Much of my childhood was lived with my Irish foster mother. She was gloriously funny, always busy, loving, old enough to be my grand mom, and had a delightful brogue, so thick you could cut it with a stick. And it was so full of music... I just adored listening to her, well on cold winter mornings, after filling us with big ceramic bowls full of—made from scratch oatmeal—what she called porridge. It was dotted with butter and brown sugar, to which she would pour on top in a small river of cream.
Oh heaven, the aroma alone could make you swoon!! On especially cold days she would do this extra special thing. When we were leaving for the bus stop, on our way to school, she would walk us to the front door and hand me and my 3 half siblings rashers of crisp, crisp bacon—the thick old-fashioned kind, hand-sliced—and slabs of fresh Irish soda bread she had just fried brown in bacon fat. She would put them in our mittened hands saying in her lyrical Irish brogue, and with much solemnity…
“Here now children, take this with ya’ while your waiting for the bus, and the fat will keep out the cold.”
Now, I knew she knew everything and was so loving and good, but I was troubled. I was never quite sure how this “fat” protection worked? Did you wave the bacon in the air to drive the cold away? Did you hold it in front of you like a crucifix warding off Dracula? I would keep it in front of me at the bus stop long as I could, but eventually I would succumb and eat the delightful, crunchy, salty fatty strips and the divine toasted soda bread, willing at last to take the chance of being out in the cold without a bit of fat protection... and it was so divine I didn't even care…
Photo: The author all grown up.
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