irish
Stefon: If you’re Irish, or just white and violent, I have a St. Patty’s place for you. New York’s hottest Irish club is Off to Church, Mother. Located in the clogged heart of the Bronx at the corner of 3000th Street and Garry Marshall Memorial Drive. This gangridden skateboard park was the ceremony spot for Vern Troyer’s 2004 wedding. This place has everything: Peeps, TED Talks, Roman J. Israel, Esq. Be sure to hit the dance floor and do a jig with Ireland’s hottest Farrahchauns.
Michael Che: Wait, Louis Farrakhan is at this club?
Stefon: No – “Farrahchauns” — leprechauns that look like Farrah Fawcett. But also, yes, Minister Farrakhan will be there.
Everyone celebrates St. Patrick’s Day a little differently.
My mother was nothing if not proud of her Irish heritage and determined to pass on the pride, cultural knowledge, and grudge against the English that she so enjoyed. For St. Patrick’s Day dinner, even on Fridays in Lent (with a special dispensation, of course), she’d make the traditional corned beef and cabbage that went along with the general stereotype of Irish culture, but when we were about to take a bite of beef she’d preach that her people would have eaten not corned beef but lamb stew. Beef was for the landowners, she’d remind us, “landowners” as shorthand for the wealthy Protestants who oppressed her Catholic ancestors. Then why didn’t you make lamb stew, I never had the courage to actually ask.
Perhaps you’ve had good Irish corned beef. There’s nothing like it. And my mother’s was nothing like good Irish corned beef. The beef boiled on the stove for what seemed like half the day, giving the whole house a particular pungency, and on the plate it was somehow simultaneously stringy, rubbery, and flaky. That said, it was unavoidable. You see, Mom’s rule at the dinner table was that we consume what she called a “‘No, thank you’ helping” – at the very least, a spoonful or tiny portion of every dish — lest we insult the cook (who was usually, well, her). So, every year, I’d make it through my annual “‘No, thank you’ helping” of corned beef before consuming all the Irish soda bread left on the table.
As St. Patrick’s day approached, she’d make a batch of soda bread, following her mother’s (and I can only assume her mother’s) recipe, for our dinner and to give to friends. Whether it’s an “authentic” Irish recipe (whatever that means in cultural reference) is yet to be determined, and whether anyone actually liked it is also up for debate, but for Mom it was a tangible connection to her ancestors, an annual reminder of the cultural legacies that she cherished and that she knew set her apart from her WASPy surroundings.
…whether anyone actually liked it? The dough isn’t tricky – buttermilk, fat, flour, baking soda, and a little sugar, the basics of a typical quick bread. From there, though, recipes and palates diverge. Mom insisted on Crisco for her soda bread in another nod to her impoverished kin. Butter was expensive, she’d say, again invoking the suffering she inherited. When she first taught me how to make it, I loved getting my fingers all messy from hand mixing the flour and Crisco. Like her mother, Mom added raisins and caraway seeds. Stay with me. The raisins, not so bad, but the caraway seeds? It definitely takes a savory turn, and for some at my mother’s table, there wasn’t enough butter on the table to justify the rye. That said, if it accompanied her corned beef, it was a life saver.
It wasn’t just around St. Patrick’s Day that soda bread started to appear in the kitchen. It was an easy addition to a potluck or to have on hand if friends were coming for a cup of tea. I started making soda bread in college and even taught my housemates how to make it. My friend Tom loved the crumble of my mom’s soda bread and still sends me photos when he makes it. In grad school and when I started teaching, I found that soda bread was an easy thing to make if I needed to do something with my hands, if I needed to process an idea, if I wanted to sit with a thought or a memory. Over time, I played with the recipe – I wanted an ever-so-slightly sweeter and ever-so-slightly less-crumbly version than Mom’s, so I played with the balance of ingredients and I’ve experimented with different fruits and nuts to reflect specific occasions, seasons, or cravings.
About twelve years ago, I shifted to a plant-based diet (some might even call it vegan) in an effort toward better health. When I started to explore vegan baking, my first goal was to find a satisfying adaptation of Mom’s soda bread. For the buttermilk, I tried soy milk…no. Almond milk…no. Coconut milk…yes! But, as when I discovered that Thin Mints and Oreos are vegan-friendly, imagine my delight when I learned that Crisco was, indeed, vegan. That said, I have experimented with plant based butters when I wanted a richer taste (since they’re plant- and not cow-based, I feel less guilt about the plight of my poor Irish ancestors).
It was only when I started experimenting with the recipe and feeling the resistance of my ancestors with every change that I recognized that soda bread has become a metaphor for me. Its history in my family is itself a portrait of generational change and connection, of family unity, diversity, and division. At some level, every time I make a round of soda bread, I take note of the almost mystical commonality of the practice, a common recipe and method passed down through both writing and example, that breaks down the boundaries of space and time as it invites my ancestors into my kitchen. I take note of the ways it’s evolved – both the recipe and my family’s culture – adapting to each generation’s resources, needs, and tastes. I take note of the ways I can both maintain a connection and introduce an adaptation with ease, offering not a replacement but a complement to the original. And I wonder whether and how it will change for generations to come or whether or not my niblings will even make it, whether the recipe, the practice, and the memories attached to it will survive.
An Irish Soda Bread
Make the buttermilk.
½-⅔ c milk (whole milk, coconut milk, or another thick non-dairy milk; in a pinch, almond milk will do)
2-4 T apple cider vinegar or lemon juice (if you’re making a citrus-flavored soda bread, use its juice)
Mix together and set aside. With cow’s milk, it’ll curdle; with non-dairy milks, less so.
Preheat the oven to 375F.
Lightly grease a round baking dish or pan. I use a 6”x2” pan and grease it with the same shortening I’m using in the recipe.
In a large mixing bowl, mix the dry ingredients.
2 c flour (a standard gluten-free baking flour works just fine)
¾ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 T sugar (white or brown sugar, depending on your preference, and for a more savory loaf, reduce to 1 T or even 2 tsp)
Optional: zest of 1 lemon or orange or 2 limes. If you are adding zest from a lemon, lime, or orange, zest directly into the sugar and mix together before adding to the dry mixture.
Cut shortening into the dry ingredients.
⅜ c shortening (Crisco or Spectrum vegetable shortening, unrefined coconut oil, or butter of your choice)
Using your fingers or a pastry cutter, cut the shortening into the dry mixture. Vary the shortening to make it more or less crumbly–less shortening=crumbly, more shortening=less crumbly.
Add other ingredients to the mixture. You don’t have to, but if you want you can add:
1 T caraway seed (at your own risk, best for a savory loaf and to complement currants or raisins)
½ c dried fruit (my favorites are whole currants or raisins, or chopped cranberries, apricots, or cherries)
½ c chocolate chips (really good with orange zest)
Bake.
Form into a round loaf in the prepared pan.
Optional: sprinkle a little turbinado sugar.
Bake for 30 minutes, until a toothpick comes out dry, or it reaches an internal temp of 190F. That’s enough time to fold a couple of loads of laundry, watch an episode of The Golden Girls, or call your mother.
Cool & eat.
Let the loaf cool in the pan for 10 minutes.
Remove onto a cooling rack and let rest for at least another 10 minutes before slicing into it. I slice my loaf like a pie into 6 pieces. Feel free to slice any way that appeals to you. Best to serve warm, but still great to serve room temp.
Smear sweet soda bread with butter, a little jam, or your favorite condiment. Sop up some lamb stew with savory soda bread.
