We’re staying with my family in Ireland for a month.
My parents moved back to Ireland after over 20 years in the states with my younger brother and sister. So now that they’ve rejoined the Whyte clan (Wow, that sounded bad, Whyte is my last name. Crisis avoided?) I’m the only one with a permanent address in America (well, not exactly because I’ve been traveling but I’ve definitely been using my boyfriend’s parent’s address. I have my life together I assure you).
ANYWAYS! I rejoined the group to stay with them for a few weeks. Things I’m looking forward to when you live with your parents and grandma:
- Pain medication – We ran out in February because apparently, we’re over-the-counter drug addicts. Is that a thing? Am I going to die soon?
- Conditioner – We were convinced conditioner would only weigh us down and our hair could survive without it. It couldn’t. My hair is crying as I type.
- Free laundry – Not that laundromats aren’t a great way to get rid of your precious, precious coins.
- Food – A full fridge? Are you kidding me? Living the dream.
In that order.
It wasn’t until I wrote this list how much I was scraping by on my budget travel. All worth it of course. I may be malnourished. Can you survive on small pastries alone?
As we approached the flight to Dublin I thought about all the small differences between being raised as an American kid in an Irish family. I was often caught in between the subtle differences of the slang, such as when my mom exclaimed at a sleepover, “We’re going to have a load of craic”. Pronounced crack. Like the drug. She simply meant we were going to have fun, but my sleepover guests were excited by the prospect.
“My mom never lets me smoke crack at home.”
And of course, there were the differences in the food.
I preferred American snacks after school – perfectly toasted Pop Tarts, Goldfish that misled me to think fish was a dairy product, and if I was feeling healthy, I’d take a walk to the store to buy candy.
Of course, another staple was the ever important pudding cup. Jell-O, Snack Pack, it didn’t matter the brand, only the chocolate flavor, and texture only to be described as… wet. Pudding was held high above the other snacks, literally, it was on the top shelf, and it was given out as an award for good behavior.
My parents, born and raised in Ireland, would tell my brother and me horror stories about dinners involving liver with veins bulging and salty cabbage. We prayed to the American gods we would never have to experience this barbaric food. When we would visit our extended family in Ireland we preferred dinner from the traditional Indian food vendors that are so popular in Dublin. Curry over fries was Ireland’s attempt at uniting cultures.
As a special treat for Easter, one year my Irish Catholic parents ordered a traditional full Irish breakfast from a company specializing in delivering Irish breakfast to ex-pats. It arrived at our house Sunday morning. My brother, six, and I, nine, were overjoyed and helped carry the box into the house to inspect our goodies.
My mom took out what looked like black and white hockey pucks and squealed with excitement.
“We have black and white pudding!” she said.
“Pudding!” is all I could exclaim back at her.
My eyes narrowed in on the black pudding, assuming this was simply a hardened version of my chocolate pudding cups.
“You can have the vanilla pudding,” I said to my brother like the brat I was. He pouted but agreed he’d take the second best.
The rest of the box was emptied and we soon had bangers, rashers, Irish soda bread, beans, and eggs. Living in America there were a handful of items my parents missed most about home.
These high-quality items were smuggled often by visiting relatives as the laws to carry meat across the U.S. border became stricter. I used to think Irish sausages had to be carried by drug mules, or my grandmother.
The sausages were spicy and were gone quickly, the beans were wolfed down by my father and my mother ate her medium eggs as the yellow leaked from the center. My brother and I bounced in our seats as we saved the pudding for last, assuming it was dessert.
“Can we eat the pudding now?” I said with a desperation to my outburst.
“Sure…” my mom said.
We didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence and stuffed the hardened circular objects in our mouth.
“I just didn’t know you’d be so excited for blood sausage.”
With the word ‘blood’, I started to taste the salty flavor and realized it was not chocolate. I had heard rumors in the school cafeteria that pudding packs were made from ground bones, but I refused to believe them.
“Black pudding is made out of pork fat, oats and… blood, I believe,” my mother said. Like it didn’t ruin my whole morning.
My brother giggled next to me as I swallowed with a gulp.
“The vanilla pudding isn’t half bad,” he said, munching.