No luck with this Irish
Are you suffering from dating exhaustion? Tired of swiping right to disappointment? Kissed too many amphibians in princely clothing?
Well then there was NearlyKilledMe.
Yes, NearlyKilledMe. Saturday night and it was a party. For a one year old. Hosted by a close friend it was one of those gatherings busy with screaming children, family, friends of family with more screaming children, and an endless supply of fairy bread and creaming soda. I felt naked childless, and nervously aware of my tendency to use crass humour and drop the f-bomb. Not a good mother figure. I was standing alone, avoiding soda-foaming-at-the-mouth children, a piece of fairy bread in hand and a glass of wine in the other when I heard a humoured voice from above, “interesting combination”. I looked up and up and up to where the voice fell from. He was tall. Very tall. He stood at 6 ft 7, a gentle giant and a work colleague of the host, a chef by trade who preferred eating toast and yogurt on his nights off, he was a motorbike enthusiast and dog lover with shoulder length sun streaked curls and clear celestial blue eyes who spoke lovingly of his family and desperately longed to have a family of his own, and spoke proudly of his Irish heritage but had sadly lost any trace of an accent to the Australian surf at the age of eight. Note: He had just been in an on-off-on-off relationship with a woman with two small children, and his eyes may have sparkled a little and his brow may have creased a tad when he talked about them. But we talked and laughed and made our very own party. And before we knew it there was not a frankfurter, party hat or screaming child in sight. There was a spare bed though and we decided to share it, fully clothed, still full of conversation and slightly in awe of what we were discovering. It was a largely sleepless night but I awoke entangled in his long branchlike arms feeling invigorated with a heart ready for love. And with details exchanged we planned to meet again within the week.
And so, it was the beginning of something special. My phone became my heartbeat in the days that followed as we shared practically every living moment with each other by text, counting down the seconds until we saw each other again. He even opened a Facebook account so we could have another point of contact. Ah, infatuation. And the date was to be a surprise. He would pick me up at six and take me to an unknown secretive destination. I was dizzy with excitement. So when he arrived on his motorbike with an extra helmet I nearly lost my pelvic floor. I’d never pillioned before but I was so willing to try for my Irish giant. Little did I know of the journey ahead and how unprepared I was for it. It was nearly two hours on an open road in 56km/hour winds wearing no more than a pair of jeans and a lightweight jacket, nearly being blown into oncoming traffic, chilled to the very core, and clinging on for dear sweet life. And our point of arrival was the same place we had met. Only this time there were no screaming children and there was a hot meal and a bottle of wine waiting. The first words out of NearlyKilledMe’s mouth were “man, I thought we were going to die”. My heart pounding, I was in a state of wired shock, almost convinced by the joyful adrenaline coursing through my body that I’d just had a good time but realising as my heart slowed and clarity returned it was just because I was simply still alive.
It was no surprise that the wild weather inhibited us from returning until the following morning, and so another sleepover was on the cards. Heart rates normalised, nuzzled by wine and good food we found ourselves lying once again in the same bed. But the rough ride had created an awkward tension between us and sleep was preferable to talk.
The ride home was far less chaotic but memories of the night before still made me cling a little desperately by the knees. We parted on good terms and he scooped me into his branches, promising to think of a way to eclipse the memory of our first nightmarish bike ride. Would he cook for me? That could potentially put us back on the love track. Or perhaps a trip to the beach with his dog followed by home-made cocktails and a massage? My mind was running with it. But then I noticed as the day went on that my phone had lost it’s heartbeat. And the following day it was flat-lining. I checked Facebook and discovered that NearlyKilledMe had acquired a number of new friends. Trying to resist the panic that was setting in I stayed busy for another day before attempting to make contact. After writing and deleting multiple text possibilities I went a little stalker and checked in on Facebook again. Only this time he had some fresh action on his page. It was a simple message, four little words, but those four little words eclipsed the memory of that nightmarish bike ride. “I love you babe”. Apparently the ex was not so much of an ex anymore. Her message seemed to confirm it. All I can say is in that moment I hoped that all of that clinging for dear life by my knees pillioning had ruptured his testicles and rendered him sterile. But I’m not going to let a rebounding, date spoiling, slightly balding, toast eating, promise-failing L-plater get the better of me. He needs to be sent to the jacks. But first I need to get me a pint of Gat and escape to the kitchen to create something tasty to put in my mouth and warm my belly.
A riverdance in my mouth
Irish Guinness Stew
800g chuck steak
3 tablespoons flour
salt and pepper
2 onions, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
5 sprigs of thyme
1.5 cups chopped mushroom
8 small shallots
butter for cooking
2 tbsp tomato paste
1 tbsp worcestershire sauce
1 cup Guinness beer
2 cups beef stock
sugar to taste
1/2 cup extra beef stock
Cut up your steak into large cubes and toss with flour, salt and pepper. Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil to a deep saucepan and brown off the beef in batches. Once cooked set aside and add onion to the pan allowing it to soften. Add four sprigs of fresh thyme and heat until fragrant. Then add the carrots and tomato paste and stir through. Pour in the Guinness, stock, and worcestershire sauce. Leave to cook on a low heat until the meat softens. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Add a little sugar if you would like it sweeter.
In a separate pan sauté the mushrooms with a little butter and olive oil and the remaining sprig of thyme. Season with some salt.
Place your shallots and a little butter in another pan and cook over a low heat until just browning. Add the remaining 1/2 cup beef stock and cover with a lid. Cook until soft.
Add the mushrooms, shallots, and celery to the beef mixture. Leave to cook for another 15 minutes. Serve with hot potato mash.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! That is good. Bad taste gone.