glint in his eye, usually as he raised his pint to his lips, and would mutter ‘I am not dead yet!’

For him, it was immutable. A vow is a vow. If I can be a quarter the man he was I will die a reasonable facsimile of a gentleman. And I will remember to tell my daughter I love her. And when she lets me, give her a hug even if it is really me who needs it most.

And I still slip when talking occasionally to her mother, and call her sweetheart.

Slightly Bemused’s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly

Slightly Bemused writes:

They say good fences make good neighbours

Granny Weatherwax knew this, and so lodged next door to the biggest dealers in stolen goods in Ankh Morporkh. And along the way with practical advice enabled a certain lady rise to head up the Seamstresses Guild.

I was thinking of that over the weekend as I received my new uniform for work. Thankfully not a bad one, it is a very nicely made jacket and trousers, officially dark grey, or charcoal, but so close to black I cannot tell the difference. Little Slightly started to point it out, using the black trousers I have been using as reference. Then she took one look at my face and stopped. She was not met with confusion, merely amusement and that male issue of there only being primary colours. Everything else is a pigment of your imaginations.

The problem is that none of it fits just right. The trousers are the right waist, but they come in very long leg lengths. Cutting it to size will give enough for me to make a whole ‘nother pair. And I was commenting with Little Slightly about getting them taken up.

Now I was met with a face of confusion – this was not a term she was aware of. As she constantly reminds me when the chance arises, she inherited the short gene from me. This necessitates many times shortening the legs of her various trousers, pants, slacks, jeans, chinos… But she had never ‘taken them up’. So a new phrase for the lexicon.

She kindly offered to do the job for me, but not using my sewing kit, an emergency kit designed to reattach a button or hold together a seam until a more qualified and experienced seamster or seamstress could do it. I must suggest she speak with her aunt, my sister, who is an incredibly deft worker of sartorial miracles. And jam. She brought a pot – it’s gone already. Sadly with too much demon spread to help it along.

I grew up in a family with various excellent skills. My Dad cobbled our shoes and replaced the soles and heels often. He still had his lasts and his cobbler’s anvil last time I was in his garage, not long before he passed. He had a whole set of tools I believe he got, along with the lasts and anvil, from his own grandfather, who taught him this skill. Now, none of them were cobblers by trade, they just came from generations where you turned your hand to anything. And he taught me the best way to use impact glue, a skill I have used many times since.

He also cut the boys’ hair. Short back and sides was the order of the day, or indeed any day. The first time after I moved out I went to a hairdresser near my apartment in Dublin, wonderfully located across from my uncle’s camera shop so a wonderful chat and cuppa were in the offing. I had let my hair grow long for me, and sat in the chair. The lady could tell I had only ever had the ould SB&S treatment, and looking askance asked ‘Same again?’ To which I replied with delight ‘Absolutely not!’, I took off my glasses and explained that I was now blind as a bat.

I left my bangs to her experienced eye, gave her her freedom to remake my head as the world would now see it. And we had a great chat. As she was just across the street from my uncle’s shop we were doing the whole 6 degrees before that was a thing. My Dad, far from being upset, did compliment it the next time I was home. As he explained, he only knew one way to cut, and in his generation that was the way everybody’s was cut. Unless you used Brillcreem.

My Mum was a seamstress who kept our clothes together. Many was the time having worn out the seat of a pair of trousers, a gusset was patched into place, sometimes a mismatched colour for contrast and to provide a source of ribbing in college. In our home town no one cared – we were all in the same boat. But some of my college mates found this far beneath them. Patched trousers and a donkey jacket did not make me the epitomé of cool. But I was warm and dry in the winter, and my trousers fit.

And my Little one and I started talking about how much it would cost to have it professionally done. Before anyone gets upset, I truly think that those offering the service deserve to be properly recompensed. But I recall one time going to see if I could have a zip changed. It was from a pair of chinos from a certain shop that used have a whole lot of things for Christmas.

The cost of the repair was more than the cost of a new pair. So I demurred, and commented this to my family. Whereupon my sister asked for the old pair. A new zip was put in, and for a few years the chinos continued their life for her son. Until he grew up, and most definitely did not get the short leg genes. The short leg jeans I gather ended up on another family member.

So for a while yet I will be making do with my not quite the right colour black slacks, my shirt, and I will be going jacketless for a bit. At least the tie fits, but it is a clip on, and for that I am thanking any deity you may care to mention. I am not a fan of ties, and the last time I knotted one it was very close to a granny, and most certainly not the Windsor I was attempting.

And Tuesday morning I awoke to the sound of furious cutting. The fence between my garden and my neighbour’s has been gradually falling apart for a while. The brambles have been encroaching from what theoretically was our back line, keeping the low tennis balls at bay. About 4 years ago two panels between us came down. So we removed them, and this made it easy as we share a lawnmower. Whichever of us starts first cuts both.

Eventually more panels died, and we spoke occasionally about trying to find the end panels behind all the brambles. And Tuesday was that day. I wandered outside to see a small possie braving the thorns, using the right equipment and gear. So I talked nicely to the boss man and we agreed that he could do to my backline also. A price was negotiated, and I was up front that I could only pay once I get paid, later this week. He did the job anyway. Small town, if you give your word, you honour it.

So I have finally seen my end fence. Other than the excitement of seeing it, it looks pretty much like the side fences. And in surprisingly good shape. I learned that ivy and brambles do not mix. They fight for the same resources, and whichever gets the first hold wins. I will miss the blackberries this year, though. Although I do have to explain púca’s p*ss to Little Slightly at some point. She is talking about setting up a diorama for Hallowe’en in my porch, so it is kind of timely.

But the ivy got first dibs on the side of my shed, and one of the panels. More negotiating done, and people who knew what they were doing have released my shed from a quite literal bondage. It will probably collapse now, as I imagine that the ivy was actually holding it up.

So at this point, barring the end two panels, there are no fences between me and my neighbour up to the very first one behind the gates. It seems that contrary to the adage, good neighbours means no fences are needed.

Darn it Now I feel a Garth Brooks song coming on…

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly

Slightly’s kitchen and multi-grain loaf – cut with a ‘sharpened’ serrated knife

Slightly Bemused writes:

I got up yesterday morning to find something dreadful. We had no bread in the house. Breakfast would have to await a trip to the shop.

Little Slightly and I have this agreement. Every time we buy bread we buy a different type. I am going for the wholesome brown breads of various types. She is loving the simpler white sliced as it makes a better peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We are ranging on butters too, from real butter through the various forms of spreadable. I think she has a cunning plan on trying every form of butter against every form of bread. A carbohydrate loaded path awaits me. I have yet to introduce her to soda bread.

But this morning was a problem. I bought a lovely, still warm multigrain loaf from a popular little supermarket down the road. They have this wonderful machine that makes your bread better by turning it into sliced bread – the best thing ever, or so the saying goes. Actually, it was “the greatest forward step in the baking industry since bread was wrapped”, but who is checking?

You can choose from a range of options, from thin to doorstop, and it makes this satisfying thunky sound while working. And always there is a lonely, abandoned end of crust which did not make the cut. Or rather, did, and got left behind, along with the crumbs of many other loaves who wished to enrich the lives of their new found families. I have to admit to snarfing a few random ends to see what that particular loaf tasted like.

The last loaf I bought there had an errant end piece. It fell off after the first cut, and was recalcitrant in deciding to get into the bag for the journey home. In solidarity, the other ends decided to go on strike and went against the grains by slipping under the rest and making for freedom. But all was held in check, I managed to bag my ends, and home we went for a little second breakfast.

It must have been good as I got up the next day and it was gone, with telltale evidence of plates and cutlery and remnants of a product I thought would never grace my shelves was smeared across my knives. It turns out that my local supermarket, known for keeping a certain brand of sausages alive that I have not introduced her to yet, has an American Section. Among other things it has the very brand of this hideous paste that she prefers, and a mix for making ranch dressing. I can almost forgive them because of the latter. As a very young one ranch was her favourite, and it is not easy to come by. So a small taste of home while she nibbles and reads the next book just released from her favourite pair of authors.

When she was little, Little Slightly loved what she called ants on a log. Take a stalk of celery, fill it with peanut butter to the level, roughly smoothing the surface, then place raisins along it. At the time, she would devour loads of it. Apparently the really devious parents would cut this concoction from hell into bite size pieces and serve it at childrens’ parties. Admittedly, this was usually alongside slices of ham smothered in cream cheese and rolled up, similarly sliced into cocktail size morsels.The young lady next door, who has adopted Little as her own, had never had peanut butter. Another cunning plan is under way to get her to eat more veggies by introducing her to ants on a log. I will keep the secrets of the ham rolls to myself for now.

All this aside, I will not be involved with the ants. I do not consider celery to be food, as it takes more energy to digest than it gives to the body. Parasitic foliage. And while I love peanuts and peanut oil, peanut butter is the food of the devil!

But I digress a little. Yesterday morning I went to the shop for bread, but the lovely funny cutting machine was not working. No thunking, no slicing, no ‘greatest thing’ as this was just unsliced bread. This loaf was coming home whole.

Did I tell you about our divorce lottery? For some reason, I ended up with Little Slightly’s mother’s cutlery. This is good stuff, and ended up in my half of the roughly divided belongings. Little Slightly I think has grown fed up with me saying ‘Oh, that used be your mother’s!”. A little less so about “We bought that in [insert place here] together.” Apparently her mother says the same, sometimes, and I wonder what I had that not only is worth the memory, but lasted this long!

But my various utensils also include a knife set given to me by Glitter Slightly’s father. Among its many cutting options is an old fashioned style bread knife. So home I come, out comes the breadboard, and away I go slicing my breakfast into the second best thing. Little Slightly was not impressed. I am not sure, but I think she may not have understood the way to slice bread like this, before machines did it for us.

My Mum used occasionally treat us to warm batch loaves. For some reason batch loaves were always unsliced, and we would have to cut them to our own preference. Debates raged over the best way to cut, with the hard crusty top and soft four base, did you start from the top and risk going awry, or from the bottom up and take the crust from below, when the main slice was already mostly ready. A risky strategy, as it required balancing the loaf on its rounded top of crunchy loveliness. My Mum’s wisdom was the sideways approach, offering the best of both worlds. Sandwiches were made with warm chicken for some, egg salad for others, whatever our fancy that day. My favourite has to be corned beef with real butter! But four batch loaves had to make enough slices for us all, so we had to learn how to measure our cleavings.

My mother was a cut above the rest, as far as I am concerned She could pare with the precision of an engineer’s tooling shed. Particularly cheese. We owned this carving knife that had been in her family for generations (Glitter’s father has it now) and it was as sharp as a scalpel. We were all taught how to whet on it, and failure was not an option. No ridicule, merely the withdrawal of permission to use this blade. And hours of practice on the more modern ones until deemed worthy once more.

Between Mum, and Dad teaching us to hone chisels, our house was a very sharp place. I need to do the same with Little Slightly: my favourite blade is protesting her different style of wielding the steel. I understand more fully why chefs have their individual sets –  self and steel become almost one.

I was taught how to sharpen a serrated knife. If you want a whole load of not so much fun, try it! Dad left me his micro whets.

But with that familial blade my mother could shave the wind. In particular, we got big blocks of cheddar cheese, rectangular but about the right size to fit a sliced pan. And my mother could cut it so thin it was translucent. Window cheese, we called it, and wondered at this magic. In later life we realised she was making it go as far as she could, but none of us have yet reached her level of mastery.

I can still wield a hefty bread knife, and set out with board and blade to cut slices to help me celebrate the new born day. I carved what I needed, and rewrapped the rest. When she arose, Little Slightly was unimpressed. Out for groceries, and a different, more proud pan was bought, and my bread knife was consigned to the dishwasher before its time.

Which begs the question: should I have sliced all the loaf, and if I had, would she have noticed?

This morning I will want a slice of life, and I do not mind having to work for it. Out will come a board,  a knife, and a loaf. Not sure what adornments may follow, but I will enjoy them, And my Little one’s paste is safe from me for another granary day.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pics by Slightly

Slightly Bemused writes:

Although I come from one, I often find it funny how interlinked small towns are.

I was feeling good. I had lost a tyre to an accident that proved not to be of my doing, and the company involved called me to let me know that I could expect reimbursement for the replacement. On the day it was damaged, Little Slightly was having her hair done by an old family friend when she called for help. She had not brought enough cash for the payment. She called just as I was realising that either cars have gotten heavier or I had gotten weaker. I needed to enlist the help of one of the strapping young lads doing the road works to help jack up the car and put on the spare. Which of course was almost flat too.

So I talk to the hairdresser, who in my mother’s final years would travel to our home to fix her hair regularly. She brought with her all the gossip of the town. She went to school with my sister, and her husband used play in a band with Glitter Slightly’s father, my brother.

The phone was passed over, and she was assured that I would sort the payment issue out once I got my car to the tyre centre. To which she mentioned someone, a known old curmudgeon who knows lots about tyres, and changed those of my first car more years ago than I care to mention. Still the same, still entirely dependable, and still working at over 70 years of age.

Then I learned of the sudden and untimely passing of a lovely lady in our town.

The lady in question was the sister of another legend of the town, who set up his family pharmacy more than 50 years ago. Today, his grandson is head pharmacist, and the family are still there. One helped me choose a nice pack of Irish-made smelly stuff to welcome my Little one. Her sister in the same shop years ago suggested a shower gel for my Dad for his birthday – apparently it would make his bits tingle!. I went to the shaving set instead.

Coming from a large family, many of us went to school with the various members of the pharmacist’s children, and those of the lady just gone. Also with another set of their cousins, who sadly lost their mother many years ago, One of the lady’s sons became a Garda, another roamed around South America before it was a hipster thing to do, and his tales of $1 hotel rooms better than our 4-star ones were great. As were his tales of weeks on end with just a bedroll and no shower.

I went to school with a daughter who later became a baker, and such wonderful confections were a delight. Her older sister married a dentist who took one look at the reconstruction of my tooth from Somalia and said he would not touch it unless and until it caused problems, such was the level of the work. He sadly passed suddenly too, so now a double tragedy for that lovely friend.

And the connections went further. The lady used to work closely with my mother in the development of a centre for the intellectually challenged (my youngest brother has Down’s syndrome, but all are welcome) and for the physically challenged. The former was established in my old primary alma mater when a new boys’ school was built in the town and the old building, developed in the early 1800s, looked to be abandoned. The playing field was converted into a tennis club that still rains balls on my back garden. But the main building has become one of the county’s premier day care centres.

The latter was developed in an abandoned house known to all as The Doctor’s House, where a doctor who was later shot in a field where an Aldi now stands once stitched up my eyebrow where it was split by a flying mop head. It is now a major centre for the Irish Wheelchair Association.

And developing them both was a triumvirate of my mother, a gentleman rogue, and the lady. With her passing, all three are now gone, and sadly those currently working in these wonderful places do not know their names, or the role they played in setting them up. Nor the battles all three fought with councils and governments, developers and tennis players to get what they saw as essential services for those who could not. But those of the town of a certain vintage remember.

So, in a few days the community will gather to honour the memory of a wonderful lady who truly changed the shape of our village. We will look to support her family, just as they did when we lost loved ones. And I will continue my struggle to get her memory preserved in the monuments to her love and dedication to those who were unable to help themselves, and their families who had no support in their struggles to care for them.

Unlike the nail that scuppered my tyre, this lady was deeply embedded in the very fabric of our town. Somehow, being reimbursed for a repair seems a little less important.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Eamonn Farrell/RollingNews

Slightly Bemused writes:

What is more inspiring than looking into the sky, seeing lots of stars, and dreaming?

My dishwasher is about to have a few days relief. Little and Glitter Slightly have headed off for foreign climes more conducive to one used to warmer temperatures. Hy heater has been more active of late than usual, too sometimes at my own direction. And a few nights have been spent curled up on the couch as the main heating is not on, this room is warm, and why not?

Why not indeed!

So early of a Monday morning, Muggins set out. I lost the Dad lottery of drop off versus pick up. So there I am, awake at an hour that I think God meant only for angels – I still love sunrises, even when they are in your eyes as you drive – and off to the airport. Two very different young ladies off to share an adventure I will never know the half of. The way it should be.

But I realised a few things. They are totally different. Take, for example, getting ready. Do you make lists of what to prepare? In over thirty years of traveling, I never did, and only forgot my passport once.

I arrived at the long term parking at Dublin Airport at 4:30 am or so and headed on the bus to the terminal. Rooted in my bag and found I did not have passport or ticket. I am only 35 minutes from the place at normal speeds, so maybe… just maybe I could make it. Nope, not to be. The good guy inside me that decided not to speed the day Little Slightly was born was still on my shoulder. I was late, but I had an emergency number for just such cases. Great travel team, they reorganised my flight, and I was told my flight would be much later, so go back to bed. Very practical. I got my extra hours of sleep, I got my flight, and life went on.

And passing through the airport in Addis Ababa I realised I had developed an allergy to penicillin. My ankles and feet swelled up painfully, almost glowing with the redness, and were quite painful on the thankfully short final leg. Arrived to the final destination and fell into bed, forgetting to take the final round of the pills, and in the morning all was well again.

Maybe Little Slightly will tell you her tale of coming here, her first solo intercontinental flight. I will ask her. On Friday whenever she awakes.

But Sunday night  was a time of amusement. Both Little and Glitter had made lists of what to pack. One fit on a yellow Post It ‘borrowed’ from a dad without his knowledge. Might be a grounding offence, but I have to see. The other was a detailed list, colour coded and separated by type. Before anyone laughs, the same lady drew me a Happy Birthday sign many years ago in coloured letters. It is still hanging on my wall where it was left, and each day it brings me joy. She told me that she thinks in colour. I envy her.

Little Slightly’s mother thinks in lists. I don’t, although I do value checklists to make sure you have not forgotten anything important. Like the note on the door when you are leaving ‘Have you turned off the immersion?’. Little Slightly assured me she had, without prompting. She is becoming more Irish. Her boyfriend/fiance type person has noted that she has changed her accent and her terminology. She says ‘Grand’ where once ‘great’ held sway. He claims that she has a pronounced Irish accent, but also a British one for some words. She has adopted some of my elocution honed remnants of a Stillorgan accent, so that may explain that.

So I drop them off at the airport. Little Slightly, coming from a place of soaring temperatures, doffs her jacket to give to her cousin shivering away in a balmy Irish Monday morning. And casually hands me all the garbage from her pockets and backpack. Why could she not have checked for this at home, like last night? Strangely, my heart melts because I was always last minute. She told me she was always ready to pack 24 hours in advance. I am more like a 24 minutes person. She also left her unfinished peanut butter and banana on good wheaten bread slices for me to enjoy. Oh joy!

The night before was quietly frantic. No rushing around, but constant movement as bags were stuffed, tape measures were requested (Ryanair, apparently) along with the use of my luggage scales. And finally a head down on the couch in the warmth to await the morning.

This morning, I realised how used I already was to her presence. I had questions. She did not answer from her place on the couch. Because she is not there.

But Sunday night, before she slept, I found her. She had asked me about the Big Dipper, and if we could see it. When she was lucky with a clear sky it was just above the horizon. I told her that it was high in our sky and roughly pointed, sadly the nights were clouded. But I showed her where it would be if the night were clear.

Sunday night was clear, and I came into the kitchen, and was greeted by a disembodied voice. There she was, sitting on the step of the kitchen door, cupping a mug in hand, and looking at the sky. Both ‘Dippers’ were in sight, and Cassiopeia too. Scudding clouds blocked the south, but she seemed content.

There she was, looking at the Plough and the stars, and dreaming of something wonderful.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pics by Slightly

Slightly Bemused writes:

Well, the dishwasher is broken. Again.

Went to put on a load before bedtime, and before I am halfway up the stairs I get the beeps of doom. Error E2, whatever that means. I know I kept the manual, and even downloaded a version, but do you think I can find either at this time? Something for the morning, I reckon.

This happened before, and I think I know what the culprit is. My dishwasher has a mini fat berg. Which is appropriate, given it is a mini dishwasher. A wonderful countertop version, it takes me a few days to fill it, and then washes everything clean with less water than I would use in a basin. Greta Thunberg would be happy with me. Except maybe for the chemicals. And, of course, before Little Slightly arrived, and discovered sausages.

Every so often though something too greasy gets put in, and it does not clear it all if you are not careful. So the grease builds up around the fairly small floats that determine things like emptying the water out, pumping the water in, or my favourite: Stop pumping the water in. I came down one day to the beeping, and found the entire unit had filled with water that was still coming in. The seals are good, but not that good, and water was all over the floor.

This was before the furry carpet incident, but it may have helped lead to it.

And today I had to chuckle ruefully. It reminded me of myself when I was half her age. In two respects. I was over at Grandma Slightly’s place with the horde, visiting the horde that lied there, with Aunt Slightly’s mini-horde along for the craic. At one point, I noted that Grandma had put on a washing, and the twin tub was sitting by the sink. Outlet hose had been taken from its storage position and hooked over the sink to drain away. Young me looked at this and thought it a waste of water, and plugged the drain hole. A short time later there is a yell from the kitchen, adults come running only to find the sink full and overflowing. It was an old one with no overflow drain, not that one would have helped much given the outflow from the tub.

Not only is there water everywhere on the floor, it is draining into the contents of the under sink cabinet. Grandma was furious. and demanded to know who had done this wicked deed. My Mum assured her that none of her little wains could ever dream up such a diabolical thing. All were drafted in to mop, squeeze, slop out and eventually return the kitchen to a sense of normality. All while dinner was cooking in and on the old Rayburn range, somewhat cut off by the floodwaters. But I think my mother knew, and went point for me.

At last all was well, food was piled onto plates, and all the tables were filled with munching munchkins while the adults chatted about stuff that went over our heads. Roll on a few years, and I am at home asked to help my Mum clean up after cooking dinner, letting it settle before we sat to eat. Clear the cooking dishes, then eat, then wash the dinner plates and such, that was the plan.

So little old me decided that the best way to clean the roasting pan that had cooked the roast potatoes in suet rendered fat was to pour it down the drain of the sink. So I did. Of course, I knew nothing of the fact that fat would congeal. Well, I did, because we saw it do it. Mum and Dad’s usual way of disposing of same was to let it set, then scrape it and dump it. In the winter, my mother would use it to make fat balls for the birds, but in summer it went the way of the bin.

So a load of hot melted suet fat is poured down a drain where it promptly gels into a nice fat berg. Water goes nowhere, and even the overflow pipe is blocked. There was no getting away with this either. Mum had seen me, and yelled ‘Stop!’, but it was too late, the damage was busy moulding itself to the shape of the drain, and the u-turn, and as we later learned, the entire downpipe to the drain. First it coated, then everything else stuck to it.

Did I mention that my Dad was an engineer? He was, and very good at it. Anyways, I got a lesson in how drains work, and why it is not a good idea to pour fat down a sink. We had to dismantle the whole system to the main drain. I had the joy of cleaning out the dank smelly pipes and removing all the crud. It was not pleasant, and at the time I felt very put upon. Richly deserved, and me-of-then did not appreciate that my Dad was also teaching me about plumbing.

He quietly let me know why narrowing of the pipes affected things like speed of drainage, and why some pipes were thinner than others. What is the fall a pipe should have for good gravity flow, and why straight down is really not the solution. And how to remove a fat berg from a blocked drain. Time, effort, and hot water. All was put back together, all did not leak (after Dad checked the seals, that is) and I was allowed have a by now much needed bath and change into clean jammies, as it was now past my bedtime.

After that, a new system for fat disposal was introduced: the empty glass bottle! A glass bottle of some form was set up with a funnel atop. Liquid fats were poured in, where they could settle any which way they wanted. Once full, the bottle cap was affixed, and the bottle put in the bin. I still do the same today

Over this past weekend I took Little Slightly to visit another wing of the family, who arrived in their multitude. During the course of the evening I was reminded of a conversation between my Mum and Aunt Slightly. It went along the lines that the art of conversation is to start on one subject, wander through many others, before finally returning to the original topic. Turned into a little competition as my cousins kept interrupting my story off to new paths before one finally turned and said ‘Let’s give Slightly a few seconds so he can recalibrate and return to his story’, at which point without a break I returned exactly to the part I had been interrupted at. It’s not clear if she was pleased, or another ‘p’ word, but she laughed while using language I cannot print here.

So I think Little Slightly may have inadvertently put something into the dishwasher that had a bit too much grease. Or maybe not one, but several post-sausage or post-rasher frying pans too many. And so the poor thing is on strike, and wants a little TLC again, and maybe some hot water. Sadly that will have to wait until the weekend comes, but it has been a faithful friend of fine cleaning, and deserves a little break. I am sure it will soon be back up to its usual chirpy slurpy self, and pristine dishes shall once again grace my shelves.

But don’t worry! I will not make Little Slightly clean it out alone. Or send her to bed afterwards.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Adverts.ie

An emergency latrine at a camp for refugees in Northern Uganda

Slightly Bemused writes:

In my family we have a common expression when we visit. After the initial hellos are done, you ask “Can I do a Nuala?” and head for the bathroom. This is because our lovely aunt, sadly now departed, used to drive all the way from her home near Roundstone to any of our houses. In the days before motorways and even the good roads of today, this was often an eight-hour non-stop drive, and certain matters became pressing.

Over the weekend, Little Slightly and I went to visit my sister, who was hosting some of her grandkids. Wonderful wee ones, one had never seen me at all (my fault) but I had to ask the question. With five quizzical looks, they only got more so when my sister simply said ‘Under the stairs’. Been a while since we were together, but some things do not age. Or age well, if what Little S told me later is anything to go on. Never mind, this was family chatter. I let my little lady drive. It was interesting, but she made no mistakes and we got there safely.

Anyway, while doing the needful, I was struck that once again we had a new facility to let my daughter wonder over. No stranger to different loos, she had been in 4 houses since she arrived and all four were different. And it got me thinking of all the different facilities I had had to use over the years. For many of those years, putting in simple sanitary home and camp use places to go was what I did. I have more photos of toilets of various types in various stages of construction, destruction and collapse than I likely have of my family.

But over the past few days some new discoveries have been made. Old family photos are coming out. I grew up not knowing about many of me or the rest of our family, though I remember some being taken. My Dad loved taking ones for slides. There are advantages to this: they cannot be easily trotted out to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend, or worse, your fiancée. But the con is that if your Dad knows you are coming, out comes the slide projector, up goes the screen, and with curtains closed that embarrassment is now 6 feet high and 8 feet wide, and the neighbours could probably see the reverse image through the curtains. Thankfully needing the lights off meant blushing could be hidden.

Little Slightly has been going over old photos of our family. In fact, she has had ones shared I had not seen before (it appears that not being in the snap chat group does not help. Parents are not allowed, I think). I have pictures of her everywhere, many taken by her grandfather (Papa) who is a wonderful professional photographer. Problem is I had darker hair then. Not sure how to answer the question “Did Mom cause that?” regarding the grey, too many variables. And she is astounded every day. Given my comment about the Little one herself and tweezers, I am almost afraid to tell her that her darling mother used wake me up by plucking the first grey hairs from my beard. Like mother, like daughter, in that respect.

I was also reminded of our wedding photos. As Papa was a central character in the wedding ceremony, his services were not possible. So he told us not to do anything, leave it to him. He researched, and eventually gave us a short list. He had interviewed the top ten photographers in Ireland. Now, I did not know they had rankings – they do, and it is really important. Turns out Papa is quite important in these circles, and his requests had weight. We were given a short list of those we should go see, and who would be acceptable. They were ranked too.

We went to one, a really lovely man, and it turns out lives just down the road from my home town, almost a neighbour. Always wanting to support locals, we visited him. And he was incredible. We were shown samples of his work, and my soon to be bride, daughter of a serious photographer, went over his portfolio with a fine eye. In the meantime, he and I were having fun at all the puns and expressions, while he was still very professional. We of course did the whole ‘do you know’ as we were almost neighbours. Just to be clear, we did.

Anyways, Papa arrives along with the various entourage for the event (we arrived separately. I must one day tell the story of filing for the wedding and other ancillary events. Another time ). He meets this gentleman we had chosen. We really liked him, but did not like the second, so just went and said we are not going further. This guy was great.

Turned out he used the same main camera and film Papa did. Big plus right there. Irish photographers do not do much airbrushing with their shots, they prefer to use light and shade, aspects, and such, and this man was (and having looked at his site, still is) a genius. And as he lives only a few miles from the site of the wedding, he did not charge any travel fee.

So Papa hands him a bag of many rolls of film and says “When you run out, ask me for more.” We ended up with 872 photos of the wedding, and the party, not counting the ones that Papa took the next morning before our departure on our honeymoon trip. At some point the photographer became a guest. He was not one of those obnoxious ones that tells you to stand here, go there, abandon the kids, and such. Indeed we have many wonderful ones of ‘the kids’ (who are no longer kids) from that day. He was truly a joy to know. One of my fun memories is stopping him in the late ‘evening’ and asking him how he was doing.

Sporting a digital camera that if I could afford I could probably retire on, he beamed and said he was having a great time. I asked him about the camera: having been given permission by Papa, he had switched to digital (autofocus was his excuse) and took advantage of our free bar, and free bus back home. The image I have is of him dancing to Mack The Knife with the camera over his head, and suddenly turning and catching a photo of the guests.

But eventually the night turned to morning, and after a wonderful breakfast, Papa arrived and the formal shots were taken. There is a subtle difference between the style of shot, if I can say that, between the ones taken the day, and night, and early morning before, and the ones Papa took. The other day we visited my stepmom, and saw the montage we were given of all of us, centred around a shot of all of us together. But the best one, in my opinion, was that formal one, taken by Papa.I regret that without Little Slightly’s mother’s permission I cannot share it, but I love it.

But it was put in a special frame. This one had been in Little Slightly’s family for years. I am not sure how I ended up with it – many things seemed to be a moving company lottery thing – and while I love the photo, I do want to return the frame to the family it belongs to. My Little one and I will look at ways to do that while she is here. She knows people who know how to do this – and I like the fact that so do I, and both are family. All will be good! The frame will return home, and two families of photographers will have a form of bonding,

And if ever asked, I will do my best to show those photos, and definitely not the thousands I have of toilets!

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here ever Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly

Around Midnight last night at the Bemused family kitchen

Last night

Further to yesterday’s Slightly Bemused column concerning Little Slightly and Irish culinary matters.

Slightle Bemused writes:

We set Little Slightly loose on the Kildare shopping scene with her cousin Glitter Slightly. Shoes were bought, foundation secured, and sunscreen for their upcoming trip to Spain – all organised without request for permission and certainly without remorse.

She arrived home, having again decided my drive is too narrow, and bags were taken from the car. Being the caring father, I offered to help. I was given the bag for the fridge. In which 2 packs of a pound each of sausages was secreted, nearly at the bottom. Once my chuckling subsided, I put them in the fridge.

I was asked if I wanted some mash. I had not realised this was merely to be a side to the whole pack of sausages slowly cooking beside them. At least she eats them skins and all!

I came downstairs at nearly midnight, and she paused, fork halfway to lips, and asked if I wanted any sausages. There were six left. Now there are two. Who knows what the night will bring?

Should I mention that she bought the sausages having gone into Dunnes to get American-Style bacon as per Know Knots‘ recommendation in the comment on my column…Let this be a lesson: your words have consequences. In this case late night snacks :-)

Yesterday: Slightly Bemused: Kitchen Confidential

The Bemused family kitchen

Slightly bemused writes:

How do you like your French toast?

The way I grew up, we really soaked the bread until the milky eggy goodness was absorbed, fried at high heat in butter and eaten with delight with salt. As I grew older and more experienced in egg related bread dishes, I discovered that others merely dipped the bread in an egg mixture, fried on low heat with oil, and had it with syrup.

Any which way, when it was being prepared, you got out of the way and gave the cook their space. And it was never a washing-intensive meal. A whisk, a dish in which to whisk, a pan, and the plates and cutlery with which to serve to awaiting hungry people.

Little Slightly has been doing most of the cooking since she arrived. I think my dishwasher loves her – it has seen more use than I ever gave it. And she may not have noticed me noticing, but she does something I do: she pats it, and says thank you when it is done. It stopped working for a while when I was away, water was all over the floor, and my rug turned furry. I came home, a little TLC, and all is good. But I do need a new rug.

The funniest bit for me, though, is that she has discovered Irish sausages. I am not sure if I should stop buying them, but every time I do, all get cooked. A comment is made that those not eaten will be saved for the morning. Hah! I am enjoying her delight at little things, like the fact they are connected in a string. They call them links in the US when in this form, but she never knew why. She is experimenting with piercing, or not piercing. Fork or knife, one or two, and one side, or over and back. Low and slow cooking, or fast and furious. All are cut and presented for my approval for cookedness, as she is not used to how pink they are. Better safe, in my opinion, but her instincts are good.

She is still trying to figure out rashers. American bacon is different, and we did find some ‘American Style’ nearby. Many packs were bought, and the freezer is having a field day, but she is still not sure about rashers. They have, however, been adjudged as better in omelettes, scrambled eggs (it was supposed to be an omelette, but I wanted too many ingredients) and mashed potato. but for just bacon, the thinner slices and different fat content of ‘American Style’ currently wins. As I write this, another pack is gently sizzling, so I think I know what my midnight snack will be. Onions are being chopped to be added to the morning omelette: not all of the bacon will be eaten tonight. I have yet to have the conversation that such delights were an Irish innovation!

Cheese is another delight. Being from Wisconsin, a land renowned for its dairy produce, and with major teams named for the product, she wondered at the local shop. ‘You have how many cheddars?’; ‘What’s Emmental?’; and wonder at triangles of spreadable. Ours actually is!

But it is the flavours that are getting her. Whatever we think, ours are far more natural, fewer enhancers and additives. The colour of the egg yolks is a source of wonder and a little bit of research on the internet. I have not told her, but my sister in law has promised some of her home grown free range eggs. Wonderful, tasty, and with shells you may need an axe to crack! Real food, not plastic.

We visited the homestead, my mother’s home where her brother still remains ensconced. He had a wonderful, 150 year old book of Irish Melodies that he gave her. She wants to learn Irish music, so this was a delight for her. I have since not been sure if it was a good gift. I have listened to her complain about the different style of writing music, the wondering at what instrument was used, and the occasional 2 am clarinet recital of one of the pieces that had caught her imagination. I may be the only parent who has to bang on his kid’s door and yell: ‘Turn that classical music down!’ Shup, Elgar, I want to sleep!

I am also enjoying the fact that a messy house appears to be genetic. I went to a lot of trouble, and through a lot of slightly disparaging in a family way family comments on whether or not I would be ready in time. Hmm. My couch is a no go area. Like, it was before, but my stuff and I knew where it was. Now? At least I can get to the door past it. The bedroom I cleared remains safe from my prying as I see the floor when I climb the stairs. Even I am not that brave. Or is that stupid? I will stick with brave.

Waterworks remain a mystery. She cannot get her head around the immersion. So it is the boiler. So long as we know if she left it on or not when we leave, all is fine :-) I did have to explain, though, that the big red switch for the shower was so it would actually work, and the boiler was not needed for the hot water. She is not used to water not being centrally supplied by the furnace in the basement. Which is good, as I do not have a basement.

Since she has arrived, we realised in a conversation with her cousin that I have only cooked dinner twice ( claimed three times, but was assured ordering Chinese takeaway does not count). I know she is up by the sounds in the kitchen, and the dishes piling up for the dishwasher to be happy again. I know she is talking with her boyfriend by the looks when I enter the living room and looks follow me, even when neither is talking.

But I did learn one thing. From years ago when I had a place I could cook when I went over, I taught her how to make potato cakes in the morning with left over mash. There is a container in the fridge with some uneaten potatoes, and I am under orders to show her again, now she may remember how.

I guess Irish style french toast and potato cakes can wait. In the meantime, a slice of toast with bacon has been presented to me. Bon appetit!

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic by Slightly