Summer Soap, Part 2: A challenge for Claire to recreate a lost recipe

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 second episode, Claire meets the Cork chef she is writing about

You can catch up with the first episode here. 

Episode 2: Gran’s Lemonade

Being late for my first meeting with Margaret Kelly was not the plan. But again, that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been made aware of the nightmarish traffic of Cork city.

Sure, preparing a batch of Gran’s lemonade at the very last moment didn’t help. No time to gawk at Mrs Kelly’s mansion - a three-storey house nestled on the hill, huge bay windows peering over the city - I’d practically sprinted from my car to the front door.

Narrow-eyed, chin resting on her wrinkled hand, Mrs Kelly is now scrutinising me as we sit across from each other on two identical scarlet sofas. She is nearing her 90th birthday and looks smaller than in the pictures online.

“They put you in Douglas,” she sighs, and shakes her head. “There is no end to the reasons why I didn’t want to agree to this deal. Incompetence is running rampant.”

Although the editors are paying for my rental, Lea had gone to the trouble of finding it in the first place. I love my cottage. Lea couldn’t have known about Cork’s 8am traffic issues, she’d never even been to Ireland.

“So, Claire. You are one of those vidéastes,” the word, though uttered in a perfect French accent, seems to leave a bad taste on her palate.

I fight the urge to spill my argument in defence of my profession. Being a content creator often felt like I was some sort of plague to be wrestled with, even more since they’d slapped the label ‘influencer’ on it. I wasn’t a world-renowned chef like Mrs Kelly, but I’d had my decent share of success. Well, we did. Gran and me.

I straighten up. “I started with a blog, and then the YouTube channel with my grandmother. I have been lucky enough to make it my full-time job.”

My socials are still MIA since... But this I won’t tell Mrs. Kelly. No need to feed more fuel to her critique. I can’t imagine her reaction if she finds out that the woman responsible for her biography doesn’t have an ounce of an act together. It’s Mrs Kelly we’re talking about. Mrs Kelly, with the perfect career. The kind of career every single chef in Paris dreams of having.

Instead, I say: “I recently published a cookbook, Secrets de Génération. I am working on the second one.”

“As I’ve heard,” she offers a tight smile, “would you make us some tea? Everything’s on the coffee bar in the kitchen.” Mrs Kelly points to an arch across the room leading to the kitchen.

******

“Now. I hear Flammarion has grandiose ideas about my biography.” She says.

“Well,” I set my cup back in its saucer, “they did provide a brief to follow. Specific moments of your life, a list of questions...” I pull out the Flammarion brief and hand it to her.

She skims through the first few pages. “Nonsense.”

I frown, “I don’t...”

“I agreed with Flammarion that I would only disclose what I wish, and that we would not follow this...” she waves a hand, “boring structure.”

That was fresh news.

“That’s not what I...“

“I want to start with The Burning,” she cuts in.

I pause just as I’m about to protest. She holds my gaze; I know that I won’t win this fight. After a silent nod, I open my laptop, set the microphone on the table and hit record.

“The… Burning?” I ask.

“My grandmother founded Kelly’s bakery in Cork in the late 1800s. She was old when she fell pregnant with my own mother, so her son - my uncle - helped, until he fully took over with his wife. In 1910, they associated with friends, the Gallaghers. The bakery was the talk of the town back then. Didn’t last long. The 1920 Burning destroyed the business.”

“What’s The Burning?” I ask.

“Oh, it was horrible. I wasn’t born yet, naturally, but I’ve heard enough stories to feel like I was there. Cork burned down, my family’s bakery along with it. The Kellys and the Gallaghers never found common ground to salvage it. That’s how it went. Gone, overnight.”

I take notes as Mrs Kelly speaks, trying to bury my growing concerns about the biography. It’s only the beginning. Plenty of time to talk about Paris. Mrs Kelly reaches over the coffee table.

“There was this one recipe...” she picks up a folder sitting next to the tray and hands me a newspaper clipping, tucked in a clear plastic sleeve.

The 1913 article says ‘Cork Bakers Win Irish Pastry of the Year Contest’. I raise a questioning look.

“Kelly’s currant buns won the contest that year. It was a big deal. My aunt Rosa used to make them often, even after the bakery was gone. I was 14 when she passed; I never figured out the recipe.”

“For... currant buns?” I ask.

“It was very special. No matter what I tried, they never tasted right. I tried everything, tea, brandy, treacle... Never could get it right,” she shakes her head, “I want you to try.”

My eyebrows shoot up, “Me?”

“I’ve seen you bake with your grandmother, Claire. I’d like you to recreate this recipe.”

I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out. This was more than just writing a biography.

******

At the cottage, I strain the dried chamomile and lavender flowers out of my batch of gran’s lemonade. I pour myself a tall glass and since it is sunny, step out onto the patio with my laptop.

On the drive back, I’d called Lea to tell her about Margaret’s request. Not the brightest idea since I’d almost merged into the wrong lane twice. I should have seen in coming; Lea did not come to my rescue.

“Admit it, Claire. You’d still have taken the job if the recipe had been part of the contract,” Lea argued.

“Oh, come on. You basically forced me to take the job, Lea.”

After listening to her perfect arguments for most of the drive, I caved, just like I always do with her. So, here I am, sitting at the small garden table, Googling ‘The Burning’. I discover a gloomy scene: crowds gathering before heaps of rubble, barely any walls left standing.

In a radio interview, a man in his thirties talks about the attack conducted by British forces and the businesses that suffered from the fires. He mentions it - “Kelly’s bakery”.

I Google the name of the speaker. I am met with a low-quality office selfie and a bio, Dr Fionn McDonough, researcher and professor at University College Cork, specialises in Cork history and economy of the 20th century.

******

I julienne my vegetables mindlessly. My mind flies to gran’s kitchen. I’d baked brioche a thousand times with her. I know the recipe by heart. From what I’ve gathered, breakfast buns in Ireland seem to sit somewhere between bread and brioche. The more I think about it, the more confusing it gets. I am going to have to learn a lot about Irish baking if I want the slightest chance of success.

After dinner, I open my computer to Dr McDonough’s page. I draft an email mentioning Kelly’s bakery and hit send.