Colcannon and Seaweed
Padraig woke early feeling greatly refreshed and famished. He made a great pot of steel cut oats to go with his morning tea. He sliced some brown bread and slathered it thick with butter, then took out some raisins and honey to add to his porridge when it was done. He captured the loose tea in the fine wire mesh ball with an ease grown from years of practice. The dark rich scent of Irish breakfast tea begain to rise in the room. It might be cliche, but it was his morning tea of choice. All the fancy teas held no attraction for him. Pomegranate oolong - what did they really put in that anyway, he wondered? He sipped at his tea and added a bit of milk, sighing with satisfaction. Pulling the oats from the heat, he was surprised to find them cooked to a creamy perfection. He normally managed to leave them on just long enough to overcook them into a stiff cake that the spoon could literally stand straight up in. Adding his honey and his raisins, he stirred up a large bowlful and moved off to the table with his tea, oats and bread all neatly balanced in his meaty hands.
Settled he found every bite more succulent than the last and even returned to scrape out the pot, eating all that he had made. Surely he would need no lunch with the amount he had eaten for breakfast. He showered, shaved and changed all in preparation for another day at his pub. A smile tugged at his lips. His pub, an' his father's afore that, his grandfather's afore then. It was a fine business to pass down. 'Twas a shame that it would pass to a cousin, still it would remain in the family, an' that was a good proud thing. He made his way out of the upper flat and down to his own entry to the workplace. His door opened directly into the space behind the bar. He loved that first moment when the wood gleamed its welcome and the bottles winked good morning to him.
Warmed by the rush of familial roots he felt from this glowing reception, he made his way to the kitchen to begin his prep for luncheon. His mother and Megan would soon be along to help open the pub and begin the long day that was broken only by the mid-afternoon hours that separated one meal from the next. He would spend these behind the bar pouring the occasional drink, while his mother prepared what was
necessary for the evening menu and Megan did whatever was her fancy during her hours off.
Padraig opened the cooler and extracted the largest pot of chowder to put on to simmer. He pulled out the roasted beef joint and sliced it thinly. Then he scraped the juices into a shallow pan and added fresh garlic and chopped shallots, simmering it into a thin gravy which he knew would thicken over the course of the day. Next he set to peeling potatoes and slicing them into the great pot which he used for his famous colcannon. Then he cleaned and squared the cabbage. When Megan arrived Padraig was just finishing the last bit o' peel from the parsnips and beginning to chop them into the boiling pot that would eventually become the whipped potato concoction that would accompany most of the entrees and many sandwiches served to the luncheon crowd. Padraig's colcannon recipe was handed down from his grandfather and was ordered by most of the locals and a great many of the tourists as well.
Megan's arrival flustered him so much he nearly cut his fingers on the sharp knife. Odd, he thought, he had never really looked at Megan before. She was pleasin' enough to the eye, that was true, and no hard bit on the nerves, but he had never really seen her. He had to admit he had never really seen any woman he would have fancied enough to change his ways for. He watched as Megan tied her apron on and moved out of the kitchen. There was a decidedly appealing sway to her skirts that he could not help stopping to watch as she moved through the room. In her absence the kitchen felt duller somehow. Padraig shrugged and went back about his business. By the time his mother arrived he had completed his kitchen duties and went out to secure the bar.
The pub fairly hummed to him. He felt his face open to a wide beaming smile. "Och, Megan 'tis a fine brau day, 'tis it not?"
The auburn haired girl looked up in surprise, "That it 'tis, sir."
"Ye can call me Padraig. We've known each other for how long?"
"For nearly six years, sir, since I came home from school in Dublin."
She'd been working for him for all those years and he had never even noticed her. No wonder she kept calling him sir. "Tell ye what, Megan, ye drop the sir an ye can take yer supper early, afore the business starts."
"Yes sir, I mean, Mr. Padraig."
"Close enough," he grinned. "Off with ye now."
He was going to have to pay more attention to people and not just the gleaming wood and sparkling glass. He finished up and flipped the sign, unlocking the door. About a quarter past he began to see his first customers. He had thought it might be a light day but the pub was full and he and Megan moved almost continously taking care of the clientele. When the rush was over there was not a spoon of colcannon left, the beef joint was all but gone and hardly a drop of chowder remained. His mother was aleady clucking about being tied to the kitchen for the rest of the day if they were going to serve dinner. He gave her some funds from the till and she bustled off to find what she would for the night's menu.
Megan and Padraig worked to clean the pub and the kitchen, whistling together as they went. It was a wonderful way to spend the late hours of the afternoon. And by the time they were through with the last bit of polish, Megan had even managed to call him Paddy. He wasn't quite sure about that, but it was leagues better than "sir" so he decided to go with it.
Dinner and the evening pub hours were just as busy as lunch, if not more so. Padraig was beginning to wonder if all the other places in town were closed, but he clamped his mind tight, remembering not to question good fortune.
His ma shooed them out of the kitchen after dinner. Inspecting the odd plate now and again, she concentrated on prepping for the following day, cleaning while she went. Padraig could manage the clean as you go approach behind the bar, but had never quite figured it out in the kitchem. He was quite simply a very messy cook. When the morrow's preparations were done and the kitchen was set to rights, his ma called at the entrance to the pub that she was off. A chorus of "G'night to ye, Missus" greeted her and she beamed the regulars a smile worthy of Kathleen O'Hara and swished out the door.
Padraig sent Megan home a couple of hours later when the crowd had thinned down. She was flushed pink from work and the excitement of the full jingle of coins in her apron poacket. 'Had a good night of it, eh?'
"Aye, it was a grand night. I could use a few more of these."
"Really, saving for something big?"
"It's supposed to be a secret, but I don't see as ye'll be tellin' the town. Me brother's been accepted down to Trinity and we're all chippin' in to make sure he can go." Her eyes seemed to hold a spark of a dream in them.
"Guess that's where ye wanted to go."
"Aye, but was a different time then, an' the family could no have made it work. I was quite lucky to have me two years secretarial. I'm fine with it. I just don't want Daniel to miss his chance."
"Well, then, if ye want more shifts just let me know."
"That I will, an' thank ye." Megan went to the kitchen and hung up her apron, moving her tips to her pocketbook and collecting her coat. She stepped out with these in her hands to say goodnight and turned back to the door. She almost dropped her bag when Padraig stepped behind her and murmured a thank you for her hard work that day. 'Twas the first time he had ever done more than acknowlege her efforts with a quiet nod. She felt a blush flush her features as the smile grew across her face. Padraig was really quite an interesting man.
After seeing out the last of the pub patrons and completing his ritual polishing of the pub, Padraig put his evening tackle together and headed out to visit his charge at the cavern. The cool night air felt grand on his skin and he felt braced and somehow expanded by the stroll down to the strand. The sea was exceptionally beautiful with a bit of twinkle from the moon as it shed its light on the ripple and cascade of the crashing waves.
Entering the cavern his light mood was instantly shifted to one of extreme alarm. The swan was missing. He was not in his accustomed nest.
Padraig did a quick search of the immediate area but could not find him, nor did he see the other two birds. He had not judged him well enough to fly during his last visit. How much could the bird have improved overnight? He made his way out to the ledge where he normally "fished" for the seaweed the bird ate. And that is where he found the swan. Sitting with its neck elongated staring out at the sea. From his vantage point the pose had a look of pure longing to it. But that, of course, was mere fancy on his part. The bird was being fed and cared for, who was he to ascribe emotions to the animal?
As he approached, the graceful neck made a slow swivel so that the lone peering black eye took him in. The bird stared at him for a moment as if to acknowledge him and then returned to his gazing. Padraig wandered over to join him. Looking out from this viewpoint, he could just barely discern two flecks in the air, creating a woven pattern in their flight. It was somewhat like a reel-dance, only performed by the two birds to a music all their own. He stood with his companion and watched transfixed until one of the birds broke formation and dove toward the sea, plummeting at great speed. The bird looked like an arrow released by the Fey. Just before impact with the rough waves it pulled up and soared back into the sky, joining its dance partner. It was breathtaking. He looked at his charge, and the lone swan's yearning gaze was heartwrenching.
Padraig left the bird to its gazing and went back to the cavern to collect the retriever and begin the process of getting his charge's meal set out. He came back to the ledge and worked to gather the fresh weeds, then returned to the cavern, all the while avoiding looking at the swan who sat so pensive at the edge of the sea. In the caven he set out a bed of ice and put half of his catch into it, then he placed the rest in the cooler to keep. Next he put out fresh water. As he completed setting the swan's table, the bird appeared. It was walking with relative ease. When it saw the meal it rose and extended its neck and expanded its wings. This time both wings seemed to unfurl at approximately the same height, though he noticed that the one seemd to fold down more quickly. "'Tis feeling better ye are, is it? Well, truth be told, I'll miss ye when yer gone. But I'd not put that bit o' selfishness ahead of ye returnin' to full health."
Padraig took out the bit of bread and cheese he packed for himself and ate quietly. He mused over his grand day. This was a fine way to cap it off, finding the bird healing so well. It was only a matter of a day or two at most and the swan would be ready to test its wing at flight. He might not be able to fly long but he should be able to join his friends and wheel in the dance with them. That would be a fine sight. A fine sight indeed.
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