You'll Always Have Tara

I am sorry, darling, but I can’t tell you what you should be doing with your life. Nobody can. It’s one of those things you have to figure out for yourself. You will figure it out, Tara. You will figure it out and you will be a spectacular success, an awe-inspiring, breathtaking, beautiful success. You always are.

Text to Manderley Maxwell de Maloret:

Thank you, Mandy. I wish we were kids again. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I actually miss the days of you telling me what to do. It was so much easier when you put your hands on your hips, looked at me over the tops of your glasses, and gave me what-for. I miss you, Little Miss Bossy Pants.

Text from Manderley Maxwell de Maloret:

I miss you, too.

Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

Yay! I am so glad you traded in your sorry old Doc Martens for a pair of rain boots. I met a girl in the village and she said Hunter wellies have suffered prole drift.

Text to Emma Lee Maxwell:

What is prole drift?

Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

A stupid term used by uppity Brits to describe when an upscale product becomes popular with the non-aristo classes. Like I care. If Hunter wellies were good enough for Princess Diana, they’re good enough for us! Right?

Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

Right?

A girl can only go on so many aimless hikes before she starts to question her purpose on this planet—even if she is taking those hikes while wearing shiny, new, prole drift Hunter wellies.

The weeks have melted away like ice cubes on hot asphalt and I haven’t accomplished an apple-picking thing. I say apple-picking, because I am pretty sure one of my roommates has kept busy picking produce.

Aidan leaves the castle before sunrise and returns just before dinner, his rucksack heavy with squat apples with red-tinged, strawberry-flavored flesh, and dark-blue plums with yellow, spicy-flavored flesh. He delivers his bounty onto Mrs. McGregor, dumping the fruit into an ancient wooden trencher on the counter, and then climbs the narrow, twisting tower stairs to his room, returning freshly scrubbed and smelling of soap. Discovering why Aidan has developed an addiction to apples and apple products has become the riddle in my very own Nancy Drew mystery.

The Message in the Apples.

The Mystery in the Rucksack.

Sin, on the other hand, spends his days involved in more cerebral pursuits. He has claimed the Steward’s Room as his own, transforming it into his office. In the old days, the steward would have been in charge of collecting rent from the tenants of the estate. The tenants offered their coins to the steward, who would deposit them through a slot on the top of his desk, where they would drop into a hidden, secured compartment. Sin cleared away the old leather bound ledgers and replaced them with dual computer monitors and stacks of black, three ring binders. He stays holed up in his makeshift office for most of the day, only venturing out for his afternoon tea. I am not sure when he sleeps—if he sleeps. Discovering how he is able to keep his body so fit and his skin so healthy with lack of apparent exercise or fresh air has become the riddle in my second Nancy Drew mystery.

Clue in the Steward’s Room.

The Workaholic’s Secret.

Mystery at Tásúildun Castle.

Actually, The Ridiculous Wonderings of an Aimless Woman would be a better title for the story of how I spend my time.

This morning is going to be different, though. This morning, I am not going to stay in bed binge watching Cooked on my Netflix app and puzzling over the riddle that is Aidan Gallagher. This morning, I am going to stop being the Girl Detective and start being Woman Determined (to find her purpose).

Showered and dressed, I am ready to boldly go where very few have gone before: Mrs. McGregor’s kitchen. I’ve had this little caterpillar of an idea wriggling around inside me and I want to give it some room, see if it will develop into a big, beautiful butterfly. The idea came to me yesterday while I was sunning myself on the boulder beside the prayer stone. It was unusually warm so I took my boots off and stretched out on the rock, my bare feet dangling off the side. The sun on my face, the sound of the distant surf like white noise in my ears, lured me to that place between consciousness and sleep, where ideas pass through your brain unfiltered. I was just about to drift off to sleep when an overactive neuron in my brain fired off a memory of the article I had read about the women who gave up their jobs to start lucrative food-based businesses.

The hairdresser and her cheesecakes.

How does a hairdresser with no culinary experience become the president of a million-dollar gourmet cheesecake company?

People love my cheesecake.

Goats. She used cream cheese made from goat’s milk. Big whoopee pie. I could make a cheesecake using goat’s milk cheese.

Man, this sun feels good on my face.

Did I remember to put on my moisturizer with SPF this morning? I hope so or else my face is going to be one giant freckle. Aunt Pattycake used to have a German shorthaired pointer with freckles all over his face. She called him Herr Sommersprossen, which she said meant Mister Freckles in German. He would do tricks for Cheetos. A dog that ate Cheetos. Funny . . .

. . . almost as funny as a hairdresser making goat cheese cheesecakes.

I should start selling cheesecakes. I’ll bet there are loads of people in Donegal hankering for cheesecake, especially one made by a trained American pastry chef. Cheesecake made with Bailey’s Irish Cream.

Ooo, I know! I could make glazed plum cheesecake using those fat, juicy plums Aidan brings home each night. I could pair the plum cake with a strong ginger tea or a delicately flavored citrus tea. I could turn the old stables into a tea room and serve—

And that’s when my little wriggling caterpillar was born, while I was sunning myself on a boulder high in the hills over Tásúildun.

Mrs. McGregor is standing at the island, scrubbing a copper pot with a paste of salt and white wine vinegar, when I walk into the kitchen.

“Good Morning, Mrs. McGregor.”

“Good Morning, luv,” she says, smiling. “Be sure to take the brolly with ya. The clouds over the hills are trying to rain.”

“I’m not taking a hike today.” I grab one of the tarnished copper pots and a handful of Mrs. McGregor’s paste. “If you don’t mind me lollygagging around the kitchen, I thought I would do some baking.”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

I finish scrubbing the copper saucepot and then carry it over to the sink, rinse it under the faucet, and dry it with a soft cloth until it gleams.

“Mrs. McGregor?” I place the saucepot back on its shelf. “What happened to all of those old cookbooks that used to be in the butler’s pantry?”

“They’re still there. Why?”

Mrs. McGregor stands quietly while I tell her about my burgeoning butterfly of an idea. I tell her about the plum cheesecakes and apple pies I want to bake, the pots of ginger tea, the cozy and inviting tea room that will beckon travelers from all over Donegal.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Don’t worry. I won’t pitch a hissy fit if you say you think it sounds like a completely harebrained idea.”

I mean what I said. I won’t pitch a hissy fit if Mrs. McGregor laughs at my idea. I am talking about creating a lucrative commercial venture even though I have no experience developing, implanting, or operating a business. It sounds as half-cocked as . . . Emma Lee saying she wants to be a marriage broker without ever having had a serious committed relationship.

“I t’ink it sounds like a grand idea. Sure, a grand idea,” she says, reaching for a new pot to scrub. “And don’t ya worry, luv. I would tell ya if I thought it sounded like biscuits to a bear.”

Biscuits to a bear has been one of Mrs. McGregor’s favorite phrases for as long as I can remember. It means a waste of time.

“Thank you, Mrs. McGregor.” I hurry around the counter and throw my arms around her. “You’re better than butter. You know that, don’t you?”

“Go on with ya,” she laughs, waving her salt covered hands at me. “Go fetch your cookbooks and I will pour ya a cuppa.”

I hurry down the hall, energized by Mrs. McGregor’s enthusiasm. Instead of heading to the pantry, though, I head to the Steward’s Room and press my ear against the closed door. Sin is speaking Japanese.

Sin speaks Japanese?

Sweet Gary Stu! Is there nothing this man can’t do? Manderley taught me about Mary Sues and Gary Stus, seemingly perfect characters in novels, when we were reading a bestseller about a centerfold model/helicopter pilot/covert agent who disarmed an explosive device with a hairpin after hacking into the Pentagon’s computers to stop a Chinese-fired nuclear weapon from obliterating London—while wearing six-inch heels! Sin, with his model good looks, financial acumen, and multi-linguistic abilities, is proving to be a Gary Stu.

Sin switches to English and says goodbye to the person on the other end of his line. I wait a few seconds before knocking on the door.

“Yes,” he says. “Come in Mrs. McGregor.”

I open the door.

“Actually, it’s me,” I say, peeking around the door.

“Good Morning, Tara.” He smiles, pulls his ear piece out of his ear, and tosses it on the desk. “This is a lovely surprise.”

“Good Morning, Sin,” I say, trying not to look directly into his model/business wizard/linguist beautiful eyes. “I was wondering if I might beg, borrow, or steal a few office supplies.”

“Of course,” he says. “What do you need?”

“A pad of paper, pen, highlighter, and some of those little colored sticky things you use to mark a passage in a book.”

“Flags?”

“Yes, Sir!” I laugh. “Flags.”

He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a new yellow legal pad, pens, highlighters, and flags.

“Here you are,” he says, handing me the supplies. “Good luck with the novel.”

I stare blankly.

“Cookbook?” He says, trying again. “New recipe? Epic tic-tac-toe battle with Mrs. McGregor?”

I laugh.

“Close,” I say, taking the supplies. “I am working on a potential new venture that could help raise the money to keep Tásúildun in the black.”

“Bloody intriguing.” His phone rings and he smiles apologetically. “Sorry, but I have to get this.”

“No worries.” I turn to leave. “Thanks for the supplies.”

“Wait,” he says, putting his hand on the door. “If you’re free, would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow night? I would love to hear all about your new venture.”

If I am free? Hmmm. You mean, if I am not cuddling up with a box of Mrs. McGregor’s Butter Cookies or listening for Lady Margaret’s rasping death rattle?

“I would love to go to dinner with you.”

“Capital.” He grabs his earpiece off the desk and pushes it back into his ear. “Cheers.”

And just like that Sin goes back to looking gorgeous and rescuing the world’s ailing businesses (in multiple languages).

I walk back down the hall, grab a stack of cookbooks from the pantry, and carry everything back to the kitchen table. Mrs. McGregor has set some logs to fire in the fireplace and arranged a lovely tea tray on the table.

The book at the top of the stack is Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery. I flip through the foxed pages, working around the discolored spots to read various tips on how to run a proper Victorian household. I set it aside and open a brown leather book with faded blue print. Commonsense Cookery by Colonel Kenney Herbert proves to be an entertaining gastronomic read, offering examples of elaborate dinner menus and concise recipes for complex dishes, like pickled beef tongue and mutton saag.

Some of the books offer advice unrelated to cooking. For instance, in one book I learn that putting an eel in a bottle of whiskey and drinking from it will “cure frequent and prodigious inebriation.”

In The Lady’s Handbook and Household Assistant, circa 1886, I find notes scrawled in the margins by a Mrs. Mairead E. Cumiskey. Some of them humorous. Some of them emphatic. Some of them inexplicable.

“Mrs. McGregor?”

“What is it, luv?”

“What is a tallywag?”

Finished polishing the copper pots and pans, she pours herself a cup of tea and joins me at the table.

“Is it listed as an ingredient in one of those old cookbooks?”

“No, ma’am,” I say, sliding the book over to her. “Someone named Mrs. Cumiskey wrote in the margin beside a recipe for oxtail soup, ‘Tougher than tally-wags. ’”

“I believe a tallywag is an Atlantic sea bass.”

“Sea bass? What does a fish have to do with oxtail soup?”

“Why don’t ya giggle it?”

“Giggle?”

“Search for the answer on the inter-webs.”

“Oh,” I say, laughing. “You mean Google.”

I grab my iPhone and google tallywag.

Mrs. McGregor was right. A tallywag is an Atlantic sea bass—but it is also Victorian slang for testicles! Mrs. Cumiskey! You naughty girl.

“You were right,” I say, quickly putting my phone down. “It’s a sea bass.”

Mrs. McGregor sips her tea and flips through yesterday’s Irish Times, while I finish perusing the cookbooks.

In the slender, red leather bound Breakfast, Luncheon, and Tea, I find another handwritten note from Mrs. Mairead E. Cumiskey, this one a recipe for potato and Irish cheddar rolls to be served with stew to be served with neck oil (beer). I imagine a bitter winter day, the potato rolls fresh out of the oven, served on a pretty hand painted platter with pats of Irish butter.

In the last book I find a yellowed sheet of paper stuck between the pages. It is a hastily written recipe for Barmbrack, a traditional Irish fruitcake made with dried sultanas and raisins that have been soaked overnight in spiced whiskey.

I know Barmbrack is the first recipe I want to try. I will dry Aidan’s apples and plums in the oven and then soak them in Bushmills whiskey overnight. Tomorrow morning, I will make my first loaves of Barmbrack.

I carry the books back to the pantry and return to review my copious notes. I can’t remember the last time I felt so motivated and creatively inspired! In just a few hours I have collected over a dozen new recipes, learned Victorian food preservation techniques, and added tallywag to my repertoire of testicular slang.

Mrs. McGregor folds her paper and stands up.

“I will leave you to it, then, luv,” she says, carrying our empty teacups to the sink. “I have a dental appointment in Dungloe at half-two. If ya give me that list, I’ll stop at the market on my way back and pick up everything ya need.”

“Thank you.”

I rip the page with my grocery list off the legal pad and hand it to her.

“Do you need a ride? I would be happy to take you in Aunt Patricia’s Rover.”

“Have ya driven in Ireland, then?”

“Never.”

“Thanks a million, luv, but I’ll take me chances with old Mrs. O’Kelly. She’s got cataracts and she’s deaf as a broomstick, but she knows how to manage these Donegal roads.”

How old is Mrs. O’Kelly, I wonder? If Mrs. McGregor is calling the woman old, she must be positively Jurassic.

“You’re sure?”

“Stop fretting and start baking.”

Mrs. McGregor grabs her handbag and sweater off the hook behind the door, gives me a cheery wave, and is about to leave when I remember something I forgot to add to my grocery list.

“Mrs. McGregor, wait!”

She turns around.

“Would you please add bottles of cider to the list?”

“How many bottles did ya need?”

“Three or four.”

“Did ya want Bulmers, then?”

“No,” I say. “I would like a craft cider. I believe it is made locally. Bánánach Brew. Have you heard of it?”

An intriguing, enigmatic Mona Lisa smile stretches across her face. “Of course I’ve heard of it.”

“Great,” I say, smiling.

“But ya can’t buy it at the SuperValu.”

“Oh.”

“Aidan left a few bottles in the fridge.” She walks back to the table, picks up a pen, and jots something down on the legal pad. “The brewery isn’t too far from the castle. I drew a map in case ya want to go there and get more cider.”

Outside, Mrs. O’Kelly honks her horn. Mrs. McGregor waves again and hurries out the door, leaving me with one more Nancy Drew mystery to solve: the reason for her strange, secretive smile when I asked if she had heard of Bánánach Brew.