Summer Soap, Part 5: The quest to locate the lost recipe intensifies

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. Catch up with previous episodes at echolive.ie. In the fifth episode, the unlikely trio delve into the past to source the recipe

Episode 5: Barmbrack

“What is this?” I nod at the brown bag Fionn is carrying.

“I made barmbrack.”

I pause, “barm-what?”

He chuckles. “Barmbrack, it’s a traditional Irish cake. It’s usually made over the holidays, but when you talked about the currant buns on the phone, it reminded me of it. Sounds to me like the buns are a sort of barmbrack.”

I frown. “Can I see?”

Fionn lifts the aluminum foil covering the cake tucked in the bag. The thing couldn’t be further from currant buns.

“Hmm…” I start, “I think you probably shouldn’t tell that last bit to Margaret.”

Fionn’s about to protest, but he falls quiet the moment we step into the hall. Gawking at the moldings on the ceiling, he hovers in the pristine hall like a cat exploring an unknown environment. We find Margaret in the living room, lounging on her usual sofa. When we greet her, her sharp look switches between Fionn and me before settling on Fionn.

“Fionn has been doing research,” I cut through the silence, “that I think could be helpful to us, to track down any possible remnants of the bakery.”

Margaret’s eyes narrow at the brown bag Fionn holds like his own personal life buoy. “What is that?”

Fionn straightens up. “Barmbrack. My grandmother’s recipe, actually.”

Margaret’s look narrows even more. “Halloween isn’t for another five months.”

I press my lips together before turning to Fionn with a look of apology on my face.

******

“I’ve been working with Cork’s historical records of the city’s economy. I am trying to shed light on the businesses and their operations in the early 20th century. We lost a great deal of information with the burning of the Carnegie library, which held a large part of the archives. Most business archives also disappeared when the fires spread in Patrick Street.”

Margaret nods slowly in agreement.

“What is your thesis?” Margaret asks.

Fionn pauses, surprised. Of course she’d pull the thousand questions on him. Why didn’t I think of that? I could have at least prepared him for it.

Fionn clears his throat before answering. “Well, for the moment I am trying to answer how the businesses and economy of the early 19th century in Cork shaped the city’s current development.”

Margaret nods as Fionn offers a wealth of details on the subject. I smile. Fionn’s passion shines through his words, Margaret is clearly hooked.

Our eyes meet briefly before Fionn continues. “When Claire asked about the bakery, it immediately caught my attention. I mean, Kelly’s Bakery was the staple of Patrick Street.”

“It was indeed.” Margaret looks restless now.

“Anyways, I think your archives might help a good deal.”

“I’m only looking for a recipe, not digging up the past of my family.” Margaret shifts in her seat.

******

“Claire, this is invaluable.” Fionn ruffles through a box bursting with yellowed documents.” Still, his shoulders slump. “Such a shame she doesn’t want to share any of this.”

The space under the roof barely qualifies as an attic. It takes up the entire length of the house. Just like the rest of the mansion, it is spotless, with massive skylights generously spilling natural light on the wooden floor. Half of the space is impracticable, bloated with old furniture and piles of cardboard boxes. A bulky wooden desk sits on the opposite end of the floor.

I am amazed at the amount of things Margaret has been holding on to. Because she couldn’t make the climb up anymore, she’d indicated where we’d find the bakery’s archives.

I lift a box from the bakery’s pile and set it on the desk to open it up. The entire thing is filled with ledgers. I scour through the thin sheets of paper in search of the ones dating closest to the contest win in 1913. The handwriting is barely legible, but numbers are easy to identify.

“Look at this.” Fionn angles a document towards the light.

I step closer to read over his shoulder. A contract between two parties.

“From when the Kellys and the Gallaghers went into business together. The document boasts both names and signatures.

Fionn nods, puts the document down and scribbles into his notebook.

“Gallagher is a very popular name in Ireland, but this gives us a few first names, we might actually be able to get somewhere and find the associates’ family. If someone is still around anyway.”

I set aside the relevant ledgers for Fionn and open the last box. It is full of pictures and newspaper clippings.

I carefully angle a picture of the bakery under the light. Even in black and white, the space looks bright and lively with dozens of pastries on display. There is a bar area to the right, with high stools. Someone is sitting with an open newspaper and a dark pint in front of them. A woman with short, dark hair smiles from behind the cash register. Behind her, tall shelves host thick, round loaves of bread. Nothing like the baguettes we have in France.

“Margaret mentioned they were serving beverages as well, but I hadn’t pictured a full bar,” I point out.

Fionn leans in to look at the picture.

He smiles. “Yeah, loads of businesses were serving drinks back then.”

After a thorough search, we gather our finds into a file and head downstairs. The sitting room is empty.

“Margaret?” I call.

“In here!” Her raspy timber resonates in the hallway.

I find her slowly walking towards us, leaning heavily on her cane and clutching a wooden box against her stomach.

“Margaret, you should have called us for help!” I lecture, walking up to meet her.

She shakes her cane in front of her, “Oh, I can still move around fine!” she protests, but she hands the box to Fionn. “Here. You put this on the coffee table.”

“Fionn nods and walks ahead of us back into the sitting room while I assist Margaret.

******

Fionn serves the tea while I look through the pictures stored in the box Margaret brought us. He tenses up when Margaret tries his barmbrack, but he seems to relax when she doesn’t find anything to criticise, besides the fact that, apparently, it is not the season for barmbrack.

“Do you think the associate’s family might have information about the recipe?” Fionn asks after setting down his cup of tea.

“It was my aunt’s recipe, not theirs,” Margaret argues, “but I guess you could try them. I don’t know who they are, however. My aunt never really mentioned them, and I wasn’t born yet when they closed the business.”