AT LAST!

My epic quest for spudballs ended last night at approximately 6pm at Fats Quann's takeaway in Carrick on Suir.

A spudball is a big blob of mashed potato and minced onion, fried in batter and sprinkled liberally with salt and vinegar. They're packaged first in a brown paper bag, then in newspaper, then in one of those ubiquitous blue and white striped plastic bags that is the hallmark of Irish mom-'n-pop fast food.


I have never heard tell of them anywhere besides Carrick on Suir, and as you may remember, the first two times I visited Brendan's family either the takeaway was closed or they were out of spudballs.

Greasy, mushy, salty goodness. Worth the wait? Oh baby!

Couldn’t Ask for Better Neighbors

I’m back in Tipperary this weekend, at Brendan's parents' house in Carrick-on-Suir for Easter. Here is a view from their backyard:


Now, living right beside a graveyard might creep some people out--but the way I see it, there are bodies buried everywhere. These are just the ones that are marked.

Last night we were walking into town (so I could sample the spudballs, a local delicacy; alas, there were no more to be had at Fats Quann's takeaway), and as we were passing the graveyard Brendan pointed out the eerie blue lights inside--the same solar-powered lights you can get for your front walk, which charge all day and illuminate the sidewalk at night. If there were any honest-to-God orbs floating about you'd hardly have noticed them.

You expect this kind of elaborate grave-tending in a predominantly Catholic country, but I still wonder at the time and expense behind all those rotting wreaths, water-logged flower-globes, sentimental plaques (which often include a photograph of the deceased) and battery-operated candles. It seems like a significant part of Irish culture--something that, unlike the rural custom of forming a digging party when a neighbor passes on, won't be dying out any time soon.

(Blame Seanan for the offaly bad pun.)