Our Emerald Isle - Potato Day

 

Brian and I were staying up late drinking our usual black and tan.  Abdul had gone to bed much earlier due to some religious holiday he seems to come up with all the time.  Bev and Ray the Raven were in the kitchen concocting some sort of special desert for tomorrow’s noon day crowd.  How Ray the Raven was helping I am really not sure.  Traci of course was still on her date and no telling when she would be home. 

 

Brian and I were just about to give it up for the evening when Traci came home dragging one of the local home boys by the arm.  “Brian, Snapper, you got to hear this, go get Bev she ought to hear it also.”  Bev came from the kitchen wiping her hands with a dishtowel with Ray the Raven resting upon her shoulder. “Got to hear what?” I said.

 

“Tell’em Scott,” Traci said.

 

“Well it isn’t that big a deal,” Scott the home boy began.  “I just happened to ask what Devere’s was planning to do this year for Potato Day.”

 

All but Scott had puzzled expressions.  Even Ray the Raven cocked his head to one side like he knew what was being talked about and I am not sure half the time he doesn’t know.  “Ok,” young man Brian said, “I’ll bite what are you talking about?  Potato Day?  I’ve never heard of it.  What’s that, some sort of day when we all dress up like potatoes and parade up and down the street?”

 

It was Scott’s turn to looked puzzled.  “I thought you never heard of it, how did you know?  Traci, you tell them I am getting confused and crossed signals from your brother and by the looks of the rest of your family them too.”

 

“Oh, alright,” Traci said, “ I’ll do the explaining.  While you two over protective big brothers hang around this pub of ours in the evening I have been going down to the library studying up on local history.  I came across an article in the news paper archives a bout last year’s Potato Day celebration.  It sounded fun but wondered if it was true or not.  You know Snapper, you have always said that facts should not get in the way of a good story.  Anyway I went to the head librarian, which just so happens to be Scott here, and asked him about Potato Day.  He confirmed the authenticity of the piece and was surprised no one had mentioned it to us already.”

 

“That’s about right sir,” said Scott.  “All the businesses in the village sponsor an entry and if you don’t you might find your selves being shunned regardless if you are the only drinking establishment in the village.  It’s the third most sacred holiday in Devere.”

 

“Why is it so sacred?” Bev asked.

 

“According to tradition there were a band of monks that could no longer stand the dictatorial way their Abbot conducted business in the monastery.  They were always being told what to do and how to do it, from the way the prayed to the way they ate.  Life of a monk is hard, chaste, and full of poverty, but their religious leader was going beyond what they thought appropriate.  Apparently the Irish Clan King that had established the order agreed with the Abbot and refused to acknowledge a new Abbot when a vote of the monks took place.  Some of monks felt they had no choice but to leave and find a safe haven where they could practice their faith the way they felt was God’s call.

 

“They walked for days which turned into months and just when they had run out of provisions they were befriended by a group of Fairies.  The Fairies took them in, provided shelter and fed them over the winter.  They taught the monks how to grow potatoes so they would become self sufficient in the future and even helped them build a monastery which eventually became our church here in Devere.

 

“After the first year harvest of their first crop of potatoes a celebration of thanks was in order.  As the population grew so did the celebration of thanks and like most holidays started taking on modern characteristics until it became what it is. 

 

“On or about the fourth Saturday after the third Sunday after the first full moon in November the whole town gathers in the square.  Each person dresses up like a potato and they march from the square to the church where a celebration of thanks is given.  You have to figure out what you all will wear this year.”  Traci concluded.

 

The story had a familiar ring and I tried to figure out why but my pondering was soon over taken by the practicalities of trying to figure out what kind of apparel could be made to look like a potato that wouldn’t make us all look like Mr. Potato Head.  However I was sure that Bev could figure out something.  As Bev was tossing out different ideas about how we would dress and what kind of potato we would dress like, Traci said that Bev did not have to concern herself with what Traci would wear or what kind of potato she would be.

 

Traci and Scott looked at each other with a moon struck puppy dog expression and Scott said, “Traci will be my sweet potato this year.”

 

Brian and I looked at each and rolled our eyes.  I guess Traci will be spending a lot more time at the library from now on.

Pickle Piercing

Our Emerald Isle – Pickle Piercing

 Abdul had learned a lot from Bev about food preparation and restaurant/pub logistics and he was very appreciative, so much so he has started teaching her the art of pickle piercing and she is making such good progress she is about to order her own pickle piercer.  One cannot use another’s pickle piercer once the training is over they both tell me.

Devere recently has become known far a wide for its wonderful tasting pickles.  It is a  phenomena I am beginning to expect I owe to Abdul.  Our pickles have a unique taste that has been written about in culinary magazines all over Ireland.  I claim it is an old Irish recipe handed down generation after generation by family members,  but that is really not the case.  I have no real specific idea why our pickles taste the way they do and recent enlightenments have made be decide I don’t want to. 

To get the best tasting pickles one has to retrieve them from the bottom of the barrel.  This had always been done by dipping one’s arm into pickle vat up to the armpit and search the bottom until the pickle with just the right texture and firmness was found.  Abdul thought this very unsanitary so he thought of a method to retrieve pickles from the bottom of the barrel by mechanical means. 

During his days off Abdul would spend time with the cemetery care taker, Peter Peck.  Sometimes Peter would ask Abdul if he wanted to pick up some extra spending money by helping him probe old cemetery plots.  Peter said that the church records had been sloppily kept in years past and sometimes when digging a new grave they would come upon a vault, casket, or even a body buried with out either and would have to hurriedly  find another place to dig thus wasting a lot of time and effort. Abdul had a knack for and enjoyed grave probing for some reason and quickly learned to tell if a site was occupied or not by piercing the ground with the iron rod and feeling the thud of a vault, the cracking of a casket or the squishiness of pierced dead  flesh.

Abdul, always being a resourceful sort, thought the same process might work retrieving pickles from the bottom of the barrel and much more sanitary. On his own he ordered his own grave probing device, an iron device three and half feet long and one eight inch round, from the Interment Implement Company of Belfast.  He made some modifications and in no time at all he could retrieve a pickle from the bottom of the barrel with out said pickle ever touching a human hand other than the person doing the ordering.

One afternoon Abdul received a phone call from the Parish Priest and told to hurry to the cemetery.  The Widow Twilly had just died and they needed to put her in the ground fast and Peter Peck was suffering from the gout.  Abdul went to the pickle barrel grabbed the pickle piercer and ran toward the door.  I had a sickening feeling what was going to happen.

“Abdul, why don’t you leave the pickle piercer here,” I yelled, “we might need it.”

“Well might you might but not as much as the Widow Twilly might.  Besides not to worry boss every time I have used it in the past I clean it up real good.”

 

Fairy Tale

Our Emerald Isle – Fairy Tale

  It was around closing time. Brian was taking inventory of the liquor and other odds and ends that had just come up while Traci was talking to one bloke, looking at another and probably thinking of someone else. Bev was in the kitchen preparing cherry humus and a couple of sack lunches, Abdul was busy sweeping and mopping the floor, and Ray the Raven was flittering around the pub snagging crumbs left by sloppy patrons. I was recovering from a busy night of socializing with the patrons and decisions that management needs to make due to unexpected events while sipping on a black and tan. All was normal, just a couple of things out of the ordinary but then again that was normal.

Just as I was thinking that my latest endeavor to help those less fortunate, meaning anyone other than my pub family, was a success, two men entered the pub. They were dressed in fedoras, trench coats belted at the waist, and very serious looking. I recognized what but not who they were. Garda. Cops look the same all over the world. The best I can describe a Garda is that they are a cross between the RCMP, State Troopers, County Sheriffs, Scotland Yard, and the FBI.

They flashed their badges while introducing themselves as Detective Sergeant Tinker and Detective Inspector Darling. They said they wanted some information. “We are looking for a couple of Fairies that are suspected of robbing the National Bank of Ireland in Hook Country yesterday, and we have followed their trail to the door of your pub. Anything ring a bell?”

“Well we get a lot of people in here but I usually know most everyone. I don’t recall specifically seeing anyone that would match a Fairies description from what I have read about them for the most part recently. Feel free to look around.” I said realizing that I had technically not told any lies to the Garda.

For those of you who don’t know about Fairies let me back up and give you a little information. First of all Fairies can change size and appear human, have green eyes and give off a slight radiance. They never age or so it seems. They are even tempered but when in a fight they like to bite. They treat nice people, places, and things nicely and bad people, places, and things badly. You never say thank you to a Fairy you just give them something that will guarantee remembrance. Some say that they are a race that went into hiding years ago and just now emerging into society and having a tough time coping with the complexities of non Fairy civilization. I feel sorry for Fairies, they must have a hard life trying to fit in a society that one time felt like they needed to be chastised and rediculed for being different. For all their difficulties a Fairy cannot lie. He may try to confuse you with words but he will never tell you a complete falsehood nor the complete truth if it is to his advantage to do so. It is an art form that those of us who have practiced politics know well. I am a law biding citizen and would never break the law unnecessarily but I have always thought that law and justice might be two different animals. I do not condone stealing as such and if someone is caught red handed in any criminal act they should be some what punished.

 From what the Garda told me the National Bank of Ireland in Hook County was owned by a man named J. M .Barrie a ruthless and cunning man so I have heard across the bar. Garda Tinker and Darling said the clock was ticking and wanted to catch up with the culprits before they reached Never Landing, a swampy area just a few more leagues down the road. They said once the duo got to Never Landing they would melt into what is the largest Fairy community in Ireland and be almost impossible to apprehend because “they are all the same you know,” said one of Irelands finest..

If anyone knew the seedier side of our community I told them it would be my brother Brian. I called him from the back room and they asked him the same sort of questions I was asked. He gave the same information I had which was little and none but did it in such a slow and stuttering manner, I suspected they thought he was the village half wit.

Brian and I felt under no obligation to give the Garda more information than they had requested. We believed the Fairies to be innocent in their own way. Mr. Barrie had foreclosed on their mother’s farm while they had been fighting in the Banshee War several years ago and was a very bad man and Fairies do bad things to bad people and besides they told me they had not robbed the bank and taken all they were accused of taking. They believed Mr. Barrie took the additional amount. They were making their escape out the backdoor while the Garda were talking to Brian with his made up stammering and stuttering. Between the two of us the two Fairies, Peter and Windy, had a good chance of getting to Never Landing. I offered the two Garda a drink on the house but they declined and said they had to be on their way that it looked like rain and the Fairy dust they were following would be washed away if they did not hurry. As soon as they left our pub I told Abdul to hurry up and start washing down the ally in the direction of the north star which just so happened to be in the direction of Never Landing