From the Bunclody archive: September 1995

A SLICE OF THE GOOD LIFE

Riddle me this. What is light yellow in colour, comes up warm every morning and provides fuel for a full day?

No, it is not the sun but the delicious soda bread baked first thing by Kitty Mahon, Mill Road, Bunclody. In fact, the production of this daily miracle is a great deal more regular than the appearance of the Irish sunshine.

Practice makes perfect and Kitty’s routine has fine-tuned a manufacturing process which has won her a notable niche in the hall of fame. She has been tops in the white soda section at the Bunclody Show for the past 17 years in a row.

She has a framed certificate from Show Secretary Rory Murphy to prove it. Since she first ventured into the fray back in 1979, at least seven different adjudicators have presided over the white soda class. Each in turn has singled out Kitty as the best.

As she says herself: ‘I just seem to hit it right’. Whatever she hits, it does not come from agonising over recipes and temperatures and ingredients. The cake of bread which takes the prizes is a product of the very same automatic routine that produces food for herself and her husband Tom each day.

There is no question of any written formula for this success. Like the late (great) Monica Sheridan of RTÉ, Kitty Mahon is a great believer in a handful of this and a pinch of that. Such an approach is not readily boxed in by the artificial constraints of mere ounces or grammes. She is also incredibly vague as to the heat or time required for producing perfect soda bread in her gas oven. All she knows is that when she comes back into the kitchen after making the bed and doing a bit of vacuum cleaning, the job is done. It’s a miracle.

‘Tom will not eat loaf bread,’ explains the champion home baker on the motivation which keeps her in perfect training. In this household, the phrase ‘ loaf bread’ is uttered with just a slight hint of contempt – and a degree of kindly sympathy for those who have to rely on mass production.

Like every good hurler, Kitty started to pick up the skills of her chosen sport at an early age. She was reared by her grandmother in the same house where she still lives on Mill Road. Granny Hayes (originally a Reddy from Rathnure) was the best of teachers.

When the old woman cooked a tart, there was always a corner of it for the neighbours. Little Kitty learned bread-making by imitation, making tiny cakes to match the more business-like efforts of her teacher. The pair of them did not rely on Calor gas.

The bread was prepared in a three-legged pan which rested in the fire with gríseach (red embers) piled below and on top. At the time, the pupil had barely started school. Kitty went on to pick up academic qualifications which eventually turned her into a nurse.

There were years spent working at St Senan’s Hospital in Enniscorthy where the staff lived in and the opportunities for baking were very limited. However, she left there in 1963 and had to adapt to keeping a hungry farmer husband stoked up for a day in the fields. She re-learnt the old skills.

Kitty Mahon has a wonderful feel for materials – when it comes to raw ingredients for her baking and the presentation of the final product. She makes ger own buttermilk, for example, employing an amazing yeast-based ‘plant’ which bubbles and breathes in a jug in the corner of the kitchen.

The tea she serves to afternoon callers comes in the bone china collected by her granny before her death in the 1950s. And Kitty is a dangerous woman when it comes to slapping the butter on to her bread – nearly a quarter inch thick. She never believed all that stuff about it causing heart attacks anyway.

Then there is the honey mined from the bees of Kiltealy from the heather of the Blackstairs, topping off the lot. Gorgeous. Kitty Mahon-Hayes is a modern lady, with microwave and home extensions et cetera, but she certainly appreciates traditionally good things.

There is just one problem. While her white soda – firm yet light – is legend, her brown bread is un-regarded. Kitty gives the brown as much attention, and Tom enjoys it with equal relish for breakfast or out on the farm. Yet it fails to win big prizes.

Every morning out of the oven come two steaming cakes, each nine inches in diameter. One white, one brown. If that seems excessive for one couple, there is always a piece for neighbours, callers or even the milkman. All feel privileged to be offered either the sweet white or the nutty brown.

If you are given the chance of a sample, do not refuse.