Being in a new kitchen, I mean. With not everything in its right place. Yet.

So when Milano’s invited me to take part in their create your pizza challenge, I recall thinking that might just be a challenge too far under present circumstances.

Fortunately, they did send me the pizza dough, which, one would have to admit, helps a lot.

A kind of blue pizza

So pizza was duly made with what edibles I could lay my hands on. Spuds, of course (I had remembered to pack those). Blue ones. Just ‘cos. Some of my remaining feta-like cheese, now well aged. Harissa paste. Tomatoes. Olive oil. Lemon zest (because I can never resist). Parsley. And some more olive oil, which never hurts.

Now, tasty and all though this was, I suspect that this is not the pizza to end all pizzas. I should also add that if you have a showstopping pizza up your sleeve, remove it forthwith from said sleeve and enter it into the pizza challenge yourself for a chance to have your creation served up as part of the Milano menu and win a trip to Rome to boot. For my part, I was happy with a trip to the couch, freshly baked pizza in one hand, beer in the other. Another kitchen challenge overcome.

“Give them my love”, says he, “and tell them to keep brewing the Smithwick’s for me and for you”.

I think he might just have had a tear in his eye as he wished me well, being quite overcome at the thought that I was on my way to visit the Smithwick’s brewery. Having discovered my intended destination, Anthony’s eyes had lit up and his expression become more animated. At the mention of the Irish ale that is Smithwick’s, he had announced proudly “that’s my drink, so it is”.

We had swapped beer stories and talked about that certain solidarity that exists among Smithwick’s drinkers, perhaps the result of always being the odd one out in a sea of Guinness and lager stalwarts.

Smithwick's through the years

I will admit that, having been a Smithwick’s drinker for years, I was just as excited as Anthony was about my visiting the brewery. Forget that I was leaving a half-unpacked house behind me, a visit to Smithwick’s trumped all.

The new Smithwick's draught tap

Located in the heart of Kilkenny city and, with an impressive 300 year history, Smithwick’s is the oldest operating brewery in Ireland. Only recently opened for tours, with an itinerary that brings you through some of the operational parts of the brewery, and also to the medieval ruins of the 13th century St. Francis Abbey within the grounds of the brewery, this is one for the list if you’re in the Kilkenny area.

St. Francis Abbey

By the time I had glimpsed this Irish beer at various stages of its development and inhaled the warm brewery deliciousness, I might just have had a tear in my eye too. Talking afterward to head brewer Ian Hamilton, I remembered why I had spent such a long time drinking Smithwick’s in the past, even if I had never consciously considered the components of its desirability: a delicate, fruity aroma, natural tawny port colour and balance of bitterness and malt in the taste. Even after almost 30 years as a brewer with Smithwick’s, Ian retains an enthusiasm for the ale that, like the beer itself, is refreshing and leaves you wanting to imbibe forthwith. Which I did.

To the left - 100,000 pints of Smithwick's.
To the right - my first post-tour pint. Only 99,999 more to go.

Indeed, I enjoyed the visit (and the pint) so much that I might just have to visit again when next passing that way – which, with any luck, will be soon. October’s Savour Kilkenny festival, featuring the full breadth of food and drink on offer in the Marble City, is writ large in my diary. If the festival should involve savouring Smithwick’s, so much the better.

There are so many things that you must remember to pack. Like your toothbrush. And your spuds.

Although, to be fair, when one has a potato-obsessed brain and some unusual red, blue and purple potatoes to match, they become a little less hard to forget.

Some of this year's multicoloured crop: Salad Blue, Highland Burgundy Red and Aura

So it is that I find myself in the midst of such a move, between two houses, minus one garden, operating with half a kitchen and a bag of spuds.

And no toothbrush.

It could be worse. I might have no spuds.

Gie him strong Drink until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;
An’ liquor guid to fie his bluid,
That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;
.
.
O Whisky! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!
Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor Verses!
.
.

Scotland’s national bard clearly had a great deal of respect for Scotland’s national drink.

And if you were ever in any doubt as to the importance of whisky to the Scots or whiskey to the Irish, then the fact that we both describe it as Uisce Beatha – or the Water of Life – would leave you in no doubt. So much so that, on my recent travels to Scotland’s Isle of Arran, I fully imagined it to be a breach of some law to depart the island without having at least a wee dram of the “Scotch drink”. A visit to the Isle of Arran Distillers, the only (legal) producer of whisky on the island, turns out to have been a very good choice, and not just because of its Irish connections.

Gordon Mitchell, their now retired distillery manager, previously worked at Ireland’s Cooley Distillery and was involved in the development of their most excellent Connemara Peated Single Malt. While Connemara is unusual for an Irish whiskey in that it is peated, the signature 10 year old single malt produced by Isle of Arran Distillers is unusual for a Scotch whisky in that it is not.

But that is not the only thing worthy of note.

Arran 10 year old single malt whisky

At just 15 years old, Isle of Arran is one of Scotland’s newest and smallest distilleries. Yet it has already made its mark with a clutch of national and international awards to its credit, notably for the 10 year old single malt and their Arran Gold cream liqueur.

Founded by Harold Currie, a former director of Chivas, it is sited at picturesque Lochranza on the north coast of Arran, chosen for its proximity to the pure and soft waters of Loch na Davie.

View from the Isle of Arran distillery

Using barley specially chosen for its high starch content, and applying only traditional methods of distilling, with wooden washbacks and copper stills, their whiskies are evidence that less interference is more character. They do not (as many do) add caramel to their whisky to colour it. Nor do they apply chill filtration, a common practice which removes some of the spirit’s natural oils. While these oils can cause whisky to go cloudy when cooled or poured over ice, they also contribute to the overall flavour and experience of the drink and are best left where they are.

The stuff of Arran whisky making

The result, in the case of the Arran 10 year old single malt, is a fine, pale, smooth whisky, with some vanilla sweetness and that unfailing power of whisky to warm you from the inside.

To quote that other Scottish national treasure, Billy Connolly, it’s what you might call a “wee nippy sweetie”.

It seems, what with the new potato season upon us, that the folks from Bord Bia were pondering that very question lately. The result of their ponderings was that they came knocking upon my door.

Soon afterward, I found myself in the middle of a potato field in North County Dublin having a most illuminating, spud-filled conversation. You can read all about it over on the Best in Season website, but I’m also including the full text here.

I am indebted to my interviewee Barry for his time and his candor. Enjoy.

Barry's field of Kerr's Pink potatoes

“A Queen or a Pink.” So said Barry White of his favourites when I asked.

Given that line, you might suppose that I was conducting some kind of bizarre musical interview. However, the Barry White in question is a farmer of potatoes, and (that I know of) no relation to the soul singer of the same name. Queen and Pink, meanwhile, refer to British Queens and Kerr’s Pink potatoes. Not rockstars, but top of Barry’s hit parade nonetheless. They are floury spuds both and, to be honest, I wouldn’t have expected an Irish farmer’s spud of choice to be anything other than a potatoey ball of flour.

I was visiting Barry at the farm he runs in North County Dublin with his father Pat, where, amongst other agricultural enterprises, they have 180 acres planted with potatoes, including Roosters, Kerr’s Pink, Queens and Golden Wonder. For a potato-obsessed gal like myself, this was the golden ticket. The opportunity to go and talk spuds with a commercial potato farmer at the start of the new potato season was one that I could not pass up.

While I expected that the reality of growing potatoes on a commercial scale would be a world apart from my own back garden efforts, I don’t think I had appreciated just what a challenging environment faces the commercial potato grower nowadays. Barry will tell you that it’s a tough business and getting tougher. My hat is off to those like him who continue to stick with it.

“People used to eat spuds every day, but not anymore”, he says.

Yes, we may still love our spuds, but, alas, not as much as we used to. Farmers like Barry are thus faced with the problems of oversupply in a shrinking market, the ever present risk of losses to blight and frost, and constant downward price pressure from the supermarkets. Throw in a plethora of government rules regulating their operations and you start to get the picture.

Barry examines the crop, with leaves showing blight and tubers showing signs of common scab

He also points out that we have grown very attached to the potato that scrubs up well. These days, spuds need to be clean and good-looking to achieve any kind of premium grading and price. Me, I’ll take a spud with a bit of dirt on it any day, but I’ll grant that I’m not the common case anymore.

We are also, as a nation, becoming less aware of different potato varieties and their seasonality. As Barry knows only too well, refrigeration has made year round availability of our most widely grown Rooster potatoes a reality. Many people don’t think to reach for anything else. Take it from me, though, that, at this time of year, it’s well worth visiting your local shop and seeking out that bag of clay-covered Queens. You might even be lucky enough to find some grown by Barry. A friend of mine whose parents live near the White’s farm eats their potatoes regularly and will attest to their fine floury quality.

And finally, of course, if you do get that bag of floury Queens, take care to cook them properly, as many have cursed their tendency to burst apart upon boiling. Barry’s preference is to boil them for 15 minutes and, before they start to disintegrate, he puts the pot into the Aga to steam for another 15 minutes or more. He’ll eat the results, skins and all, with butter, salt and pepper. Believe me, you’ll want for nothing more.

“It’s a bit like Craggy Island”.

The jovial Alastair Dobson was suggesting that the Isle of Arran might have something of the remoteness and quirkiness of Craggy Island, the fictional setting for the equally fictional Father Ted.

Whilst Arran is a rural island outpost and does necessitate almost an hour’s ferry crossing from the Scottish mainland, it’s still within easy reach of Glasgow and Edinburgh. Its appeal as a place to live is evidenced by the fact that many of its 5000+ residents are not native islanders but blow-ins from other parts of Scotland, Northern England and elsewhere.

Image produced from the Ordnance Survey Get-a-map service.
Image reproduced with kind permission of Ordnance Survey and Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland.

Boasting the highest density of artisan food producers of any postcode in Scotland – and producing high quality fresh vegetables and herbs, cheeses, mustards, oatcakes, ice cream, beer, Scotch whisky and more – the island also appeals as a place where you can drink and eat, both locally and well.

Oaties, Scottish dunlop cheese and wholegrain whisky mustard - looks like a fine Arran lunch to me

What’s particularly impressive about the food production on Arran, though, is its truly co-operative nature. Taste of Arran and its founder, the aforementioned Alastair Dobson, have a lot to do with that.

When I met Alastair, he was busy serving his Arran Dairies ice cream to a long queue of people at the Brodick Highland Games. Supplies of their Great Taste award winning chocolate ice cream were gone by the time I got there, but Alastair’s favourite, the traditional dairy variety, was in plentiful supply, so I got busy eating.

An Arran Dairies ice cream cone with my name on it

Deftly passing out equal measures of ice cream and good cheer, Alastair talked about his progression from dairying to ice cream production and thence to the promotion and marketing of island-produced food with the establishment of Taste of Arran.

Taste of Arran is not only about shared marketing resources, though. It has fostered an extremely rich co-operative network on the island. You will find, among many others examples, Arran mustard made using Arran whisky, Arran chutney featuring Arran beer and Arran ice cream flavoured with Arran Gold whisky liqueur. You will also find local restaurants (such as the excellent Brambles Seafood And Grill at the Auchrannie Resort) proudly serving (and naming) the Arran products that they use.

Dinner at Brambles with locally sourced Arran fare (clockwise from top left):
chunky fish cake, local seafood platter, apple and bramble crumble with clotted cream

The De Courcys, meanwhile, who run the charming Arran Barn, will proudly tell you that the makings of your breakfast will be locally sourced where possible and, where appropriate, will be harvested to order.

At the Arran Barn, as local and fresh as you can get

All of which explains to me why so many non-islanders have chosen to make this their home. It’s a place that not only gives good cause to visit Scotland but to stay.

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Bran Oatcakes

Oatcakes might well be one of the definitive Scottish foods. Goodness knows, they’ve been around for a long time. According to my Little Scottish Cookbook, the 14th century chronicler Jean Froissart recorded that Scottish soldiers would carry a flat plate and a wallet of oatmeal. Using a little water, they could always make themselves an oatcake over an open fire.

In their traditional form, they are an austere kind of food. Just oats, salt and bread soda mixed with a very small amount of liquid fat and water. That doesn’t mean that they’re not good, though. I became very fond of the excellent bran oaties from Wooleys of Arran, which add wheat bran and a small amount of brown sugar to what otherwise seems a fairly traditional formula. Having very quickly eaten through my stash of said oaties, I found myself needing to recreate them and fast.

Taking Wooley’s lead and replacing some oats with wheat bran and adding a spoon of sugar, I ended up with something that wasn’t a bad approximation of the original. Not as crisp and perfectly baked, mind, but I was still happy to scoff them. I also took the step of toasting the oatmeal first to try and bring out its nuttiness, though feel free to skip that step if you like.

You’ll need:

• 175g porridge oats (rolled oats) plus a little extra for rolling out, or substitute with fine oatmeal
• 75g wheat bran
• 0.25 tsp of salt
• 0.5 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 1 tblsp demerara sugar
• 1 tblsp butter, melted
• approx 150ml to 250ml just-boiled water

You’ll also need:

• A couple of large baking sheets (mine were 30cm x 40cm) and a coffee or spice grinder for grinding the oats.

The Steps:

• Preheat your oven to 200C
• If using porridge oats and you want to toast them first, spread them onto the baking sheets and toast in the oven for 5-10 minutes, just until the flakes have browned lightly and being careful not to let them burn. Allow them to cool slightly and grind to a coarse flour texture using a spice grinder. Alternatively, you can grind the porridge oats directly or just use fine oatmeal.
• In a large bowl, whisk together the oats, bran, salt and bicarbonate of soda.
• Make a well in the centre and add the melted butter and about 150ml of the just-boiled water. Mix together to form a stiff dough – adding more water if the mixture is too dry. Knead the dough so that it comes together smoothly.
• Roll the dough out to a thickness of around 3mm on a surface sprinkled with some additional oatmeal. Cut into triangles, rounds or squares as you prefer.
• Place on ungreased baking sheets and bake for 15-20 minutes or until the oatcakes have firmed up and are starting to turn golden brown at the edges.
• Cool on a wire rack and enjoy spread with butter or topped with cheese.

The Variations:

• For regular oatcakes, replace the bran with additional oats. You could also try adding some grated cheddar to the mixture to make cheese oaties.

The Results:

• Makes around 20 to 25 x 7cm round oatcakes.

This little island off the country’s west coast is the birthplace of several notable potatoes, including Arran Pilot and Arran Victory, bred in the early part of the 20th Century by local Arran shopkeeper, Donald McKelvie. As if that weren’t pedigree enough, Maris Piper – the potato of choice for chippers in the UK – was bred from McKelvie’s Arran Cairn.

It is with much respect indeed that I tip my new tartan hat to the originator of such fine tatties.

Spud goes Scottish

And how could I not feel right at home in a country that serves me tattie scones for breakfast – my beloved potato cakes by another name.

Tattie scone from Arran's Kinloch Hotel

And you know that the natives must think well of their spuds to make sweets called ‘lucky tatties’ – a cinnamon-dusted fondant echoing the look (if not the taste) of a newly-dug spud (though, to be honest, I think I prefer the real, freshly-dug thing).

Lucky tatties from James of Arran

But, as I am discovering this weekend, thanks to the folks at Visit Scotland and Taste of Arran, there’s a lot more to Scotland’s larder than spuds, real or otherwise. In fact, I am still sampling the delights of same and, if I remember to leave (or even if I don’t) I will report more in due course.

One lucky tattie indeed.

Looking out at the view, I couldn’t help but agree with Adam Medcalf, head chef at Inchydoney Island Lodge and Spa. The graceful sweep of West Cork coastline at Inchydoney is not a sight that you would tire of easily.

Around Inchydoney

I was in Inchydoney as a guest of the resort, invited to sample their new West Cork menu (yeah, it’s a dirty job…). Except, as Adam – who has worked here for over five years – will tell you, the West Cork nature of the menu is not really that new. From farmhouse cheeses, locally grown vegetables and Clonakilty black pudding, to fish and meats, both fresh and smoked, anyone looking to source high quality, locally produced food in West Cork is spoiled for choice. The restaurant at Inchydoney has always taken advantage of the bountiful raw materials within arms reach. It would have been rude of me not to get stuck in and see what exactly they made of those raw materials.

Dinner, in other words, was served.

Let there be bread

You know you’ve embarked on a fine dining experience when additional, unordered courses start to appear on your plate. In this case, proceedings began with an amuse bouche consisting of a claw which had parted company from its parent crab.

West Cork crab claw

Not so amusing for the crab, one supposes, but I thank you crab for your sacrifice. It was well worth it.

In between courses, a palate-cleansing white port and rosemary sorbet was possibly my favourite bite of the evening.

White port and rosemary sorbet

As for the principal courses, they arrived beautifully presented and artfully deconstructed. I am always tempted, in these situations, to nibble at each carefully presented mound in turn but, if the chef has done his job well, the amalgamation of separately presented edibles into a single forkful is always greater than the sum of its parts. That, by and large, was the case here.

Dinner at Inchydoney:
starters (top): dressed local crabmeat (left) and Ardsallagh goats cheese parfait (right)
main courses (middle): pan fried hake with smoked salmon and scallion risotto (left) and roasted pepper and potato herb gnocchi (right)
desserts (bottom): iced vanilla parfait (left) and hot chocolate fondant with pistachio ice cream (right)

Truth be told, I could probably have dined exclusively on the West Cork crab and been well satiated, but my belly didn’t exactly object to the company assembled within by the end of the evening.

And the rest of me didn’t exactly object to the hospitality at the resort, which was staffed, among others, by possibly the most gracious hotel manager I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Their spa treatments, meanwhile, provided an opportunity to be both scrubbed with strawberries and wrapped in chocolate. A dessert menu of a profoundly different kind.

Moon over Inchydoney Strand

Spud police are looking through my tubers
Spud police are talking to my niece
Spud police have got their final orders
Spuddy, drop your fork, it’s Spud police!

Actually, the Jazz Police may just arrest me for mangling the words of maestro Leonard Cohen.

And if they don’t get me, the potato police just might.

Exhibit A: (some of) my potato plants

You may think I jest, but the spud police are on patrol. I know, because my favourite potato expert Dave Langford told me.

As a grower of heritage spuds, Dave must be licensed and is likely to be visited by the potato police, who will check that he is treating his rare, old and unusual spuds properly.

I ran into Dave yesterday at Lissadell House, which is home to his collection of heritage potatoes. I was there to see Leonard Cohen play on the native soil of his hero WB Yeats and, as a bonus, got to see the ever enthusiastic Dave and some of his (fully licensed) spuds.

I am now, of course, worried that I might be raided by the spud squad, having scored a few heritage spuds from Dave.

Exhibit B: potato fruit as sprouted by some of my heritage potato plants

And if they knew that I had contemplated the breeding of new, never heard of spuds from the seeds of my potato fruit, well I might just land myself in potato jail.

Actually, perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this.

If anybody asks, you never heard it from me, ok?

So, if you could capture Ireland in a single mouthful, what would that mouthful be?

I think that Pádraic Óg Gallagher, he of the Boxty House, may have captured it perfectly when he drizzled Connemara Peated Single Malt Whiskey over smoked Irish salmon.

Connemara peated single malt whiskey and Irish smoked salmon

It’s like a modern interpretation of a John Hinde postcard. It tastes like you’re sitting close to, or possibly in, a turf fire, an experience that certainly used to go with the territory in rural Ireland.

Classic John Hinde Postcard: Collecting Turf from the Bog, Connemara, Co. Galway, Ireland
(image from www.johnhindecollection.com)

The marriage of whiskey and salmon was only the beginning, though.

It was the opening dish on the menu for the gala Saturday banquet presented as part of the recent Oxford Symposium On Food And Cookery by Pádraic Óg Gallagher, along with Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire and a host of Irish artisan producers.

The theme for this year’s symposium was Cured, Fermented and Smoked Foods and banquet attendees were treated to the full Irish experience of same. Pádraic Óg is the first Irish chef to have been invited to present a meal at what is a highly prestigious event in the food calendar – I only wish I could have been there.

You can see below just what I missed (or read what Katrina had to say about being there).

The Oxford Symposium banquet menu

And finally, on the assumption that you may not have been invited to any Irish banquets lately, here’s how you can create a little taste of Ireland at home…