16 th March 2026
A June Morning in The Cottage- Soda Bread
An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns into the small kitchen.
6am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .
My grandmother, quietly mutters the prayer, to herself .
She throws two sods of turf into the range , remembers with a smile how grandad and John Jo, cut the turf, brought it home from the bog in the spring, turf that will last the family through bitter winter months.
She sighs, places the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda, - no weighing , no hesitating, rhythmic, instinctive. And just as my grandmother lovingly draws those she loves into her heart, with a tender touch she forms a soft, supple dough. She throws it down onto the floury table, kneads it gently, knuckles gnarled, hands worn - I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years, fair weather or fowl - work from dawn to dusk on the family farm. Today, the cottage is relief. She takes a knife, she cuts, with ceremony , into the round dough, if you are close you'll hear her whisper, as if in prayer, "the cross of blessing." In the evening, the soda bread will be cool, she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter, pile it high, family and friends will gather. pass it round - a ritual, - Soda bread , pots of strong tea, shared stories, stories stored in the very walls of the cottage, talk of what has been, what was, what will be, there will be laughter,there will be crying, there will be remembering.
All hearts will be full.
