HAVE YOU GOT a cock or a hen? Do you even know? Bríd and Ann, two sisters who are rural to the wishbone, say it's a very important distinction to make when talking turkey.
We are down in sumptuous Mount Juliet in Co Kilkenny on a Christmas cookery course and we have the poor chef Eugene McSweeney demented with questions about whether he takes the legs off his bird, or does he steam it under tinfoil for an hour first, and what about his roast potatoes, goose fat or regular, and how does he make Brussels sprouts taste halfway decent? You what? What do you mean you stir-fry them? By the end of the two days' session the poor man has a hunted look in his eyes like the pheasant we just stuffed into the game terrine.
My sister Rach and I, are city slickers to the bone - well sue us but we thought all turkeys were hens, like the chickens you roast. That's not the case, according to Bríd and Ann. The cocks are scrawnier and less tasty, Ann says, and she knows because she rears her own on her farm and has three, plump hens each one, waiting for the chop this year. She hopes we don't let our butcher palm us off with a cock because we'd only regret it, the scrawny necks on them, but she wouldn't be surprised if butchers in Dublin get away with such sharp practices on account of the general ignorance of city folk when it comes to such matters.
We know we should be offended but the sisters are probably right. And anyway, we are too busy trying not to giggle every time lovely Bríd says "cock" to be really offended. (Apologies for the, er, fowl language). When we get home, Rach gets on the blower to the butcher demanding he delivers a hen so it's plump breast (breast, hee hee) all the way this Yule Thursday.
Legs on. Legs off. On a trivet. Off a trivet. Decisions, decisions.
Thankfully not my decisions, I should point out. Freeloading on someone else's Christmas is a decidedly stress-free experience, cooking-wise. My main task is making butter balls with two wooden pallets. Even I can't mess that up. Or so my sister likes to imagine.
Ahhhh, it's great being down the country. "All that grass," marvels my sister as we sweep down the driveway to Mount Juliet. We are more to be pitied than scorned, us lifelong urban dwellers. "What's that smell?" I ask as we drive through fields. "It's the country," says Rach, as though it's a foreign country instead of just an hour-and-a-half down the road. Take us too far out and we crave the crunch of gravel, the slick of wet tarmac, teenagers with graffiti cans and people walking around in their pyjamas.
I have occasional fantasies where I am living in a thatched cottage, walls as thick as you like, with a roaring fire and an ancient mantel, only swallows outside to disturb the silence.
In reality, I generally need to be five minutes from a Centra or at the very least a Eurospar just in case I need an emergency Solero. My sister needs an Ahmed standing behind the counter of the local shop two minutes away from her door in case one of the children needs an emergency lollipop.
I complain about it but I also can't seem to function properly without constant banter with taxi people. "Tá sneachta ag teacht," said the man behind the wheel of the last one I caught. "Ba mhaith liom sneachta," I replied, surprising myself. "Mise freisin," said he.
We sat in agreeable silence, mentally cursing people who complain about the roads being slippery because of the white stuff. "You can't have Christmas without some sneachta," he said. Then he started sounding like a bad Christmas cracker.
"I sent my girlfriend a huge pile of sneachta once," he said. "Then I rang
her up and asked, 'Did you get my drift?'." Obviously, I tipped him in a manner that suggested I never heard of such a thing
as a recession; I showered him with coinage like a reformed Ebenezer Scrooge fresh from the jaunt with his final ghost.
Down in Mount Juliet, Eugene is teaching us how to make gnocchi, for when people come round unexpectedly and you need to whip up a few canapés. We make a vat of tomato, ginger and scallion chilli sauce which goes with everything including turkey and especially game terrine. He shows us to make rosti, and miraculously the potato sticks together and doesn't fall apart.
Then it's pork steak with smoked bacon and a creamy gorgonzola sauce. Rach and I add brandy and apple juice to improve the flavour. Eugene approves.
Later we make chocolate chip scones with Derek O'Brien from Coco Zen - a man who could teach Willy Wonka a thing or two.
On the way back to Dublin, we call into Goatsbridge Trout Farm where, incredibly, we purchase some trout. Smoked trout, hot and cold, as well as fat, fresh fillets caught that morning. Mag, the woman who runs it, says her favourite way of cooking is to cover it with mayonnaise, sprinkle it with chopped almonds then put in a George Foreman grill. "It's a taste sensation," she promises, but after our masterclass in Mount Juliet we are not convinced.
Back in the city I tell my mother and she wastes no time in covering a fillet with mayonnaise, sprinkling it liberally with chopped almonds and sticking it in the George Foreman grill. The fat-buster she bought for €1 at a car boot sale is dug out from the back of a cupboard like a dusty Christmas miracle.
"Mmmm, a total taste sensation," she says on tasting. Then I ask her about cocks and hens and she confesses she can't swear that all our childhood turkeys were hens and I think of e-mailing Bríd and Ann to confirm their suspicions. Then a siren wails and some local urchins pass under the window eating pizza and singing "All the snow lay round about, deep pan, crisp and even". Christmas in the city. Like a bad cracker you can't help pulling. God bless us every one.
roisin@irishtimes.com
