After the Communion was said and done, all Emma Connolly was left with was an excess of potato salad and a few loads of wet laundry.
WE’RE still coming back down to earth from the post-Communion high, over a week later.
It really was such a super day, only it went by far too fast and I genuinely wish we could do it all over again.
If I had the chance I would do a few things differently though. Well one thing specifically – I’d have less potato salad. Yes, an awful lot less potato salad...and less coleslaw. And less cucumber pickle too. Maybe a platter less of cold meats as well. I just can’t help myself when it comes to catering for gatherings like this, and always prepare far too much. Maybe it’s something to do with the Great Famine, I don’t know, but I’ve an unholy fear of not having enough food at family events, and that fear becomes a genuine terror when it comes to potatoes.
For example at Christmas time I lose sleep wondering first of all how many types of potatoes we should have for dinner (obviously mash, roast, garlic and a few boiled just in case), and then the volume of each. My husband just looks on at me with a mix of amusement and exasperation (mainly the latter) as I feverishly peel/slice/mash ‘just a few more.’
So for the communion I had a huge bowl of potato salad, and then two back-up bowls in the fridge, a fridge that was so packed you couldn’t fit so much as a wafer in there). All combined, they rivalled the EEC’s butter mountain back in the ’70s. It was very tasty mind you, but despite doing my best Mrs Doyle on it (go on, go on, you’ll have a bit more etc) and sending everyone home with a take-away tub, there was still a huge amount left over. My husband, to be fair, held back on the ‘told you so’ – I think he felt sorry for me, as not wanting to admit defeat, I was eating it for breakfast dinner and tea for days until I risked e-coli.
Anyway you live and learn. I don’t think I’ll bother with the boiled spuds for Christmas this year, but like I said the big day was wonderful. I’m a sucker for a Communion and have always been a pure pity sobbing at my nephew’s ceremonies over the years.
All told, you can excuse me for being an emotional wreck when it was my own smallie’s turn, and that of her classmates, most of whom I’ve known since they were pre-schoolers. When they broke into song and belted out This Little Light of Mine, it finished me off completely. The pure innocence and the joy!
What also nearly finished me off was the mound of wet towels and clothes I had to deal with after the party. You’re probably a bit confused as we haven’t had a drop of rain in weeks, right? Here’s the thing: our bouncy castle was in fact this enormous inflated slide which apparently became more fun when you introduced water. When it was bone dry it was already putting the fear of God in me, but no one wants to be ‘boring Mom’ on the day so I gave in (after much nagging) to not just the hose being turned on, but also to washing-up liquid being applied liberally.
The end result was as good as any Ibiza foam party. It was pure gas and also a bit hazardous, but I was too busy force-feeding everyone potato salad to pay too much attention to it. Fortunately everyone survived unharmed, except for my washing machine which has been working overtime ever since. Ah well.
Now, the run-up to the communion wasn’t without its challenges (not just trying to squash everything into the fridge – next on my wishlist is a second fridge for sure) but the fact that we were without internet for five days. The problem was a busted router, something which took a while to establish – as in many, many, many hours spent holding on a helpline.
On day three of the outage I devoted an entire afternoon to being on hold and can say that it was the closest I’ve ever come to losing my sanity.
The problem was that when you’d finally get through to someone, they always promised that someone else would call you back ... only it never happened.
And you had to start the process all over again.
On day four, after my third stint of holding that afternoon, I finally got to speak to a very helpful chap who sounded like he may have been from Mayo or Galway. He was very sympathetic to me as I raved, on the verge of tears, that I was probably going to get fired as I was missing deadlines, and that I had no way of asking Alexa how much potato salad was needed for 40 people, or checking the weather, or watching a bit of Netflix to unwind before bed etc.
In a very soothing voice he said he knew exactly how I was feeling because he was in the same situation for many days after Storm Éowyn. Then he proceeded to tell me in great detail how hard and stressful it had been, how he also feared losing his job etc.
Between the jigs and the reels I ended up counselling him (there was clearly some residual trauma there), only for him to then tell me that there was nothing he could do to help, and that he would have to refer the problem ‘up.’ Jesus wept – a new router has since arrived and I too wept.
With joy.
Our columnist has been getting cocky with regard to the fine weather by daring to leave the cushions out on the patio furniture overnight on a couple of occasions.(Photos: Shutterstock)
But going back to my food excess, I’ll have to show greater restraint as economists say we’ll be paying even more in the supermarket for our weekly shop.
Recent figures show the price of a pound of butter in the shops has gone up by nearly €1 over the past year bringing it to an average of €4.69. Economists put it down to the fact that the prices paid to farmers are rising fast and rightly so, I say! I may have a slight bias but the farmer deserves to be paid – it’s not a hobby – and let’s not forget about the brutal year they had last year. Rant over. I’m far more concerned about plans by German sandal maker Birkenstock to raise their prices to offset the impact of the US tariff of 10% on European Union-made goods. Ah now, that’s just a step too far!
Finally, I have to mention the weather. What a joy it is to see all the ditches packed with blooming white hawthorn, fields of freshly-cut, fluffy looking silage and so many healthy, freckly faces among us. I even chanced leaving the garden furniture cushions out overnight once or twice, that’s how cocky I’m getting. I’ve managed to reduce the time it takes to get ready to go to the beach from an average of three hours to a more acceptable 24 minutes and it’s barbecues all the way (easy on the potato salad).
So far May, you’ve been absolutely magnificent.
