Beautiful Affair
A Ballymaloe-trained chef, songwriter and musical right-hand-man to the legends of Irish song takes us back stage and into the kitchens of a bohemian, international and surprisingly foodie group of Irish household names, including members of the Dubliners, Sharon Shannon, Stockton’s Wing, The Fureys and De Dannan.Story-led and full of anecdotes, Mike Hanrahan tells the tales behind the music of the 1970s and 80s in Ireland and cooks up the favourite dishes of its most-loved singers.From memories of family recipes on country hearths, to the flimsy vegetarian grub served up in his early folk-club days and communal pressure-cooker stews in a crowded tour bus, Mike shares the excitement and passion that good food and great music bring to the table. After training with Darina Allen at Ballymaloe, he turns his hobby into a second career and works his way up in professional kitchens across the country, collecting stories as he goes.
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
FIRST EDITION
© Mike Hanrahan 2019
Illustration © Charlotte O’Reilly Smith 2019
Photographs from the author’s personal collection unless otherwise indicated
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover illustrations © Charlotte O’Reilly Smith
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Mike Hanrahan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008333003
Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008308759
Version 2019-09-10
To Donna
CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 7 RONNIE, I HARDLY KNEW YA …
CHAPTER 10 BALLYMALOE COOKERY SCHOOL
Farmer John, plough your fields, bring the seed to grain,
Feed the hungry, fill the belly of the traveller as he sails,
A weary heart, a tired soul will try come what may,
Farmer John, plough those fields, help him on his way.
– ‘Firefighter’, What You Know (2002)
THE CROSSING
My parents grew up in the neighbouring farming communities of Barntick and Ballyea in County Clare. As a young couple they chose to start their new life in the burgeoning outskirts of Ennis, which offered opportunities for work and a new rented home in which to raise their young family. In 1957 they moved to the just-built St Michael’s Villas on the edge of Ennis, and there they raised eight children, six boys and two girls: Gerard, Joseph, Kieran, myself, Gabriella, Adrian, John and Jean. I was in the middle; the youngest two were twins. Dad provided and Mother nurtured.
When we were young, our summers were spent secluded on my grandparents’ farm, a few miles from civilisation. We walked to and from the village of Ballylea every Sunday morning, dressed in our finest to attend Mass at the parish church. The farm was our domain, where our friends were the animals and our sustenance came from the very land we roamed.
Come September, we returned to the bustling terraces of Ennis, playing games on the green with the O’Loughlins, the Howards, the Hahessys, the McMahons and the Dinans. By contrast with the farm, it was a noisy playground where you fought to shout your name.
Even as children, our ‘country’ mentality jostled for position on the streets and in our schools, while the country folk saw us only as townies. We were somewhere in the middle, criss-crossing – in language, expression, attitude and mind.
But home life had surety, unity and a purpose, constantly nourished with wonderful music and beautiful food. Music and food have kept me on track at every crossing.
DAN JOE
My grandfather, Daniel Joseph Kelleher, was born in 1898 at No. 2 Victoria Villas, Victoria Cross in Cork City, and was sent to live with his aunt Mary, who lived with her husband Patrick Nagle in Ballyea in County Clare. It was not unusual in those days for large families to send some of their children to live with their aunts or uncles to help alleviate the pressure on food and board at home. Dan Joe grew up in Ballyea and married a local girl, Margaret McTigue. They settled down to raise their family of four boys and one girl, my beautiful mother, Mary Kelleher.
Dan Joe was a gentle man who worked for the local government and spent the rest of his time working the farm with Margaret, raising cattle, pigs, sheep, geese and hens. He wore a dark grey fedora that only left his head when he sat down to eat or attend Sunday Mass. We spent our entire summer school holidays on their farm, a playground of vast open acres of grazing fields, stables, hen houses, tackle room, straw-bedded sheds and a monstrous metal-framed hay barn that would fill to capacity during our stay. At the rear of the milking parlour was a slurry pit which fed the land and gave off the most noxious of smells in the July heat. Manual farm machinery speckled the yard, along with milk churns, water barrels, a couple of dogs and the ever-present Charlie, the wonder horse, our absolute best friend in the whole wide world.
