Summer Soap, Part 1:A woman on a mission, leaving France for Cork

This year's summer soap, The Lost Recipe, is a summer mystery with a romantic subplot and an underlying theme of food - and involves a search for a long-lost recipe. It was written by Emma Tirlot from the MA in Creative Writing Programme at UCC. In the first episode, we meet Claire, who is a little stressed as she prepares to swap France for a cottage in Cork...

Episode 1. Dry Club Sandwiches And Expensive Coffee

The screen of my laptop dims unexpectedly and I frown, eyes trailing to the power icon on the bottom right. Merde. The laptop is about to die. Weird, I can picture myself charging it last night.

After a quick rummaging through my bag, I pull the charger out and scan the terminal, hoping to find a power outlet. Keep hoping, Claire.

Just as I’m about to give up, I spot a long counter against a wall, lined with highchairs and outlets. There is one open seat. Mine.

I scramble to my feet and gather my belongings as fast as I can, maxing out my carrying capacity. I’m pretty sure heading to a charging station should not feel life-threatening.

When I unload my possessions on the counter, I feel like a child dumping an entire box of Lego onto the living room coffee table. Some pieces spill and fall to the ground - like my wallet and my sunglasses case - which grants me a few hostile stares. I plug the laptop before rescuing the fallen victims, then I settle into the seat and eye the power icon. Nothing.

“Merde,” I mutter under my breath.

And then it hits me. No-one is using any of those outlets. I sigh. I should have known. What was I expecting, in Beauvais, of all places? Faulty outlets in airports are pop culture knowledge at this point. I take a deep breath. The cursor flashes in and out of existence. Staring at it any longer will not do any good, to me or to my poor laptop battery. Besides, nothing transcendent will come up here anyways, where the only food inspirations are dry club sandwiches or disgustingly sweet and expensive coffee. I snap the machine shut just as my phone pings with a message.

It’s from Lea, aka the person responsible for my predicament.

“Have a nice flight! Don’t forget, LET the book GO for a while! It’ll still be here when you get back!”

Objection, the book is nowhere. How can an agent purposefully tell their author to “let the book go for a while”? The cookbook needs to be turned in by the end of the year, which leaves only a couple of months for me to whip something together. The first cookbook was such a success that the editors are expecting some mind-blowing stuff. I steady myself with a breath, closing my eyes.

This summer was supposed to be mine. The plan was perfect. Leaving Paris behind, driving up to gran’s house, locking myself away in the kitchen. Two full months with nothing else to do but cooking and writing. I couldn’t wait. 

The old farm with stones so large they blocked the summer heat from seeping in. The delicious scent of coffee blending into the crisp morning air. Breakfast in the old gazebo. Baskets brimming with cheese and fresh produce from the market in town. No next-door neighbours. No cell reception. Just me and gran’s spices - which I used sparingly, hoping they would never run out. Nothing else but time on my hands to figure something out.

But oh no, instead I was about to be shipped to Cork, a city I’d never even heard about just two weeks ago.

Another message pings; I blink the daydreaming away.

“Claire, STOP thinking about it!” Lea says.

I know my agent is annoyingly gifted, but mind-reading now? I tip my head back and look up at the ceiling. What kind of agent sends their author-on-a-deadline on a summer-long side-quest anyway?

******

The plane initiates its descent to Cork. Looking out, all I can see are green fields, sparsely stained with specks of dark roofs. They weren’t kidding about the ‘Emerald Isle’. Nothing like the sad, uneven patches of yellow and brown I saw flying out of France.

I climb into my rental car - all ready to go, courtesy of my wonderful agent. The steering wheel, located to the right side of the car, snaps me back to reality. I forgot about that detail. I’ll have to drive on the left side of the road. I hadn’t quite thought about it properly until now. Typing my accommodation address into the GPS does nothing to alleviate the current terror cascading over me.

“Come on,” I whisper to myself, and maybe to the car a little. The longer I wait, the worse it’ll get. Might as well just get it over with.

******

I park in front of a small cottage and sink back into the seat. Somehow, spending the entire drive repeating “left” like it was a sacred mantra paid off. I am alive, and so is the car -and so are the other street users.

The lockbox tucked under the mailbox is a little rusty; it takes a minute of wrestling to retrieve the keys to the cottage. Inside, a giant basket overflowing with fruits and vegetables sits on the kitchen table. I snap a picture of the basket and send it to Lea along with two exclamation points.

She replies instantly, “You made it! And... You’re welcome.”

“Thank-you for preserving me from having to drive to a store, enough left-side driving for one day,” I reply.

“Better get used to it!” she sends, along with a winking emoji.

I shake my head, unable to control the smile slowly spreading on my face. I haven’t been abroad in so long, I forgot about this giddy, restless energy I get when travelling.

Looking around, I know right away why Lea chose this cottage. It is a large kitchen for such a small home, a bright space with tall windows overlooking the garden. It opens on a cosy sitting area flanked with crowded shelves of books. A small staircase leads me to the single bedroom, and a tiny office space tucked under the roof.

******

Lying in bed, I skim once more over the research I’ve compiled about ‘Paris’s most influential Irish gastronome’. Great way to relax at the prospect of our meeting tomorrow.

Margaret Kelly had led the cuisines of several prestigious palaces in Paris before opening her own restaurant. Although she sold the whole thing years ago, the establishment still leads the culinary scene of the capital.

From what I’ve gathered, working in her kitchen was more like going through an excruciating army training. I only hope that writing her biography won’t be that atrocious.