I went to college in San Francisco, a relatively expensive city for a starving student. As there was no way to afford my own apartment, I chose to rent a room in a house with a half-dozen other people. On moving day, as I was carrying my boxes up the stairs of my new living quarters, I met an Irish couple that was also moving in that day. Little did I know then that my new roommates and their gang of Irish friends (all of whom lived in our neighborhood and were there for a two-year stay) would become life-long friends.
Sinead Roche, one-half of the couple, worked as a nanny and I was a college student. She was from the countryside in Ireland and I hailed from Los Angeles. Though on the surface we didn’t have much in common, we became fast friends. We’d sit around our dining room table drinking white zinfandel out of a box and chain-smoking Marlborough Lights, stock our cabinets with stolen pint glasses from the local pubs and trade stories from our childhoods. She often talked about her mom Nancy, a real salt-of-the-earth woman who one minute would be chopping down a dead tree in the yard and cooking up a proper fried breakfast the next. She spoke of how her father, Niall, could be found at the pub every evening after dinner, laughing over a few pints with his buddies. She talked about her two brothers and four sisters, all of whom grew up in a small farmhouse and beat the crap out of each other as kids but had grown into a tight-knit bunch as adults. I had vivid pictures in my mind from her stories, envisioning a big family – perhaps a warped Irish version of the Von Trapps, sans the singing bit – living together in a stone cottage somewhere in the middle of a big green field in Ireland.
Over the years, I’ve met all of Sinead’s siblings: a couple of sisters came to stay with us in San Francisco for a month; the other two joined Sinead and her new boyfriend Trevor for a trip to Los Angeles to visit me a few years back. I finally met the brothers last St. Patrick’s Day, during an alcohol-fueled few days in Chicago. Just as it had been with Sinead, my friendships with her siblings were easy and formed quickly.
So as Sinead and Trevor drove me down the narrow road toward her parents house in Ireland last week, I felt like things were coming full circle. Twelve years after meeting Sinead, I was finally coming to her part of the world. The visit did not disappoint. Nancy, the heart and soul of the Roche family, was every bit the hard-working, no-nonsense woman I’d imagined her to be. Every morning she cooked breakfast for me, which included a mix of rashers (Irish bacon), sausages, brown bread and eggs. I got to experience her weeknight dinners, which has been the following for countless years:
Monday: Pot roast and potatoes
Tuesday: Irish bacon and cabbage
Wednesday: Spaghetti Bolognese
Thursday: Whatever’s In the Fridge
Friday: Fish and Chips
Though we didn’t eat in every night, I was lucky enough to have the pot roast and potatoes, and the spaghetti Bolognese – both excellent. When Nancy wasn’t cooking, she was cleaning or reading the paper or walking around the yard checking on things or asking me if I wanted a cup of tea and some biscuits. She’s a busybody of the best kind, always making sure everyone has what they need, but also taking time for herself. Every Saturday morning, after doing the shopping at the market, Nancy gets her hair done at the salon, and then goes for a salad sandwich and tea at the café across the way. You can set your watch by it.
Niall, too, has somewhat of a routine. Nearly every night after dinner, he’ll drive to the local pitch ‘n putt to collect money from the customers trying to get away with not paying for their games. He then heads to the pub. Though he eats dinner at the house most of the time, on Wednesdays he’ll go get fish and chips as he “despises” tomatoes and therefore will not eat the Spaghetti Bolognese. He is an avid fan of his son’s Gaelic football team and has the team flags on his car to prove it (note: GO MATTOCK RANGERS!). He always let me know that if I needed a ride into town, he’d be happy to take me. When Trevor, who was driving me to meet a friend, got pulled over and had his car towed (some Irish road tax thing – don’t ask!), Niall raced over and picked us both up and took us to our destinations.
Though we were only a 15 minute drive from the main town of Drogheda (which happens to be Ireland’s largest town that is not officially a city), we spent a good deal of time at the house. Finding ways to entertain ourselves in the country was actually quite easy. One day, Sinead, her mom, Trevor and I spent a good hour taking photos of an Ernie (as in Bert & Ernie) doll in various compromising positions in brother Earnan’s car. Why? Earnan had asked me to take some pics of his car, as he wanted to sell it. Little did he know that, with this simple project, he provided us with an hour of sheer entertainment. Sinead’s mom even contributed by art-directing the various positions of the Ernie doll, bringing out the Scotch tape so that we could stick him to the steering wheel or prop him on the car door. Trevor even played model and struck a few – ahem – interesting poses with the car.
My favorite part of the visit was just sitting around their living room with the family after dinner. Sometimes Sinead’s cousins or uncles or aunts, who all live in the area, would pop by for a cup of tea and gossip after dinner, so there would be 10 conversations going at once with the television blaring in the foreground. It was LOUD. This is life in the Roche house. Earnan told me about how he’s learned to tune everyone out, because growing up in a house with seven kids will teach you such skills. It wasn’t unusual to see him slouching down on the couch, eyes fixated on the television in his own, zen-like state.
I didn’t mind the noise, and actually kind of fell in love with it. Much of the conversation, especially with us “kids” would involve hurling insults and/or making fun of each other. The Irish sense of humor is no-holds-barred, and no one ever gets offended. You just have to be able to give it back and hold your own, and I’m pretty sure I managed to do that. Telling someone to “feck off” became a pretty natural response for me, and it was always met with a hearty laugh or a clever retort.
Needless to say, I had a wonderful time with the Roches and miss them already. Being in their company, it was easy to forget about all the meaningless drivel that sometimes preoccupies life here in Los Angeles (celebrity gossip, reality television, etc.). I am grateful that they took the time to host me during my visit. Thanks Nancy, Niall, Earnan, Aoife, Trevor and most of all to my wonderful and life-long friend Sinead!
