Granny’s old ways were the best

Ciara McLaughlin gathered her grandmother’s recipes for a new cookbook and here she recalls the baking skills and thrifty use of fresh local produce that created delicious treats infused with tradition

Granny raised her family on an upland farm in County Antrim. Just like most homes in the 1960s, the kitchen was a busy spot, as Granny relied on baking to fill the bellies of her brood of eight, one of whom was my daddy. Luckily, in those days culinary competence was woven into her upbringing, so it was no bother meeting the demand for gorgeous grub.

Granny’s scullery depended on farm-fresh produce that would make the present organic trend drool. Flavours were dictated by the seasonal crops in Granda’s fields or whatever ripe pickings hid in the nearby forest. Putting food on the table was very much a family affair and everyone chipped in — mind you, they didn’t have it easy. In the absence of a fridge, perishables were kept outside, clean water had to be laboriously drawn from a well, and the beds were draped with shabbychic linen, salvaged from flour sacks and stitched by hand. However, these seemingly hard times didn’t stop Granny from carving out childhood bliss for Daddy and his siblings, mainly through incredible food.

Fridays at the country haven were forecast for flurries of kitchen bustle, eagerly anticipated by the rising heat in the Rayburn. Wheaten loaves swelled in the oven and the worktops grew heavy with golden pancake medallions, while sodas huddled by the stove. Every so often a turkey wing wiped the flour off the griddle, allowing it to gasp for breath between batches, and there was always someone waltzing with Granny’s apron strings in the hope of pinching a wayward crumb.

Granny’s family loved her baking, and of course, visitors did too. Company would call for a yarn, filling cups from the teapot on the stove and scattering biscuit crumbs from their wagging chins. Any extras were shared with neighbouring houses, delivered by the children for the occasional payment of a pink-powdered bonbon.

Sadly, Granny died before I was born, though I’ve come to know her through her food. Her baking was thrifty, instinctive and delicious, the kind that nourished and delighted without unnecessary flash. There was nothing artificial about the ingredients she put in or the smiles she got out, and I often find it hard to keep the stories about her baking brief with all the loveliness that crops up. The plates may have been cleared in seconds, but the tastes have lingered on, adopted by my parents when they married. Armed with Daddy’s fond memories and Mummy’s culinary talents, this dedicated team have preserved Granny’s traditions and skills, jotting her recipes in a now exhausted notebook with ‘handfuls’ and ‘drops’ translated into measurements.

Naturally, I’ve grown up with baking as kin, alongside two sisters, a brother and a delightful

THE JOY OF FOOD: Ciara McLaughlin and left, her grandmother in the kitchen dog. We’ve spent many a day crammed in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and tresses tied back, always ending in the timeless battle to be the licker of the bowl. I’m sure Mummy’s head was turned with the four of us teasing her duster with clouds of flour, but she maintained order with the threat of the wooden spoon, which we feared might change from friend to foe. There’s a big difference between Granny’s kitchen and ours, but little specks of her history shine through. Every summer since I can remember, Daddy marches us out to the same forest to fill pots and mouths with wild bilberries, and I don’t think I’d tasted a store-bought pancake until I was at university (although, I wasn’t too impressed). One thing that certainly hasn’t changed is the pure appreciation from friends and family upon receiving a box of freshly baked goodies.

It’s lovely to think that while Granny worked away by the stove, she was unintentionally piling up a mountainous baking inheritance that has shaped my youth. The past is overflowing with wonderful traditions and flavours, and although it’s impractical to fully return to the old ways, a few drops of nostalgia are like a warm, syrupy remedy for the impersonal ache of convenience food.

These recipes sing the praises of traditional Irish baking, chiming with the charm of basic, local ingredients and pantry veterans.