I am a spring baby, and have always loved this season best of all. Ireland spring started last week and will carry on now probably until mid-June when it will just go back to being autumn again. But while New York is still freezing and Connecticut is still blanketed in snow, I am grateful for the brave little flowers and forsythia that are already coloring the walkways around Dublin.

I wonder what the Universe is trying to tell me.

In case you are interested, the years are 1995 and 2000. I don’t know what that is supposed to mean either. But there they are. Two little dimes on a mission.

Weirder still, I found an old Irish 10p coin, the one with the fish on it, in the bottom of my purse on Saturday night. I am now wondering why I’ve been gifted — for lack of a better word — three 10 cent/pence pieces I cannot use.

For now I’ll just pop them back in the underwear drawer and await further instruction…..

Opinions from both sides of the pond welcome.

When John Gabriel Borkman was on at The Abbey this past autumn, the cast did a talk-back with the audience. Many cast members seemed distressed that the Irish audiences had been finding the show so amusing. Fiona Shaw in particular felt that the audience was not taking the show seriously enough; she felt that because Ireland was such a “young nation” its audiences tend not to be able to appreciate the gravity of a piece of theatre easily.

Now, we have Fintan O’Toole’s review of God of Carnage at The Gate, which follows in the same vain as Ms. Shaw’s feelings; Irish audiences find the humor too easily. Mr. O’Toole felt that the play was “crass” and was surprised to find that the audience did take the blatant racism more to heart.

And yet, there is the flip side to both Ms. Shaw’s argument and Mr.O’Toole’s reaction. Surely, Ardal O’Hanlon points out, the theatre is meant as a form of entertainment and if an audience finds it amusing why should they not celebrate that? I personally think it is a bit rich to assume that Irish audiences would take the story of a bank manager’s downfall seriously, and neglect the irony. Even if it is a tragedy, the parallels with current Irish society were far too clear to not at least try to find the humor. Mr. O’Hanlon, an actor in God of Carnage, responded in The Irish Times to Mr. O’Toole’s review, maintaining that as a work of satire, the play was meant to be crass and outrageous and, at the end of the day, funny.

I appreciate that Irish audiences react with so much gusto; whether it is laughing at the tragedy of a fallen bank manger, or at the ridiculousness of the middle classes, or even breaking into applause when the heroes of the story kiss at the end. At least you are certain they are enjoying it.

Theatre should be used as a tool for intellectual thought, political ideals and social change. Above all, though, it is, and always was, meant to be entertaining.

You cannot get a cup of coffee in Dublin until at least 7.30 am. I mean, you could, of course, make a cup of coffee in your own home. But, if you are out, on the move, you cannot get a cup of coffee early in the morning. I discovered this as I waited for bus to town at 6am. I changed buses at about 6.45, in the City Centre, and still not even Starbucks was open. I know that would not fly in New York.

There were other people up and about as well; I was not the only person heading to the airport at that hour, or in fact, heading anywhere. It was not busy in town or on the buses, but I cannot have been the only person wishing there was at least one place to grab a coffee while waiting in the cold for the AirCoach.

Am I missing something? Is there somewhere to get a coffee in the wee small hours in Dublin?

Twice I’ve had a hard time getting a coffee by 9am on the weekends. Yes, this is in my neighborhood, not the city centre, but the BF and I had to drive around to three different places pre-9am on a Sunday to find a coffee to go.

I am split between loving the slower, less manic pace of Dublin and missing the fact that you can get anything you want in NYC at any hour of the day or night.

Luckily, I managed to get a delicious cappuccino at the airport which was worth waiting for.

I had made it once before, a few years ago, but for some reason I hadn’t remembered how good, how comforting it really is. When you cook anything for that long in it’s own juices, it will probably be good, but I really think the Guinness adds a magic touch. Guinness has such a strong taste, but it turns into a really deep thick sauce that still tastes like Guinness only much warmer and more subtle.

I recommend this stew even if you are not a Guinness fan. I think you will find that you like Guinness in this form, if not in its purest form. It is a crowd pleaser, and in the winter there is something very satisfactory about making something so hearty.

Winter can roll on; I’ll make some more stew.

One of the definite advantages to living in Europe is that within a few hours you can be in a completely different world; Africa, even! We traveled right to Essaouira, on the coast, which was a perfect way to ease into the Moroccan experience.

The images that keep coming up when I think of our ten days in the country are the food markets. Stacks of olives, jars of preserved lemons and oranges, carts full of clementines, huge, almost whole cows hanging from butchers stalls, camels heads, live chickens and pigeons awaiting their doom, and hundreds of cats hoping for scraps, or simply sunning themselves on walls or walkways. Morocco smells of spices, musk and animals. Not unlike India, I thought. It tastes of sweet, sweet mint tea and salty olives and couscous. The people are welcoming and charming, the cities are ancient and mysterious.

It is like stepping back in time with donkeys carting building materials and the call to prayer booming down the alleyways, but then young Moroccans are walking around in Nikes and hoodies, listening to western music. Morocco manages to blend the modern and the ancient, traditional religious society with an ever increasing western European influence. So far, it is going beautifully. I look forward to my next visit.

I teamed up with some other American ladies and we started talking about cookie parties and plates of cookies, homemade and decorated within an inch of their lives. So we decided to do it: bake some good, old-fashioned American Christmas cookies to give away to people.

We made two types of dough, one butter cookie, one gingerbread, and got some Christmas cookie cutters (provided by our fabulous Irish friend who wanted to join, and we were happy to initiate her), lots of frosting, sprinkles and silver balls.

We had a messy, delicious, hilarious time making lots and lots of Christmas cookies. I love mince pies and I even love Christmas cake, but there is nothing like getting a plate of cookies like this to share with friends.

…and that was only the tip of the iceberg….

Merry Christmas!

This magic item is not one that I grew up knowing about. I was not properly introduced to the idea of a hot water bottle until reading Nancy Mitford’s novels which take place in a drafty country houses in England. In America, even during the frigid winters in the Northeast, we didn’t have a need for a hot water bottle. Need is a strong word, yes, but I have already this winter experienced such a need. Even in said frigid Northeast, central heating is a definite, hot water comes on all the time, and double glazed windows (and usually storm windows) are de rigueur. As citizens of NYC and CT (and the other states that make up this chilly belt of winter America), we expect it to get pretty darn cold and so we prepare for it and are willing to pay the heat/gas/electric fees to make sure we do not have to feel the draughts and the chill while indoors.

Lovely Ireland is a different beast all together. It is not meant to get too cold here, and as I mentioned in my last post, it is most certainly NOT meant to snow. However, the Irish have never lost their relationship to hot water bottles, and this is a relationship that I am now relishing; especially when waking up to the winter wonderland scenes.

It must be said that my first meeting with my very own hot water bottle was a magic one. I was with my cousins in England for New Years 2001 and we’d driven down to their country house on a Friday evening. The house, having been unoccupied for the week, had no heat on and it was almost as cold inside as outside. As we came in, heat and hot water got switched on, we built a fire and had dinner in the cozy sitting room in front of it. As part of the warm up operation, Sarah — unbeknownst to myself — had tucked hot water bottles in all the beds. When I climbed in under the heavy duvet in the still chilly room, the bed was toasty warm and I was, literally, snug as a bug in a rug. I have always loved sleeping in a room that is a bit chilly. I tend to suffer in over-heated NYC apartments, which are a fact of city life. I like a cool (not cold) room and being covered in bed by heavy duvets and blankets. The hot water bottle is like a cherry on top.

So when winter fell on Dublin like a ton of bricks a week ago, the BF bought me a brand new hot water bottle. Our apartment is warmer than most Irish houses (the building was built in the ’70s), but without central heat, turning on the heater in the bedroom forty minutes before bed wasn’t really doing the job of getting the chill out. My new addiction is covered a typical rubber bottle covered in a gray/white fur jumper so looks a bit like a cat. I’ve actually got it under my feet at the moment as the floors are cold since we were away for three days.

I like not having central heat and I like not being suffocated by too much heat (a la NYC) when walking into the flat. I do, however, suffer from poor circulation and climbing into a bed that is being warmed from inside, right where the toes belong, is bliss.

Hot water bottles are a simple pleasure, yes, but when you are leaping into bed on a chilly winter night, nothing is more delicious.

What makes this snowfall even more magic, is that because Dublin is unprepared for this kind of thing, the snow is not treated like an unwelcome guest. In NYC, the minute snow begins falling, snow plows are out, and sand and salt get thrown down on the roads and sidewalks. Before you can really enjoy the whiteness and the blanket of quiet that snow creates, it has turned into a gray/brown slush. Here in Dublin, it gets packed down, but not shoveled away so everything stays white.

Now, I understand the cost of that is that the roads and sidewalks become distinctly more hazardous. But I can slow it down….take it easy….stop rushing.

It is hilarious overhearing people talk about how they were (are) ‘snowed in’. There was no more than four inches in the city and everyone was all of a sudden unable to go anywhere. Four inches of powdery snow is not really a big deal at all for any northeastern native, but there was talk of schools and some work places shutting down. I’ve really enjoyed the added drama that a few flakes bring, so I am not complaining and simply enjoying this unexpected weather event.

Years ago I arrived just after Christmas to a light dusting of snow in Dublin. The site of my sister’s palm tree in front of her house, covered in snow, was so surreal. I’ve always regretted not taking a photo. That Dublin has palm trees at all is a bit surreal, really, and then to see them covered in snow takes the whole thing to the next level. This time, I didn’t forget to photograph it.

Snow has been falling on and off all day, and Dublin looks like a mini winter wonder land. With all the Christmas lights up and Thanksgiving over, I can take all of this as a welcome introduction to Christmas festivities. Thankfully the weather, and Dublin, are putting on a great show!