The black in black pudding is congealed pork blood, and I am nearly a vegetarian. So I nibbled at the stuff excruciatingly slowly, considering with each small bite—and in between bites, too—exactly what I was eating, and straining to taste an excuse to push the plate aside. The excuse never manifested; Clonakilty’s black pudding is, in fact, delicious beyond description—a perfect comfort food.
And comfort has long been needed in Ireland. After all, it is a country whose inhabitants have endured much hardship and deprivation. I have often wondered about the mystery of Irish authors—Swift, Wilde, Joyce, Beckett, O’Brien, and Doyle, to name a few greats—how these people, who have been invaded and oppressed for centuries, manage to produce such lyric laments. How do they create pleasure and nourishment from such a bitter history? Perhaps the darkness of their subjugation allowed pain to ferment into music and longing to transmute itself into poetry. It is not so different from yeast, rising in darkness from single cell to form a rich source of sustenance.
Yeast was in Grandma Hayes’ larder, and Yeats was in her library. I learned both their lessons well: In “Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea” Yeats seems to reveal some of the mystery behind Ireland’s eloquent transmutations.
I only ask what way my journey lies
For He who made you bitter made you wise.
Wise indeed—in bread, in beer, in blood—an Irish trinity well worth toasting.
