Today, Mountaineering Man and I will board a plane for our one-way journey to America, capping off two weeks of leaving parties and farewell drinks and goodbye hugs and well wishes.

To say Ireland has been good to me would be an understatement. I came here six-and-a-half years ago from Los Angeles, where I had a close-knit group of friends, my family within driving distance to my condo and a job that had me interviewing celebrities on the red carpet. But there was a growing sense of loneliness that I just couldn’t shake, leaving me feeling disillusioned and weary.

Perhaps it was a long-ago heartbreak that never really healed, or one too many flaky “let’s have lunch” invitations that never materialized or the hours upon hours I – like most people in this traffic-clogged city – spent in my car. LA was wearing me down, and no matter how many dinner parties or new hairstyles or glasses of Pinot Grigio I had, nothing changed, not really. And I was desperate for change – something, anything.  I reasoned that moving to a new country would be such a massive shift in my reality that it would effectively force change in every other aspect of my life. It had to.

Turns out that logic was correct. Within a couple of months of moving, I had a number of new friends in the food blogging community and an endless stream of invitations to various foodie outings and events. I got a regular spot on Gerry Kelly’s LMFM Late Lunch show, just to talk about all the funny/weird/wonderful things I was learning in my new life in Ireland. Through a friend of a friend I got a job at a digital agency and was instantly on track to a new career. And five months into living here, I met Mountaineering Man, and after keeping it to myself for a short time I introduced him on this blog. We married in Tuscany two years later. I’ve had a few people tell me I’m brave for making such a move, but I don’t feel that way. I’m lucky that I was able to create the opportunity to do this, and luckier still that people here not only accepted me but welcomed me with open arms.

It still boggles my mind how everything just seemed to fall into place after I made the move. The other day, when I dusted off my old laptop (I had to return my work-issued one), I saw a folder that I named, “My Dream.” I clicked it open and saw a Word document that I had written just after I applied for the Artist/Writers Business Permission Visa for Ireland. In it, I had written:

• Get a great job at a multinational company that lets me travel all over Europe (ha ha, like that is ever going to happen!)
• Have a place somewhere by the water
• Fall in love with a really nice guy

I’d forgotten about that note I wrote to myself – an exercise that I did, with total cynicism, because I’d read something in a self-help manual about writing down your dreams. I actually wrote that ha ha, like that is ever going to happen on my first bullet point, because upon thinking of how this would happen, I got mired in the details of just how I would be able to accomplish such a massive feat (I was a journalist at the time and had no business contacts in Europe). As you readers know, I just finished over 3 years at Kellogg’s, and travelled all over the EU and beyond in that role. The apartment we just left in Raheny? It’s down the road from Dollymount Strand, one of Dublin’s most beautiful beaches. And of course, there’s MM – that really nice guy I was hoping to meet way back when. What I didn’t list or expect was to make dozens of new friends, so many of whom I will know for the rest of my life.

So as our plane flies out of Dublin Airport this afternoon, I will look out at Ireland’s rolling green hills and beautiful coastline and my heart will be bursting with gratitude for how much positive change this little island nation has brought to my life. I hope that our new home of Portland, Oregon – a place that will be new for both of us – will give my Irish husband the same warm welcome and life-changing opportunities as Ireland as given me.

Thank you, Ireland. And thank you to the readers of this blog, particularly the ones who have followed my journey from start to finish – your emails and comments of support mean more than you can imagine. This is the last post of An American in Ireland, but the blog will remain live for anyone who wants to read the story of a woman who took a chance, made the leap and found herself in Ireland.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.

…until we meet again.

Last Saturday, Mountaineering Man and I had our usual almond croissants from Morgan, the French Baker, and flat whites from Revolution Bakery at St. Anne’s Park. Afterward, we stopped by the Organic Delights veg stall and got a few things – spinach, courgettes, onions and potatoes. Normally I would’ve gotten some flowers at the florist’s stand, but all of our vases were already packed.

This has been our routine every Saturday morning for at least the last few years now, and though I’m sure there are farmers’ markets where we’re going, Morgan (bread/croissants) and Denis (veg) won’t be there. It’s going to take some getting used to.

There are so many places that we frequent in Dublin and beyond that we will miss. So in the interest of passing on the scoop on some great places, here’s a list of our favourites. I hope you’ll check them out, if you haven’t already.

Clontarf Wines: Ronnie & Helena are passionate about wine and we love popping into their shop to talk about (and taste!) their most recent discoveries. There’s no snobbery here, so even if you know nothing about wine you’ll feel welcome. The shop sells nice nibbles too, like charcuterie and cheese, so you can pick up a lovely little spread of treats and vino for an evening when you’re too tired to cook. We often do.

il Valentino Bakery & Café: When I first met Valentina, the whip-smart Italian co-owner (along with her Irish husband Owen) of this lovely bakery café, I knew we would become fast friends. Her straight-forward, no-nonsense attitude and her passion for honest, good food had me hooked straight away. MM and I have come to know Valentina and Owen very well over the last few years, and in them we have found kindred spirits. But on to the bakery itself: the breads, pastries, cakes and sandwiches at this Grand Canal joint are not only delicious but made with top-quality ingredients and a lot of love. Try the polenta lemon cake – it’s my favourite!

L Mulligan Grocer: I still remember going to the opening of this gastropub way back when, and it’s great to see the place still packs it in night after night. We’ve celebrated birthdays, anniversaries and Wednesdays here, and have brought nearly every visitor in to try their famous scotch egg. When we brought Weezer here for dinner when they were in town for the Oxygen Festival, they declared their fish ‘n chips the “best in Europe.” Couldn’t agree more!

McHugh’s Wine & Dine: This Raheny bistro is – hands down – as good, if not better, than any in Dublin city centre, and I feel so incredibly lucky to have this just down the way from our house. Chef John Poole is an incredible talent and has been at the helm of this place for as long as we’ve been going there. After a long week, we’ll often pop down to Cedar’s Lounge (another neighbourhood gem) for an aperitif and then to McHugh’s for a relaxing dinner. For our engagement party, which was held in one of the private rooms of Cedar’s, the McHugh’s folks were kind enough to cater in nibbles (though it’s not a regular thing they do!). I am seriously going to miss this place!

Octopussy: It’s the seafood restaurant with the funny name, but there’s nothing funny about the incredible dishes being served up at this Howth favourite. Their secret? Take really good, fresh seafood from Doran’s fishmonger’s next door and don’t f*** it up. Everything is simply prepared so you get a true taste of Ireland’s best fish and shellfish. My brother in law requests a visit every time he’s in Dublin. It’s that good.

Eastern Seaboard & Brown Hound Bakery (Drogheda): When I first moved to Drogheda, I heard there was an American, half-Japanese chef running a restaurant with his Irish wife. Being a half-Japanese American myself, I had to meet this guy! I rang, requested an interview (for my blog) and met Reuven and Jeni – the duo behind the Eastern Seaboard restaurant and later Brown Hound bakery. It still boggles my mind that these two places exist not only in Drogheda but outside of the town centre next to a housing estate, because when you walk into either place you feel like you are in New York or Los Angeles. The food is incomparable, the atmosphere is unlike any you’ll find in Ireland and the service is outstanding. We will be back every time we visit Ireland, this is for certain.

Nolan’s grocery store: The thing about Tesco is that, if you ask an employee where something is, they’ll likely respond with, “I don’t know” and a blank stare. Also, it takes about 5 hours to find anything in the massive Tesco Extras. That’s why we love Nolan’s, our neighbourhood grocer, which employs proper butchers, fishmongers and nice, helpful people who run the tills and stock the shelves. Yes, it might cost a bit more than Tesco but the produce is better and the service is outstanding. When I ask where something is, a Nolan’s employee will tell me to continue my shopping while they look for it, and then they’ll come and find me with the product in hand. It’s service from another era, this.

Etto: I’m sure you’ve already heard about this place, as it has won numerous awards since they opened a couple of years ago. Their small plates menu is my favourite, and as it changes with the seasons you’ll never get bored – no matter how often you go (and we go, often!). MM and I love to sit up at the bar and chat with the staff, who are all so lovely and knowledgeable on food/wine. This is another place we bring visitors, as there’s really nothing like it in Dublin.

Picado Mexican: You can pretty much throw a rock in any direction in Dublin and hit a burrito place, but there’s nowhere in the city you can buy authentic, Mexican ingredients to make your own (real) Mexican feast – except Picado. Owned and operated by my mate Lily, who is from Mexico, and her Irish husband Alan, Picado has it all – masa, mole, a range of dried chilies, chipotles, a variety of beans and real, corn tortillas – made from Lily’s own recipe. She also offers cooking classes and supper clubs, and I guarantee you will learn that there’s more to Mexican food than burritos (something that doesn’t even exist in Mexico) and have a taste experience unlike anything you’ve ever had. Check it out.

IMMA/Royal Hospital Kilmainham: When we first started dating, MM and I often went to IMMA as it wasn’t too far from his bachelor pad. The exhibits are always excellent, and the grounds (like the English garden) are stunningly beautiful. We’ve also enjoyed a good number of shows out back, at the Royal Hospital Kilmainham, including Beck and Sigur Ros. Unlike many venues, this place actually has great food and decent drinks, and – occasionally – the most incredible sunsets you’ll ever see.

Fuel: We’ve been obsessed with this place since it opened earlier this year, thanks to their excellent coffee and healthy-but-delicious food. From protein pancakes to oat-crusted mackerel over avocado toast with poached eggs (I know, NOMZ!), we always find something here that we love and that loves us back.

TXFM: This is a radio station, not a place, but listening to it has certainly transported me to another place in time on many occasions. When I was a teenager growing up in LA, we had a station like this, called KROQ, but it has disintegrated into a mess of mainstream pop rock mixed with annoying gags and commentary from the DJs. Not this station. The DJs are smart and clever, knowledgable about the music they play and – when they want to be – are actually funny. I relish my drive to and from work thanks to the excellent tunes and entertaining commentary from Cathal Funge and Joe Donnelly. They even read my texts (always signed American Clare) on air, which pretty much makes me feel like a giddy school girl again. Ah, such good times. I’m sure going to miss you (and so will everyone else, when it goes off the air in October for good – argh).

Dollymount Strand: This is probably mine and MM’s favourite spot in Dublin – and one we have visited more times than I can count as we are lucky enough to live just down the road from this stunning destination. With a view of the hills of Howth on one side, and the Poolbeg Towers on the other, this stretch of sand on the north side is a little piece of heaven. Tomorrow I’ll walk your sandy shore for the last time in a long while, and peer out the window at your breaking waves from the plane on Monday.

Miyazaki: The only problem with this tiny, Japanese takeaway is that it’s all the way in Cork, which is terrible for me because I live in Dublin! The first time I went to Miyazaki, I felt like I was back in Tokyo because the smells emanating from the kitchen took me right back to my roots. The way chef Miyazaki incorporates local produce into traditional, Japanese dishes is simply genius, and I think he has single-handedly showed the locals in Cork that Japanese food is so much more than just sushi (even though his sushi is incredible!!).

We hope you enjoy all of these places as much as we have.

I spent this afternoon at my friend Sinead Roche’s house out in Broomfield, Collon with the people who are my first Irish family.

You see, Sinead is the reason why I’m here. Way back when I was a university student in San Francisco, I rented a room in a big kip of a house, and Sinead and her then-boyfriend Keith rented the room down the hall. We became fast friends. Sinead and I spent many Saturday nights drinking white zinfandel from a box and chain-smoking Marlborough Lights, watching cheesy TV shows and being carefree early 20-somethings.

She taught me about good tea, Guinness and the beauty of the humble potato; I still laugh when I think about Sinead, sitting with her head over a plate of steaming spuds covered in butter and Bisto and eating them so fast she’d huff and puff just so she could avoid burning her mouth. “Nothing better than a good plate of spuds!” she’d say, with utter satisfaction, after eating the equivalent of probably 4-5 boiled potatoes.

I showed her the ropes on things like Mexican food, which wasn’t easy. “But it has too much flavour!” she’d say. “I like PLAIN food.” Eventually she got hooked on quesadillas, the plainest Mexican offering at the local El Gordo around the corner from our house. Occasionally we’d get up at the crack of dawn to go watch an Irish football match at the local pub, not because we were really that interested but  more for the craic. We’d drink a few pints and eat a proper Irish fry-up and then put those pint glasses in our handbags and add them to our ever-growing collection at home.

Even after Sinead moved back home to Collon, we stayed in touch. She came to visit me in LA, and I met her in Chicago for Paddy’s Day. And in 2009, while visiting as part of a work trip, I stayed with Sinead for two weeks. It was during that trip I decided I’d come back, but this time to live for at least a year (which, as you know, turned into six-and-a-half years!). With Sinead and her family and the wider circle of friends in the area that I grew to know over the years, I knew I could do it as I wouldn’t be alone.

When I think back on that first year in Drogheda, I can’t imagine how I would have survived without Sinead and the Collon gang. Every Sunday I would drive from my apartment in town to Collon, where Sinead’s mum Nancy cooked a fry-up and Sinead, her sister Aoife and I would sit on the couch all day and drink a million cups of tea while watching bad television. And through them and their brother Earnan, I met many people who became friends, acquaintances and drinking buddies. Coming from LA, where you could spend your entire life next door to someone and not even know their name, I was amazed at how warm and open everyone here was to a relative stranger.

It was something else to stand in Sinead’s kitchen today, as she threw Mountaineering Man and me a farewell party, and see many of those faces again. So much has happened since I first got here; there were probably a half-dozen children there today who were merely a twinkle in their parents’ eyes back then (including Sinead’s 6-year-old son!), and a good few married couples who were just dating when I landed.

But one thing remains the same, and that is the friendship that started it all. I don’t think we could have predicted any of this back in those San Francisco days, when we hardly knew what we’d be doing the following weekend much less 20+ years later. I’m very sad to be leaving Sinead and this amazing group of people, but I know that our ties will endure, as it has, for many more years to come.

Sinead’s Famous Apple Tart

For years, Sinead has been making this simple but absolutely mind-blowing apple tart. My father fell in love with it when she made it the first time he and my mom visited Ireland; he has been making it regularly ever since. Sinead made it for us today, and gave me the recipe so that I can make it after we move. By the way, Sinead uses a regular dinner plate for her tart – not a tart pan. Maybe that’s her secret?

16 oz of self-raising flour

8 oz margarine

Pinch of salt and sugar

1 egg, beaten

Water

4 cooking apples (like Bramley), cored, peeled and thinly sliced

A few spoons of sugar

Another egg, beaten.

Sieve flour into a bowl with salt and sugar and cut the margarine into cubes and drop into the mix. Using your fingers, mix together until crumbs form – should look like breadcrumbs. Add in the beaten egg and then add as much cold water as needed to bind everything together and roll it into a ball.

Cut the dough ball in half, dust the counter with flour and roll it out one of the balls. Grease your plate or tart pan with margarine, then lay down bottom layer of pastry. Fill with the sliced apples and sprinkle some sugar – about a few tablespoons or until there’s a good layer of sugar on top of the apples. Roll out the remaining pastry and top, pinching the edges to bring the bottom and top pastry together. Brush with the second beaten egg and bake in a 175C fan oven for an hour. Serve with lashings of cream.

I’m from Los Angeles – land of gyms (and plastic surgeons). The last gym where I worked out before relocating to Ireland had mini refrigerators filled with iced face towels, so people could cool themselves off after a tough workout. Very LA.

Gyms in Ireland are slightly different, to say the least. Most are no-frills, though many are priced even higher than my aforementioned LA place. I tried a few and found very little inspiration; one place had machines so old they barely worked, another had personal trainers who knew little about customized training and worked off the same standard program for every client.

Just over a year ago, I found The Edge in Clontarf. It’s a very small space, and when I first saw it I couldn’t imagine how they managed classes in such close quarters. I started going to early morning MetFit and TRX classes, each with about 12-15 people per class. I then took up one-to-one boxing and joined a smaller, personal-training group twice a week. With solid but basic equipment, minimal space and a handful of dedicated trainers, they just make it work. And after a few short weeks, I was hooked.

What I love about the trainers at The Edge is that they are all involved in some sort of sport or training outside of the gym. From star rugby players to tae kwon do champions, these guys and gals are dedicate to fitness because it’s a part of their life – not just part of their gym persona when they’re at work. Believe me, a kickboxing class at your local gym is nothing compared to an hour-long session with a 22-year-old MMA fighter at The Edge. I’ve never pushed myself this hard before – and I never thought I could do this level of training. I have never been a fitness fanatic (or even very coordinated, for that matter). So being able to go light years beyond what I thought was my limit gives me a sense of satisfaction and pride that I’ve never felt before. As cheesy as this sounds, it makes me feel I can do anything.

But what makes The Edge so special and so uniquely Irish to me is the sense of community among the staff and the clients. It’s the gym where everybody knows your name; where one of the trainers will run in during a class and warn us that the parking police are on the prowl so we’d better move our cars; where the other clients will ask how my back is doing because they heard from someone that I got injured; and where those same people will say, “Fair play, Clare!” and give me an encouraging nod when they see me working out in spite of it. It’s just a special place, with special people.

It sounds a bit ridiculous to say I’ll miss my gym, but I genuinely will. To Sean, Sean Paul, Eoghan, Chris, James, Andy, Louise, David and all the staff, and to my personal training group girls – Karyn, the other Karyn (!), Emma, Helen and Sandra – I really will miss you all. If I can find a place back in the US with half the spirit and craic as The Edge, I’d be pretty damn lucky.

This one is going to hurt.

Today is my last day in the office at Kellogg’s European Headquarters in Dublin, and if I can get through it without tears it will be a miracle.

My expectations when I first joined Kellogg’s in July 2013 were purely professional. I hoped to apply what I’d learned in my previous roles to help grow the company’s digital marketing capabilities, further develop my knowledge of European business and gain an understanding of FMCGs (that’s Fast Moving Consumer Goods for the uninitiated, which I was at the time). In a nutshell, do a good job and not make a fool out of the guy who hired me. If I made a few friends and acquaintances along the way, well, that would just be icing on the cake.

So it’s a wonderful and heartbreaking thing to say that I’ll be leaving behind some very special people today, who in a relatively short period of time have become life-long friends.

It’s no wonder when someone leaves Kellogg’s, they always talk about how much they’ll miss the people. The culture of the company is truly special, and my colleagues genuinely respect and support one another – even when under intense pressure. The emphasis on assuming positive intent, building relationships and nurturing trust has greatly influenced the way I approach work…and life.

One of the things I’ll miss the most is walking down the halls and hearing French, Italian, Spanish, Greek, German, Flemish and a whole array of Irish and English accents. I’m grateful to have had the chance to work with people from all over Europe.  To that point, this job has allowed me to travel to places I’d never been, like Geneva and Graz, and revisit some of my favourite European cities such as Paris, Barcelona, Milan, and London. To have this be part of the job is simply a dream come true and the exposure to such a variety of cultures has greatly impacted the way I view the world.

But again, it all comes back to the people. From the canteen lunch ladies (and Noel!) and building staff, to the procurement team and Finance and to our agency partners – I am going to miss you all so much. And to my own team – thank you for your guidance, support and most importantly for the craic (not the drug, it’s an Irish saying)! As the only American in the group, you’ve always made me feel like one of the gang despite my cringe-worthy fake Irish accent and my utter ignorance on Irish pop culture.  I hope I’ve been able to give you something in return for all you’ve given me; please know that I will miss you all terribly, but I am leaving knowing our paths will cross again someday.

The reason I first came to Ireland was the Art Tea at the Merrion Hotel. I was working as a food and travel journalist and I’d come to Dublin to spend a couple of days with the pastry chef and his kitchen staff to learn all about the fabulous afternoon tea they were doing. 

Yes, I realise how lucky I am. If everyone’s first Irish destination was the Merrion, they’d  never leave!

And though I did leave, I came back less than a year later and ended up calling Ireland my home for the next six-and-a-half years. It’s funny how many connections to this Art Tea I’ve developed in that time; it’s true what they say, Ireland is a small country! Paul Kelly, the Executive Pastry Chef at the Merrion, now co-hosts the Great Irish Bake-Off with my fellow blogger friend Lilly Higgins; it also turns out that Paul grew up in Wexford – where my husband’s family is from. My father-in-law has some funny memories of Paul as a kid, riding his bicycle in daredevil style down their old road.

So I thought it would be fun to revisit the Art Tea (something I’ve done a few times since moving here) with my sister-in-law Nessa and my niece Aoibheann. My mother-in-law, Elva, would have loved this as she was a huge fan of a fabulous afternoon tea; sadly she passed away nearly three years ago. Even more reason to go with the girls in the family for proper tea – the first for my little 4-year-old niece – and start a new tradition together. These rituals will be all the more important with an ocean between us, so I hope this will be a place we visit together whenever I am back in Dublin.

We had a lovely time in the Merrion’s beautiful Drawing Room, right in front of the fireplace. Aoibheann ordered chicken nuggets and chips from the kid’s food menu, while Nessa and I indulged in a glass of bubbly to start off the tea (it had to be done!). We then moved onto an array of finger sandwiches – duck egg mayonnaise on a brioche bun; smoked salmon with a lemony butter on brown bread and ham with mustard and tarragon on fluffy white bread. Afterward it was time for piles of mini scones and sweet cakes and breads with lashings of the most luxurious clotted cream I’ve ever tasted. All of this was served with our choice of freshly-brewed tea.

The real highlight of the tea, other than the very special treatment given to my niece (coloring books, a champagne glass for her water and lots of smiles!) were the three delectable and stunning treats inspired by the art in the hotel. Paul and his staff create these edible works of art by hand, and each are as delicious as they are beautiful. The treats are served alongside a small printout of the art piece that inspired it, and all guests are given a bound book featuring a collection of the art in the Merrion. It’s a truly unique afternoon tea experience.

Aoibheann received her treats in a beautiful takeaway box complete with a bow and handle for carrying – she was absolutely delighted (and probably spoiled for life for afternoon tea!). It was a special afternoon, one that represented so many connections both for myself and for my Irish family.

Art Tea is served from 3pm to 6pm Monday to Thursday, and is served at 2pm and 4.30pm Friday to Sunday. Please go here for online reservations, alternatively please email dining@merrionhotel.com or call (01) 603 0608.

After six-and-a-half years, dozens of new friends, two jobs, hundreds of kilometers of exploration around this island and one Irish husband, I am moving back to America.

In a few weeks, said husband (you used to know him as Mountaineering Man in the early days but his real name is Cormac) and I will be saying farewell to Ireland. I can’t even begin to express my gratitude for all that this little green island has done for me – I feel like a different person to who I was when I landed back in March 2010.

And for that reason, the move will be bittersweet. It’s hard to believe how much has happened since my first blog post from Ireland, where I wrote about discovering a proper fry-up, the Irish obsession with tea and their penchant for tardiness. I remember writing about my first car (Peugot 206) and learning to drive on the opposite side of the road AND car; trying desperately to understand the Irish accent; my first real bout of insecurity about the move; introducing you, the readers, to Mountaineering Man; and marrying him. And a million things in between and since – there’s just too much to share in one post.

So for the next few weeks, I’m dedicating my blog to a special series of farewell posts that will highlight some of the best moments, people, places and things about my time in this beautiful country. I hope you’ll join me for this final farewell!

I was in a major pickle.

I’d spent the night at a friend’s flat after too much wine. She had to go to work early, but told me I could sleep in and let myself out as the front door would lock behind me. That’s what good friends do.

I woke up a couple of hours after she’d gone, made sure I had my handbag and jacket and walked out of the flat. I heard the tell-tale “click” of the lock as I firmly pulled the door closed behind me. I walked about 10 steps and turned the handle of the front gate. It was locked, and the only way to open it was with a key – which was nowhere to be found.

Surely the key must be around here somewhere, I reasoned. I checked under the two potted plants, a discarded paper bag and some decorative rocks that lined the walkway. Nothing. I peered into the window of the neighbouring flat, but it was uninhabited; there was nothing but trash on the floor and it looked as if no one had lived there for months. To make things worse, my mobile phone battery was dead, since I hadn’t planned to spend the night and therefore didn’t have my charger with me.

I know what you’re thinking. A gate? Why not simply climb over it? Like many flats in San Francisco, this one had a gate about 15 feet high with spikes on top [similar to the one in this pic on the right]. It was made of wrought iron and had vertical bars, just like a jail cell door (cue irony). With no vertical bars to put my feet on, scaling it meant I’d have to pull my full body weight up by my arms. My upper body strength – or lack thereof – simply couldn’t cut it. The saddest (or most hilarious, depending on the POV) part was that people walking by could see me trying to wriggle my way up this thing. One guy even stopped and tried to help, but upon realising the severity of heroism required, shrugged his shoulders with a muffled “sorry” before strolling off.

It was roughly 10 AM in the morning, and my friend was due to arrive home at around 7 PM. I couldn’t fathom sitting in this [approximately] 4×10-foot outdoor prison for that long. It was cold and the gloomy San Francisco sky was threatening rain. I had to think of something. I went back and looked into the empty, neighbouring flat and tried to see if I could make out anything useful in the junk pile inside. The window was filthy and it was impossible to see. I took out a little cosmetic mirror from my handbag and wedged it under a tiny space under the window and pushed. The window moved. I managed to squeeze a few fingers underneath and pulled with all my might – it opened.

After a few tries, I managed to crawl into the apartment. There was trash everywhere, mostly papers and random things like a hair brush, a pot and an old landline telephone. Wait, a telephone…surely there must be a phone box somewhere outside – I recalled the last time the AT&T guy had to come to my flat to fix our phone line and I had to let him into the back so he could access the box with all the wires. I grabbed the phone, crawled outside and started the search. It only took a few minutes and there it was: A grey, metal box with BELL imprinted on the outside.

I yanked it open and saw loads of phone plugs going into dozens of sockets. The plugs were attached to wires which ran up the building and onto the telephone pole out front. Each socket had a number assigned to it, though they were not phone numbers – I couldn’t figure out what they meant. I yanked out one socket, plugged in the landline and checked the phone. Nothing. I took out another, and tried again. Nothing. On the third one, I got a dial tone. EUREKA! I called my friend’s workplace (thanks to Information 411, as I couldn’t recall her number!), told her the situation and she left work early to rescue me. In the end, I’ spent three hours outside, broke into an abandoned flat and interrupted the phone service for three neighbouring apartments.

I’ve always been scrappy like that – I do what I have to do to get it done.

Professionally, I’ve been fairly scrappy as well. I started working as a music journalist while still in college; though I was being published in major publications it also meant that it took 8 years to earn my degree. I’d spend 1 year at one start-up before moving to another, worked freelance here and there, and dabbled in marketing, social media and both print and online publishing. Once, during a job interview, the HR manager looked at my CV and said, “Wow, you really get around – a year here, two years there…” He was wholly unimpressed, and let me know it.

I used to feel intimidated by those who took the straight path: the Ivy Leaguers and the Wharton School of Business grads who jumped right into Fortune 500 companies post-graduation with a strategic plan to make VP status and the 6-figure salary. Opportunity knocks loudly for these guys, and I worried I couldn’t compete.

But as I grew in my career I realised that my ability to get out of a sticky situation translated into “problem solving skills” in the workplace, and that my knack for coming up with a crafty solution showed my “ability to assess risk and organise resources.”  My start-up experience meant I could “adapt and learn quickly.” Who knew?

For every sceptical potential employer there was another who understood that I had something unique and valuable to offer. And that recognition and support, for  things I’d often felt embarrassed about, is what has helped me grow both professionally and personally. Being scrappy takes skill, practice and most importantly – guts. I’m not afraid to try new things or explore weird ideas. Change is something I embrace whole-heartedly. It’s about being fluid, open-minded and sometimes a little crazy.

These days, I embrace it: I’m happy to be scrappy.

Black Garlic & Radish Crostini

I talk to strangers all the time; that’s another part of being scrappy – I’m curious and inquisitive. It’s led me to meet a lot of interesting folks, and though I moved to Ireland from California knowing only a few people here I now have a good number of friends and a lot of acquaintances. One of them is Duncan, the guy who helps run his family’s Organic Delights produce business and is always manning their stall at the Saturday market in St. Anne’s park. I’ve gotten to know Duncan simply from chatting with him, and he’s always keen to show me the latest, weirdest and coolest new produce. A few weeks back he gave me a bulb of black garlic to try: it’s fermented, rich and utterly lovely. I threw together a quick crostini to go with some soup on Saturday, hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

4 slices of crusty white bread

4 cloves of black garlic

6-8 raw radishes

Sea salt

Toast the bread until golden brown. As soon as you remove the bread from the toaster, place a clove of black garlic on each slice and spread using a butter knife. Black garlic is soft and spreadable, so this is a very easy thing to do! Thinly slice some radishes and place over the garlic. Sprinkle sea salt over the top, and eat! The crisp, cold radish is a lovely balance to the rich, earthy garlic.

It’s funny how certain foods can transport me back to a very particular place in time, and how some of my fondest and strongest memories are tied to certain dish or flavour.

I remember a trip to Westport back in November 2010, which was my first-ever weekend getaway with my then-boyfriend Mountaineering Man. There are many special moments from that trip, including a failed trek up Croagh Patrick (we hit a storm about half-way up and had to turn around), but one that stands out is a tiny little meat pie called a pithivier – something I’d never heard of nor eaten before.

The little, enclosed pie was about the circumference of a 2-Euro coin, as it was part of a multi-course tasting menu created by Chef Seamus Commons at La Fougere Restaurant  in the Knockcranny House Hotel. The golden, flaky crust enveloped a bite-sized portion of tender, slow-cooked rabbit, and the flavoursome nugget sat atop a little swirl of fig reduction – another first for me. To this day, it’s the thought of that perfect bite that brings back all the other memories of that wonderous weekend.

My inaugural visit to Athlone, where I was first introduced to MM’s parents and best mate Wes, is also steeped in a food memory. After a couple of drinks with the folks, we met Wes at Kin Khao Thai restaurant. Because I was such a ball of nerves that day, I can hardly recall any conversation or topics of discussion; however I’ll never forget the dish I had that evening, the Ho Mok Gai. These chicken and prawn dumplings, made from a recipe by the owner’s Thai mother, came bathed in a spicy curry gravy flavoured with lots of fresh basil. It was absolutely Baltic that evening, but I had beads of sweat on my forehead from the heat of the red curry.

Early childhood memories get fuzzier as I age, but every time I eat salmon roe, I’m instantly transported back to a lunch at an Osaka sushi bar with my Japanese grandparents over 37 years ago. My sister and I sat at the counter and slurped up the glistening orange bubbles; I recall how eggs burst with salty brine in my mouth. I have a very specific, visual memory from that day; a pink hand towel on the wooden counter, me on my knees on the bar stool and my Ojiisan ordering more ikura gunkan while laughing at our delight in eating them.

Food and cooking can be so many things to so many people, but me it’s all about the relationships and memories a dish, flavour or even an aroma represents. Being able to resurrect those sometimes long-lost memories by simply recreating a dish is a gift I truly cherish.

Pecorino Romano Cake with Blueberries

When I met my best friend in New York two weeks ago, we had an epic, birthday treat dinner at Del Posto in Chelsea. From start to finish, we were absolutely woozy with delight; every course was a revelation in flavour, every glass of wine perfectly paired and every detail of the service, impeccable. We spent nearly 3 hours enjoying the restaurant’s incredible 5-course tasting menu, with a few “gifts” thrown in by the chef. Though I am not usually a dessert person, the final dish was the most memorable of the evening: a salty-sweet cake made with Pecorino Romano and topped with poached pears and a tangy ice cream. I finally found the recipe after much digging online and made it for MM’s birthday last weekend (he loved it!). With the first bite, I was immediately taken back to Del Posto’s stunning dining room and, for a quick moment, got to relive the giddiness I felt throughout that evening.

Adapted from an original recipe by Kimberly Janusz and Brooks Headley, of Del Posto.

For the blueberries:

200 grams of fresh blueberries

1 tablespoon of honey

Juice of one lemon

For the cake:

115 grams unsalted butter, at room temperature

200 grams sugar

60 grams cream cheese, at room temperature

3 large eggs

140 grams all-purpose flour

85 grams finely grated Pecorino Romano (use a microplane grater for this – it has to be FINE)

4 grams sea salt

6 grams baking powder

240 grams heavy cream

Your favourite lemon ice cream or sorbet, for serving.

Prepare the blueberries by mixing them with the honey and the lemon juice and putting aside in an air-tight container for at least one hour to macerate.

Preheat the oven to 325° F (163 C) and line a quarter-sized sheet pan with parchment paper. I used a brownie pan (9 x 13), as I do not have a quarter-sized sheet pan, and it worked great.

Using a stand or hand mixer, cream together the butter, sugar and cream cheese until light, fluffy, and smooth. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing until incorporated.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cheese, salt, and baking powder.

Add the dry ingredients to the egg and butter mixture and mix until just combined. Stream in the heavy cream, mixing until you have a smooth batter.

Pour the batter into the sheet pan, tipping the pan so the batter is evenly distributed. Bake until puffed and golden, 20 to 25 minutes.

Cool slightly before serving (the cake will collapse a bit). Slice into triangles, arrange on the plate and serve with some of the blueberries and their juice. Top with lemon sorbet or ice cream if you like; I used nobo Fresh Lemon ice cream and it paired beautifully with the cake. This cake is best served warm, so heat up for a few seconds in the microwave if necessary.

In a few short days, I’ll be meeting my best friend from back home in New York City for a long weekend. It’s been over six years since we’ve had time by ourselves face-to-face, mainly due to this hectic day-to-day thing called life and the literal ocean that sits between us.

As an expat, you learn to live without your family and friends as that’s just part of the deal. When I was preparing to move from Los Angeles to Ireland five years ago, all of my friends promised they’d visit. “Finally we have a reason to go to Ireland!” they’d say, earnestly. Five years later, only one (the aforementioned best friend) has actually followed through.

I’m not bitter about the lack of visitors. Let’s face it: it’s a huge ask, especially for my friends back home who get about 10 paid vacation days a year. Throw in kids, the expense of overseas travel and the not-so-amazing weather around here and you can’t blame them for spending their precious holidays in other locales. If the tables were turned, I’d probably do the same.

But it does get hard to maintain those friendships back home, despite social media and email and Skype. Over the years, the list of people I see when I go home has dwindled. The first visit included just about everyone; only a year had passed, I was single and had more time to keep in touch. By the second year, I probably saw about half the original number. These days, it’s a small but formidable group of mates that get together when we visit Los Angeles.

It’s difficult to maintain a connection when so much time passes without a proper conversation. After a while, you realise you hardly know anything about what’s going on with certain friends and it feels like every conversation is a marathon catch-up. By the time you’re introduced to a mate’s “new” baby, the kid is already walking and talking; you find yourself forgetting where a friend worked, or if she changed jobs since the last time you talked (she did, twice, and you forgot – or maybe she never told you). Pretty soon what used to be light-hearted conversations start to feel like an exercise in memory-jogging, and the emails fade out and oddly enough you’re both somewhat relieved. You’re now ex-friends. In a lot of ways, it’s like a breakup without the drama.

It gets lonely at times, and there is a lot of guilt and feelings of regret, but those remaining, well-seasoned friendships keep you going. And there are new relationships as well, the ones that emerge from dozens of new acquaintances you meet through work or blogging or in the new neighbourhood. The ones that remind us friendships are cyclical. I’ve been lucky to forge some lasting bonds here in Ireland, some of the strongest being with other expats.

There’s something about loss that brings people together; maybe subconsciously we sensed a shared emptiness or need for support and that’s what brought us together. Whatever the reason, I’m certainly grateful for the friendships I’ve developed here, and have a deeper appreciation for the friends back home who have stuck with me (like my best friend, pictured above!) – despite the inevitable strain of being thousands of miles apart.

Hearty Veggie Potato Cakes

Being a food blogger really opened up my social circle when I first landed in Ireland, and some of my closest friends here came from the food blogging community here in Ireland. These friendships have inspired my cooking, mainly because we spend so much time talking about FOOD! I’m always trying new recipes and this is one of them – something I whipped up recently for a Meatless Monday. The potato cakes are featured on a lovely, re-purposed chopping board that was a gift from one of my close  friends, Lily Ramirez-Foran, who I met through food blogging.

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

1 large leek

1 large onion

1 red bell pepper

1 big handful fresh baby spinach

1 large potato, baked and peeled

230.00 g cannellini beans (In Water)

1 large egg

80 grams maize flour (fine)

97 grams fresh mozzarella

65 grams panko breadcrumbs (buy at Asia Market)

Salt & pepper to season

In a large saute pan, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil over medium heat. Chop the leek, onion and bell pepper into small dice and add to the pan, cooking for 10-12 minutes or until the vegetables are soft, and then add the spinach and cook for an additional 3-4 minutes, seasoning with salt and pepper as you cook. Put the vegetables in a large mixing bowl to cool slightly.

In a food processor, combine the beans and baked potato and egg and puree until smooth. Add in the maize flour and pulse until just combined. Put this mixture into the bowl with the vegetables and mix until combined. Tear the mozzarella into small chunks and work into the mix, using a spatula or your hands.

Put the panko breadcrumbs into a shallow, wide dish. Now take a scoop of the potato/veg/bean mixture (I used a large ice-cream scoop) and shape into patties. Carefully press each patty into the panko mix, coating each side. Place the patties onto a grease-proof paper-lined baking tray and set aside.

Heat over medium heat the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil in the same, large saute pan you used to cook the veg. Carefully place the patties in the pan, in a single layer (I had to do this in two batches as mine made 7 patties) and cook for 3-4 minutes on each side, or until golden brown. Serve with ketchup, tartar sauce or whatever you like.

Enjoy!