Irish

As soon as I stepped into the theater, a sumptuous hush fell over me.

In its opulence, the Royal Opera of Versailles is somehow cozy. The rocaille swoops and curves impart lightness, and the gold warms. The chandelier light is soft. The 18^th century theater is made of wood and holds 712 spectators. We had gathered to watch Barry Douglas and the Camerata Ireland perform three of Mozart’s Piano Concertos (20, 23, 25). As people made their way to their narrow, velvety seats, the theater got warmer and our reverent anticipation heightened.

Although Mozart and the Royal Opera are linked to a specific time and place—18^th century Europe—the evening felt timeless and placeless. I was alone, yet surrounded. I was in France, and I was elsewhere. The fragile space and ephemeral sound brought on a happy clarity, unbound by geography and time.

Inspirations

Official website of the Opéra Royal de Versailles

Official website of Camerata Ireland

I am several generations removed from Ireland, so I access my “Irishness” in oblique ways. Little bits come down through language—a sweet prayer to my guardian angel taught to me by my grandmother or my mother’s admonishment to stop screaming like a banshee. A few objects evoke Ireland for me—the delicate Belleek dish at my bedside, adorned in roses, shamrocks, and Irish heather. An understated Waterford bud vase that I pull out in the spring.

I believe that food also has the potential to connect me to my almost unreachable, virtually unknowable heritage. But how? My family’s “Irish” recipes have been liberally adapted to suit American tastes. In flipping through Irish cookbooks, I am delighted by the names of traditional dishes: Dublin Coddle, Barmbrack, Wicklow Pancake.

Yet I gravitate toward something more basic: Irish Brown Bread. My family doesn’t bake brown bread, so I have no family recipes to reference. A few years ago, I fell into an internet hole of brown bread recipes. Overwhelmed and confused, I abandoned my brown bread quest. But then I thought to pester my Irish friend and colleague. He is a real Irishman with a real Irish mum, and I suspected that she would have a tried and true brown bread recipe. My persistence paid off. When I finally got my hands on the recipe, I knew I had found “my” brown bread.

Over the last few months, I have been playing with this Irish recipe in my Kentucky kitchen. Mrs. Kiersey’s recipe for brown bread is quick and straightforward. Coarsely ground whole wheat flour is key, as it gives the desired texture and density to the loaf. Buttermilk gives it a nice bite. Baking soda does a lot of heavy lifting, so make sure yours is fresh! The resulting loaf is crusty and hearty. Serve it with salted butter or hard cheese. Enjoy at breakfast or for an afternoon snack with a bold, black tea.

Baking Irish Brown Bread has created a subtle, yet moving pathway between my foremothers and me. Were they Irish? Yes! Did they bake brown bread? They may have. I acknowledge that my new penchant for Irish Brown Bread is a tenuous connection to women whose names and stories I do not know. Nonetheless, the gesture of bread making allows me to imagine the invisible women of my distant, yet meaningful history.

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Transport Me

Mrs. Kiersey’s Brown Bread