Summer Soap, Part 9: Beamish... is that the missing ingredient?!

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 penultimate episode, Claire has a brainwave... but is she right?

Episode 9: 10 Kilos of Dried Currants

The steady bump of my suitcase in the grooves of the airport tiles threatens to send me right back to sleep. Spending most nights working on Margaret’s bio’ for the past two weeks has caught up to me.

I pull out my e-boarding, verifying my gate and departure time for the hundredth time. Nothing seems to stick to my foggy brain. I am so tired that noises in the terminal alternate between loud and quiet, full and empty.

I may be completely washed out, but I did it. The editors at Flammarion are on board with my format, I am well into the second draft, I’m going to make my deadline.

Nothing can bring me down from my cloud. Not even the fact that I still have no idea what to do with the cookbook. I’m not worried anymore. I know it’s going to work out.

Like Margaret said, you don’t need to have it all figured out to go for it. I smile. I always thought gran knew it all. But now I think maybe she didn’t, and that was okay. I don’t want my career to be an act.

If there’s something I learned from Margaret, it’s that I need to live authentically. And I know that this is the way I’ll find what I want to put in the cookbook.

My throat constricts when I spot Beauvais on the departures screen. I haven’t seen Fionn since that night at the cottage, over a week ago. I haven’t received a single call from him, not even a text. The more I tell myself to stop checking my phone, the more I do. My mind feels like a battleground where pride, accomplishment, and regret contently clash.

You have a right to enjoy the process, he’d said. I push the thought away. It was probably all in my mind.

For a while, I really thought there was something. It felt obvious; it made sense in a weird way. I sigh. This brain needs to give me a break.

I follow the path through security, eyeing the souvenir aisle in the duty-free. I can’t help but smile at the sight of Cork magnets labelling the rest of the Ireland as ‘not Cork’. I spot an entire aisle of Guinness merch’. I scoff at the fully themed kitchen set. A whole kit with apron, towels, salt and pepper shakers and oven gloves.

“Ils peuvent pas s’en empêcher,” I whisper to myself, “je parie que ça se vend que des croissants”.*

I exit the duty free, leaving the Guinness fan merch’ behind. That’s when it hits. A perfect idea, splitting the fog of my brain. It’s right there, clear as day. And obvious. So obvious. My heart leaps as I fish my phone out and dial Margaret’s number.

After several long rings, Margaret’s voice seeps through. “I’m afraid it is too early for your questions, Claire.”

I wince. “Good morning Margaret, I’m sorry to call this early, I...“

“Did you forget something? Make it quick Claire, my kettle’s boiling.”

I cut straight to the chase, “could it be Guinness?” I recall the grainy picture of Kelly’s bakery, with the Beamish tap. “Well, Beamish?” I correct.

After a long pause, Margaret speaks again. “What are you talking about Claire?”

“Oh, sorry...” I shut my eyes, palming my forehead, “the missing ingredient, for the currant buns. Could it be stout?”

Margaret remains silent. I continue. “My gran put beer in her crêpes, always. Stout could help the buns with moisture and even sweetness, it could...”

“I know what stout could bring to the recipe, Claire.”

I close my eyes. Of course she does. She’s one of the best chefs of her generation. My shoulders slump.

“So, you don’t think...“

“Did you leave Cork already?”

“Well...” I stare at the gates ahead, sparsely crowded. “No, not yet.”

******

Leaning on her cane, Margaret rummages through the basket filled with dried currant packets. “This is nonsense, Claire. Did you really have to buy ten kilos of dried currants? Are you intending to reopen the bakery?”

In my frenzy, I’d basically dumped the entire shelf into the shopping cart.

“Well,” I argue, “they store well. You’ll have enough to make more batches.”

We spend the afternoon baking. I add too much stout, which leaves us with much more dough than anticipated. Gran would say we made enough to feed a regiment.

We watch the dough rise under the light of the oven, form the buns, then watch them rise again.

******

I wake up to the smell of freshly baked brioche. I sit up on the sofa and a blanket falls from my shoulders. I smile softly, closing my eyes to allow my body time to wake up before standing up.

I follow the delicious scent to the kitchen and find Margaret sitting at the table, a newspaper open in front of her. Dozens of buns are cooling off on a rack.

“I thought you’d never wake up, I was waiting for you to try the buns at teatime but,” she glances at her thin golden watch, “it’s a little late for that”.

My stomach doesn’t seem to think so. I shrug, heading to the kettle to make tea.

******

I serve Margaret and observe her tasting ritual. She tears the bun apart, observing and smelling the dough before dropping a small piece into her mouth.

I sit across the table, waiting for her to speak. I can’t make anything of her expression.

“Can you stay until tomorrow?” She asks.

I tilt my head. Not the response I expected. “Well...” My plane flew out hours ago anyways. “Yes. Sure.” I frown, restless.

She smiles. “Good, we will need to soak the currants a little longer.”

Hope fills my chest. “Is this it?” I ask, plucking a bun from the plate.

“Close.” She smiles as I try my first bite. It is sweet, but not too much, and - thank God - it is moist. I smile back.

“Not bad ,right?” Margaret comments.

My phone lights up on the table.

Margaret nods toward it. “That thing’s been flashing away a hundred times over while you were asleep.”

It’s Fionn calling. I stare at his name on the screen. I hesitate for a beat too long. The phone goes dark again. I meet Margaret’s narrow eyes.

“The boy has a thing for you.”

I shake my head. “Margaret, I don’t think...”

“Are you blind?”

“I’m going back to France, he...” I tear my bun apart, “his whole career is here.”

“Do you like the boy or not?”

I can’t tell her I don’t. Instead, I say nothing.

“So, you do.” She deduces.

I stare at her, out of arguments.

“If there’s something you should have learned from working with me,” Margaret continues, “it’s that sometimes, you want to follow what’s in there,” she places her hand against her heart, “you don’t want to regret those things.”

* “They can’t help themselves,” I whisper to myself, “I bet they sell like croissants.”