Explaining this whole “Lenten Locavore” thing to people has been a real challenge. They basically look at me like I’m insane, and I’m pretty sure I am. This is winter. This is New England. This is impossible. And no, it is not easy. It is not cheap. There is tons of cooking! It takes serious planning and time. But what came to my attention yesterday, is that it really takes some courage to be a locavore. It takes bravery… Continue reading “Locavore = Brave”
So here I have arrived. I’ve met Fr. John, Fr. Efren, Fr. Mel, Fr. Tom, Fr. Terrance, postulate Stefan, Bridget (the cook), Evon (the housekeeper), Regina (the secretary), Brian (part of retreat planning), Kevin (taxi driver, west Belfast tour guide, former political prisoner), Tom (Mayor of our village: Kilmore, meaning “big church”), Mary (his wife), Kathy, Margaret, Pat, more Mary’s, more Tom’s… and others whose names escape me, and/or I can’t remember.
It’s been THREE days in Ireland and I think I’m FINALLY getting a bit of a picture of the history (at least on the Republican side). I’m also getting used to riding on the left side of the road, being joked with about becoming a nun (actually this is getting old), changing plans, spontaneous plans, not saying “awesome,” and regular use of words and phrases such as “lad,” “wee,” “lovely,” “give it a miss,” “loo,” “gents,” “chips,” and I really need to start a list… I think I’ve already started adapting.
TEA = TRAP! Not that I mind regular breaks (morning, afternoon, evening), conversation, and warm beverages. Tis a lovely trap.
Belfast is a small small world. And I’m living in a village of Belfast, even smaller. A village of a village even: KILMORE. Population: ~200-300. Just behind the local publick house. It’s pretty awesome.