(I've tried to think of another St. Patrick's Story. But for me there is no other. Here is an update to my previous St. Patrick's Day post.)
For as many years as I have been eating, then cooking, then writing, and now blogging about food, I have not found anything I enjoy more on St. Patrick’s Day than my mom's potato soup and Irish soda bread. Mom herself will make ham and cabbage, and I certainly enjoy that. And I have been to countless "authentic" Irish restaurants for Irish stew, colcannon, bangers and mash, etc. And back in the days of green beer on St. Paddy's Day (not Patty's mind you), I even corned my own beef. When it comes right down to it, soup and bread is where I have landed.
The Irish are not, that I am aware, known for their cuisine. Not in the way that the French or Italian or Greeks are. My own Irish great-grandmothers were known for their ability to use whatever ingredients they had on hand to keep a minimum of seven kids, various husbands, in-laws, and random uncles from starving.
On one side of my kitchen altar is Mary: Poor Mary McMahon Kelley had a hard, hard life. Her mother died young in County Mayo, her father a poor drunk farmer, leaving nothing but brothers to raise her. She was sent away to work in a convent in Glasgow, Scotland. On the advice of a drunk brother who’d somehow made it to America, she sold all she had to come to Pittsburgh in the McKee’s Rocks section and live in a two bedroom house with seven sons, a cranky husband and the aforementioned drunk brother.
Anybody who remembers tells me that on Mary’s stove there was always a pot of ridiculously strong tea and a boiling mass of not readily identifiable meat and vegetables. Mary had the reputation of scraping the plates and bowls at the end of a meal back into the pot to re-boil for the next meal. When company came to call, she'd throw a handful of tea leaves into the existing pot of tea, and add a little more water before setting it to re-boil. Then she'd make "Well then! La tee da!" sounds not quite under her breath if anyone asked for cream or sugar to mellow it.
All that to say, my great-grandmother Mary passed on no recipes.
And on the other side there is Bridget: Bridget Butler Conley had her share of hardships too. At age 18, she sailed with her father William to America to stake out a new life for the Butlers. According to legend, her father had run a successful insurance business in Ireland but was run out of town by the political forces of the day. Her mother and siblings followed after William secured work for himself in a Pittsburgh steel mill and Bridget had set up housekeeping in an Irish section of Greenfield, a nearby neighborhood.
Bridget soon married and had a truckload of kids to feed also, but she seemed to fare much better than Mary. And her culinary fare reputedly was much better too. She had a few advantages over Mary, though. Namely, the saving graces that mothers and daughters bring. First born daughters are built-in mama's helpers, babysitters. Especially helpful when the next four are boys. Followed by two adorable baby girls to adore and indulge. And through most of that, she had her mother’s help and guidance as well.
While neither Bridget nor her mother wrote down recipes, their heads were full of them. Mary’s mother died before she could pass on anything to her only daughter. Mary learned her initial culinary skills from her father and brothers. Now I am not debating the Mars vs. Venus thing, but lets face it. Boys do not, historically speaking, pass on recipes.
Another difference, I’ve heard, was the quality of their ingredients. Bridget took the train to the Strip District every week to buy fresh pantry items and seasonal fruits and vegetables while Mary grew what she could in her meager backyard garden and shopped at the neighborhood grocery a few doors down. And since Mancini’s Bakery was exactly six doors down, I suspect she served store bought bread.
As I’ve mentioned, the recipes passed down from Bridget were never written out. Instead they were passed on by example to Bridget’s oldest daughter, Ellen, who become a famous pie baker for Isaly’s, a Pittsburgh institution. Ellen was a professional baker, but it was in the days when the profession was not ruled by government regulations and ingredient disclosure laws. Her recipes were not documented either.
Ellen’s sister, Winifred was my grandmother. But she never made soda Bread. When my mother went searching for Bridget’s soda bread recipe, she asked Ellen, but Ellen’s version of Bridget’s recipe started with a quart of buttermilk, which my mother said, “Turned me right off. I mean, how many loaves were we making?” So she looked elsewhere for a recipe that made only one loaf. She found it in the first Three River’s Cookbook. After making it, tweaking it and testing it on Winifred and Ellen, it was determined that it was indeed the same recipe as Bridget’s only scaled down. As I write this, I remember the last time my mother made and how it was eaten up before it even cooled, I wonder why she doesn’t just make the bigger recipe.
I have eaten countless loaves of soda bread in my life. I have a distinct early memory of walking to Great Aunt Ellen’s house with a childhood friend and being served big slices of soda bread thickly coated with sweet cream butter. I am as good of judge as any and so with complete confidence I say, my mom’s soda bread is the best. And eating a big buttery slice with my eyes closed I am easily transported to Ellen's kitchen.
Now for the soup. Well, my mom’s potato soup recipe is her own invention. And she rarely follows even her own recipe exactly. It is how she likes it and what ingredients she has on hand. I have captured it as best as I can. And it is completely adaptable. What makes it an Irish heirloom to me is that it is made with potatoes, and that all the other ingredients could be dispensed with if you truly had only a few potatoes and a pinch of salt to work with.
Go to the recipes: Irish Soup and Bread
For as many years as I have been eating, then cooking, then writing, and now blogging about food, I have not found anything I enjoy more on St. Patrick’s Day than my mom's potato soup and Irish soda bread. Mom herself will make ham and cabbage, and I certainly enjoy that. And I have been to countless "authentic" Irish restaurants for Irish stew, colcannon, bangers and mash, etc. And back in the days of green beer on St. Paddy's Day (not Patty's mind you), I even corned my own beef. When it comes right down to it, soup and bread is where I have landed.
The Irish are not, that I am aware, known for their cuisine. Not in the way that the French or Italian or Greeks are. My own Irish great-grandmothers were known for their ability to use whatever ingredients they had on hand to keep a minimum of seven kids, various husbands, in-laws, and random uncles from starving.
On one side of my kitchen altar is Mary: Poor Mary McMahon Kelley had a hard, hard life. Her mother died young in County Mayo, her father a poor drunk farmer, leaving nothing but brothers to raise her. She was sent away to work in a convent in Glasgow, Scotland. On the advice of a drunk brother who’d somehow made it to America, she sold all she had to come to Pittsburgh in the McKee’s Rocks section and live in a two bedroom house with seven sons, a cranky husband and the aforementioned drunk brother.
Anybody who remembers tells me that on Mary’s stove there was always a pot of ridiculously strong tea and a boiling mass of not readily identifiable meat and vegetables. Mary had the reputation of scraping the plates and bowls at the end of a meal back into the pot to re-boil for the next meal. When company came to call, she'd throw a handful of tea leaves into the existing pot of tea, and add a little more water before setting it to re-boil. Then she'd make "Well then! La tee da!" sounds not quite under her breath if anyone asked for cream or sugar to mellow it.
All that to say, my great-grandmother Mary passed on no recipes.
And on the other side there is Bridget: Bridget Butler Conley had her share of hardships too. At age 18, she sailed with her father William to America to stake out a new life for the Butlers. According to legend, her father had run a successful insurance business in Ireland but was run out of town by the political forces of the day. Her mother and siblings followed after William secured work for himself in a Pittsburgh steel mill and Bridget had set up housekeeping in an Irish section of Greenfield, a nearby neighborhood.
Bridget soon married and had a truckload of kids to feed also, but she seemed to fare much better than Mary. And her culinary fare reputedly was much better too. She had a few advantages over Mary, though. Namely, the saving graces that mothers and daughters bring. First born daughters are built-in mama's helpers, babysitters. Especially helpful when the next four are boys. Followed by two adorable baby girls to adore and indulge. And through most of that, she had her mother’s help and guidance as well.
While neither Bridget nor her mother wrote down recipes, their heads were full of them. Mary’s mother died before she could pass on anything to her only daughter. Mary learned her initial culinary skills from her father and brothers. Now I am not debating the Mars vs. Venus thing, but lets face it. Boys do not, historically speaking, pass on recipes.
Another difference, I’ve heard, was the quality of their ingredients. Bridget took the train to the Strip District every week to buy fresh pantry items and seasonal fruits and vegetables while Mary grew what she could in her meager backyard garden and shopped at the neighborhood grocery a few doors down. And since Mancini’s Bakery was exactly six doors down, I suspect she served store bought bread.
As I’ve mentioned, the recipes passed down from Bridget were never written out. Instead they were passed on by example to Bridget’s oldest daughter, Ellen, who become a famous pie baker for Isaly’s, a Pittsburgh institution. Ellen was a professional baker, but it was in the days when the profession was not ruled by government regulations and ingredient disclosure laws. Her recipes were not documented either.
Ellen’s sister, Winifred was my grandmother. But she never made soda Bread. When my mother went searching for Bridget’s soda bread recipe, she asked Ellen, but Ellen’s version of Bridget’s recipe started with a quart of buttermilk, which my mother said, “Turned me right off. I mean, how many loaves were we making?” So she looked elsewhere for a recipe that made only one loaf. She found it in the first Three River’s Cookbook. After making it, tweaking it and testing it on Winifred and Ellen, it was determined that it was indeed the same recipe as Bridget’s only scaled down. As I write this, I remember the last time my mother made and how it was eaten up before it even cooled, I wonder why she doesn’t just make the bigger recipe.
I have eaten countless loaves of soda bread in my life. I have a distinct early memory of walking to Great Aunt Ellen’s house with a childhood friend and being served big slices of soda bread thickly coated with sweet cream butter. I am as good of judge as any and so with complete confidence I say, my mom’s soda bread is the best. And eating a big buttery slice with my eyes closed I am easily transported to Ellen's kitchen.
Now for the soup. Well, my mom’s potato soup recipe is her own invention. And she rarely follows even her own recipe exactly. It is how she likes it and what ingredients she has on hand. I have captured it as best as I can. And it is completely adaptable. What makes it an Irish heirloom to me is that it is made with potatoes, and that all the other ingredients could be dispensed with if you truly had only a few potatoes and a pinch of salt to work with.
Go to the recipes: Irish Soup and Bread
