What reminds me of summer (almost as much as a hot pink bikini) are fresh market stalls bulging with home grown vegetables: screen doors slamming, the whir of an attic fan, friends and family hauling armfuls of fresh, sweet zucchini, squash and tomatoes from their own or neighboring gardens.
Cheeks and foreheads are pink from the sun and sweat glistens on the brows of those jubilant enough to have produced such crops. I envision my mother bicycling to the farm where she has cultivated a little plot of her own, rich with plump heirloom tomatoes, petit, egg-shaped globe carrots and other such niceties. She tends this garden as she would small children, pedaling to and from the little plot each morning and evening, often with my father in tow. She worries over the size of her zucchini, whether they have grown too large to be perfectly sweet and tender; she fusses at the opossums and offending deer. She cradles fresh plucked watermelon and cantaloupe in her arms, with the promise of making little chins and fingers sticky with juice once at home again.
My mother’s tenderness for all things grown continues to imprint itself onto her children. As a child, I idolized brussel and alfalfa sprouts. Eating an artichoke was both fascinating and delicious. I loved snapping peas and shucking corn. My most favorite thing in the world was split-pea soup. But, as I have learned with age, this adoration for my beloved legumes is rare.
An art I have been subject to learn, as a teacher of young children, is that of vegetable disguise. I incorporate artichoke, broccoli and carrot in quiche, blueberries in brownies and avocado in grilled cheese. However, as far as summer is concerned, I hone in on the zucchini. I dice, slice, peel and grate this silky green and marvelously versatile veggie, its creamy flesh lending perfectly to corn, lemon and thyme.
Two dishes that are just as grown-up in flavor as they are kid-friendly are zucchini-ricotta fritters served with lemon slices (or ketchup should your child prefer) and a moist zucchini cornbread prepared in a loaf pan. Both burst with flavor and if they don’t remind you of summer from here on out, I’ll send you a hot pink bikini!
http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/zucchini-ricotta-fritters
http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2011/07/zucchini-cornbread
Monday, August 1, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Part II: An Irish Ramble
St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland was all that I had hoped it would be without all that I’d anticipated it being. I had envisioned Mardi Gras, pushing my way through sweaty, drunken crowds, the smell of stale beer flooding my nostrils.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day parade was family-oriented, beginning around noon and lasting only a few hours. The streets were patrolled by policemen, people walked politely in single-file queues down the sidewalks. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders and people sipped coffees or walked around as we did, nibbling on sandwiches from corner delis. Our sandwiches, the least expensive of all our meals while traveling, sufficed to be one the best: turkey paninis with a spicy mustard, tomatoes and a sweet pepper relish that resembled fruit chutney.
As soon as the parade ended, the crowds cleared. The streets were tended, though little cleaning needed to be done. I could not help but observe that Dublin was the cleanest city I had ever seen; the main street, O’Connell, being cleaned each morning, and with soap, none-the-less!
We warmed up, post parade, back in the hotel bar with hot whiskeys: whiskey, hot water, cloves, a bit of sugar and a slice of lemon. From there, we rebundled in coats and scarves and ventured towards Temple Bar to meet friends.
Temple Bar is an area of Dublin comprised of pubs and eateries, and attracts a younger, rowdier crowd. One of my dearest friends, Helen (who is obtaining her graduate degree at Trinity College), invited us to a classmate’s flat located on the second floor, directly above a popular pub. The streets were filled, young students, tourists, and some more adventurous families, in large green hats or other green paraphernalia. People sat on their balconies or in windows sipping beers and joining in with the crowds below.
We made merry with Helen’s Irish friends before settling in at a crowded basement bar and listening to a true Irish band complete with bagpipes and red ponytails.
One of our biggest adventures however, was our renting a small beetle of a car with Helen and her boyfriend, Spencer, and taking a spin in the Irish countryside. Popping in a purchased compact disc titled, “Irish Whiskey Tunes”, we ventured out along the narrow winding roads (but not before getting quite turned around in the autobahn-esque roundabouts located on the outskirts of the city). We escaped a near death, stalling out in the middle of a dip in one winding road, only to stumble across (thanks to Spencer’s suggestion) one right turn that led us to the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. What a right turn that turned out to be! It was a quintessential place to frolic. I expected to clasp hands with Julie Andrews and twirl in circles, my lungs full of those sweet lyrics, “the hills are alive.”
There was a small parking lot at the base and a man selling snacks from his van. Sheep roamed on adjacent patches of land and a stone farm house loomed in the distance. We began our ascent.
The wind was strong on the mountain. We stretched out our arms, the sun warm on our faces, and let the wind ripple across our jackets. Our feet padded across soft grass that turned into small rock collections that grew larger until we were practically rock climbing to the top of the mountain. Dogs raced ahead, their small feet taking boulders in bounds. We took our jackets off and tied them around our waists. Our cheeks turned pink.
The sea stretched before us from our perch on the utmost boulder. Behind us was the sprawling countryside of Wicklow County, its earth a patchwork of green. We shouted to hear one another and looked on at those around us, unpacking sacks full of water and peanut butter sandwiches; locals who knew that such a view deserved more than a mere ten minutes to marvel.
The moment our feet hit soft earth again, I could contain myself no longer. I threw my arms out and raced down the mountain, the wind taking my breath away. It was one of the most liberating, uninhibited moments of my small life. I felt like running forever, up and across each green hill, past the grazing sheep and towards the dipping sun. I passed a family, a mother and daughter and two couples, my face bright and smile stuck across my cheeks.
Almost as wonderful was looking behind me to see the mother and daughter I passed, running back down the hill, their arms outstretched and hair flying behind them. Joy is contagious.
We drove to our hotel in Portmarnock later that night, the sky dark and full of thick, wet clouds. We could smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, but could only see black. At the front desk, I looked to a postcard boasting long, wide stretches of beach. A feeling of such strong yearning to see what I could hear, smell and possibly feel filled my stomach.
We lugged our suitcases to the bedroom and headed back to the hotel restaurant. It was a restaurant to be rivaled, fulfilling all expectations for a last night in Ireland. The walls were made of a dark, glossy wood. Fires cackled beneath ornate mantels tucked away in nooks surrounded by plump chairs. Small, round tables nestled in darkened corners with small tea candles to light conversation. Older couples ate in satisfied silence, groups of men sipped whiskey and watched rugby matches on television. As the night wore on, the remains of an earlier wedding party filled the bar area.
My husband sipped a Guinness, and I a Smythwick. I concluded the trip with fish n’ chips and my husband, an order of surprisingly good fajitas and guacamole. To end, we split an Irish coffee and hot whiskey.
We slipped into our bed and slept soundly for four hours, before waking at four in the morning for a seven a.m. flight. We left the hotel in the dark just as we’d come, with my window open, listening for the waves and breathing in the salty air of an Irish coastline.
Slip into the end of any evening with a hot whiskey. My friend, Helen, true to her Irish roots, swears by a similar soothing hot toddy. So, do as the Irish and slip into some soft sheets after one of these.
Hot Whiskey
2 ½ oz. Irish Whiskey
1 slice, fresh lemon
2-4 cloves
1 tsp. sugar
Hot water
Pour whiskey into glass. Stick cloves in lemon slice and add to glass. Fill with hot water and add sugar. Stir to dissolve. Serve immediately.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day parade was family-oriented, beginning around noon and lasting only a few hours. The streets were patrolled by policemen, people walked politely in single-file queues down the sidewalks. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders and people sipped coffees or walked around as we did, nibbling on sandwiches from corner delis. Our sandwiches, the least expensive of all our meals while traveling, sufficed to be one the best: turkey paninis with a spicy mustard, tomatoes and a sweet pepper relish that resembled fruit chutney.
As soon as the parade ended, the crowds cleared. The streets were tended, though little cleaning needed to be done. I could not help but observe that Dublin was the cleanest city I had ever seen; the main street, O’Connell, being cleaned each morning, and with soap, none-the-less!
We warmed up, post parade, back in the hotel bar with hot whiskeys: whiskey, hot water, cloves, a bit of sugar and a slice of lemon. From there, we rebundled in coats and scarves and ventured towards Temple Bar to meet friends.
Temple Bar is an area of Dublin comprised of pubs and eateries, and attracts a younger, rowdier crowd. One of my dearest friends, Helen (who is obtaining her graduate degree at Trinity College), invited us to a classmate’s flat located on the second floor, directly above a popular pub. The streets were filled, young students, tourists, and some more adventurous families, in large green hats or other green paraphernalia. People sat on their balconies or in windows sipping beers and joining in with the crowds below.
We made merry with Helen’s Irish friends before settling in at a crowded basement bar and listening to a true Irish band complete with bagpipes and red ponytails.
One of our biggest adventures however, was our renting a small beetle of a car with Helen and her boyfriend, Spencer, and taking a spin in the Irish countryside. Popping in a purchased compact disc titled, “Irish Whiskey Tunes”, we ventured out along the narrow winding roads (but not before getting quite turned around in the autobahn-esque roundabouts located on the outskirts of the city). We escaped a near death, stalling out in the middle of a dip in one winding road, only to stumble across (thanks to Spencer’s suggestion) one right turn that led us to the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. What a right turn that turned out to be! It was a quintessential place to frolic. I expected to clasp hands with Julie Andrews and twirl in circles, my lungs full of those sweet lyrics, “the hills are alive.”
There was a small parking lot at the base and a man selling snacks from his van. Sheep roamed on adjacent patches of land and a stone farm house loomed in the distance. We began our ascent.
The wind was strong on the mountain. We stretched out our arms, the sun warm on our faces, and let the wind ripple across our jackets. Our feet padded across soft grass that turned into small rock collections that grew larger until we were practically rock climbing to the top of the mountain. Dogs raced ahead, their small feet taking boulders in bounds. We took our jackets off and tied them around our waists. Our cheeks turned pink.
The sea stretched before us from our perch on the utmost boulder. Behind us was the sprawling countryside of Wicklow County, its earth a patchwork of green. We shouted to hear one another and looked on at those around us, unpacking sacks full of water and peanut butter sandwiches; locals who knew that such a view deserved more than a mere ten minutes to marvel.
The moment our feet hit soft earth again, I could contain myself no longer. I threw my arms out and raced down the mountain, the wind taking my breath away. It was one of the most liberating, uninhibited moments of my small life. I felt like running forever, up and across each green hill, past the grazing sheep and towards the dipping sun. I passed a family, a mother and daughter and two couples, my face bright and smile stuck across my cheeks.
Almost as wonderful was looking behind me to see the mother and daughter I passed, running back down the hill, their arms outstretched and hair flying behind them. Joy is contagious.
We drove to our hotel in Portmarnock later that night, the sky dark and full of thick, wet clouds. We could smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, but could only see black. At the front desk, I looked to a postcard boasting long, wide stretches of beach. A feeling of such strong yearning to see what I could hear, smell and possibly feel filled my stomach.
We lugged our suitcases to the bedroom and headed back to the hotel restaurant. It was a restaurant to be rivaled, fulfilling all expectations for a last night in Ireland. The walls were made of a dark, glossy wood. Fires cackled beneath ornate mantels tucked away in nooks surrounded by plump chairs. Small, round tables nestled in darkened corners with small tea candles to light conversation. Older couples ate in satisfied silence, groups of men sipped whiskey and watched rugby matches on television. As the night wore on, the remains of an earlier wedding party filled the bar area.
My husband sipped a Guinness, and I a Smythwick. I concluded the trip with fish n’ chips and my husband, an order of surprisingly good fajitas and guacamole. To end, we split an Irish coffee and hot whiskey.
We slipped into our bed and slept soundly for four hours, before waking at four in the morning for a seven a.m. flight. We left the hotel in the dark just as we’d come, with my window open, listening for the waves and breathing in the salty air of an Irish coastline.
Slip into the end of any evening with a hot whiskey. My friend, Helen, true to her Irish roots, swears by a similar soothing hot toddy. So, do as the Irish and slip into some soft sheets after one of these.
Hot Whiskey
2 ½ oz. Irish Whiskey
1 slice, fresh lemon
2-4 cloves
1 tsp. sugar
Hot water
Pour whiskey into glass. Stick cloves in lemon slice and add to glass. Fill with hot water and add sugar. Stir to dissolve. Serve immediately.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Part 1: An Irish Ramble
I began my morning with a Madagascar vanilla macaroon from La Dureé in the Charles de Gaulle Aéroport. My husband watched me, his eyes laughing, as I savored the sweet crunch of macaroon between my teeth, and reveled in the “Frenchness” of the morning. Never mind the layover in Atlanta, and the six hour delay in travel plans, I was in France, if only in the airport. It made no difference to me. My ears were full of the French language, and I entered practically every store front and approached every available airline attendant to ask mindless questions in the language I’d studied for ten years and never had the chance to use. I looked, I assume, as a puppy learning to bark and run on wobbly legs must look, bobbing from one direction to the next, tail wagging and in love with each new movement.
If it weren’t for the fact that I was growing quite delirious with exhaustion, having slept an hour on the plane the night before, nerves on high alert and eyelids daring to close, I would not have willed our last flight of the day to fruition. However, the promise of a warm bed, blackout shades and a tall pint of Guinness appealed to my more immediate needs.
Having arrived, sans luggage, in the Dublin airport, we tumbled onto a Dart bus and meandered through narrow streets into the city and towards our hotel. We were let out two blocks from the hotel and left to find our way. No trouble there, however, as the Irish are the most friendly and desirable a group of people to encounter when in need of direction.
The hotel was situated on a quiet street off Parnell Square. And, instead of dropping onto the newly made bed and sleeping away the morning, we had a mission. As our luggage was not due to arrive until the following morning, at which time we would be touring the west coast of County Clare, we could not anticipate fresh clothing for the next forty-eight hours. We needed undergarments. Loading up on digestives (which I insisted on buying to feel oh-so-European) and water at the corner market, we hit the road.
Along the way, I was nearly accosted by an obnoxious, teenaged-boy with crazed eyes who laughed menacingly after pretending to run towards and corner me. Little did he know that my husband, always a few steps ahead, but with eyes in the back of his head (and who believes he was built to play rugby) spun around at my squeak of distress and would have pummeled him had I not restrained him with soothing kisses. Lucky for the boy, he continued on just as quickly as he’d come, towards his next victim.
Having escaped a brawl, we continued on, my mind racing with images of crazy Irishmen and my husband half-mumbling, half-snorting something about little leprechauns under his breath.
In perfect time, we stumbled across the Brazen Head, whose sign claimed it to be the oldest pub in Dublin. We sat down at the bar, already crowded at noon, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I could have melted into my seat upon first sip. The bar was small, intimate, accommodating thirty, forty people maximum, and though worn in feeling, exactly what we wanted, everything awash in dark mahogany, with vintage newspaper clippings and posters framed along the walls.
We continued our bar hop, now believing barley to be the fuel needed to get through the day and adjust to the time change, and made our way to an area known as Temple bar. After splitting fish n’chips and chatting up a few local bartenders, we met friends at the Jameson Distillery, where much to my dismay; I slept through much of the tour.
Finally, back at the hotel, we arranged for a six a.m. wake-up call in order to make our Moher Cliffs tour the next day. Unfortunately for us, sleep was not in our destiny this trip. I awoke to my husband’s voice, still husky with sleep, saying that the alarm had indeed gone off and it was time to get up. My eyes scanned the room for a clock. No such luck. I peeled the sheets away from me and walked into the bathroom, showered, dried my hair and put my makeup on. By the time I was done, my husband had returned from his coffee run. Settled once again in bed, he informed me that it was two in the morning and that he had dreamt the alarm. I didn’t bother undressing. I simply flopped back into bed.
The tour to the Cliffs of Moher was magical. Old, wizened Irishmen chatting against wooden gates flashed toothless, boyish grins and tipped hats to passing tourists (who scoured the narrow roads in giant green buses). Sheep roamed on sunny pastures that dipped into the sea. And, despite the fact that I was heading into my fifty-third hour in the same clothes, I felt refreshed, the cold, clean Irish wind licking my face and hair.
We wandered through old castles and monasteries, grabbed a pint at a local pub near the ocean and listened to our tour guide serenade us with traditional Irish songs and the repeated warning of, “Ireland: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.”
Sometime after lunch we arrived at the cliffs. A harpist played near their edge, her music mingling with the whipping wind and crashing of waves against the cliffs below. Hundreds of feet above water, we looked out and around, surrounded by green earth on two sides and the depths of sun-speckled sea on the other two. Following the lead of two other tourists, we scaled a small stone wall (feigning to see the “do not cross wall” sign not far from us) in order to take a photo against the cliffs. The landscape provided a perfect Christmas-card photo opportunity and happy with the effect we proceeded to scale back over the wall. My husband jumped; very handsomely (and skillfully) back over to safety. I had no such luck. The wedge of my boot tipped me backwards on the wall, propelling me into a full roll towards the edge of the cliff. Catching myself (by the grace of God) after only one backwards somersault, I peered back at the remaining four feet between myself and the cliff’s edge and clapped a hand to my chest. So much for the graceful ballerina I’d prided myself on being.
Having survived, what I may add as, an awfully romantic death, my new and nearly widowed husband, headed back to the bus where we dozed on and off from the day’s excitement, all the way home.
Almost as romantic as falling off the cliffs of Moher, was a seaside dinner for two at Ivan’s oyster bar and restaurant in the port town of Howth, Ireland. We settled in at a table by the window and dined on a steaming pot of mussels, with a warm buttery broth that we sopped up with sweet, brown bread. Fresh caught prawns followed, along with grilled Hake filet and a fisherman’s cioppino. After dinner, we walked along the sea wall, watching the sun dip into the dark sea, its’ last rays painting the clouds lavender.
Clark followed a small dog, similar to a spaniel, but clearly a mix, that looked as European as his owner, with old world golden curls. A seal in the water below followed us with large, dopey eyes. Sea gulls perched upon ships’ masts called to one another and no one in particular. Ireland’s “Eye” loomed ahead, a lone island, green with the soft grass, indigenous to Ireland, and a large basalt formation on its’ eastern side jutting up towards the sky. The air was full of both sweet and salt, the breeze cool against our woolen Blarney sweaters. I wanted to lie down, spread my arms and legs across the cool stones of the sea wall and watch the wisps of cloud that were gathering with the dusk. I wanted to feel that delicious smallness that you feel when encountered with the sea or a wide open prairie. I wanted to remember the sweetness of Irish mussels and fresh brown bread.
I love Ina Garten so will recommend any of her recipes. Here is one for mussels in white wine. Try with crumbly, nutty Irish brown bread and fall in love...
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mussels-in-white-wine-recipe/index.html
Found a recipe for brown bread from the usually dependable Gourmet archive, but will be tracking down Ivan's Oyster Bar's recipe, so stay tuned!
http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2001/05/irish-brown-bread-with-smoked-salmon
If it weren’t for the fact that I was growing quite delirious with exhaustion, having slept an hour on the plane the night before, nerves on high alert and eyelids daring to close, I would not have willed our last flight of the day to fruition. However, the promise of a warm bed, blackout shades and a tall pint of Guinness appealed to my more immediate needs.
Having arrived, sans luggage, in the Dublin airport, we tumbled onto a Dart bus and meandered through narrow streets into the city and towards our hotel. We were let out two blocks from the hotel and left to find our way. No trouble there, however, as the Irish are the most friendly and desirable a group of people to encounter when in need of direction.
The hotel was situated on a quiet street off Parnell Square. And, instead of dropping onto the newly made bed and sleeping away the morning, we had a mission. As our luggage was not due to arrive until the following morning, at which time we would be touring the west coast of County Clare, we could not anticipate fresh clothing for the next forty-eight hours. We needed undergarments. Loading up on digestives (which I insisted on buying to feel oh-so-European) and water at the corner market, we hit the road.
Along the way, I was nearly accosted by an obnoxious, teenaged-boy with crazed eyes who laughed menacingly after pretending to run towards and corner me. Little did he know that my husband, always a few steps ahead, but with eyes in the back of his head (and who believes he was built to play rugby) spun around at my squeak of distress and would have pummeled him had I not restrained him with soothing kisses. Lucky for the boy, he continued on just as quickly as he’d come, towards his next victim.
Having escaped a brawl, we continued on, my mind racing with images of crazy Irishmen and my husband half-mumbling, half-snorting something about little leprechauns under his breath.
In perfect time, we stumbled across the Brazen Head, whose sign claimed it to be the oldest pub in Dublin. We sat down at the bar, already crowded at noon, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I could have melted into my seat upon first sip. The bar was small, intimate, accommodating thirty, forty people maximum, and though worn in feeling, exactly what we wanted, everything awash in dark mahogany, with vintage newspaper clippings and posters framed along the walls.
We continued our bar hop, now believing barley to be the fuel needed to get through the day and adjust to the time change, and made our way to an area known as Temple bar. After splitting fish n’chips and chatting up a few local bartenders, we met friends at the Jameson Distillery, where much to my dismay; I slept through much of the tour.
Finally, back at the hotel, we arranged for a six a.m. wake-up call in order to make our Moher Cliffs tour the next day. Unfortunately for us, sleep was not in our destiny this trip. I awoke to my husband’s voice, still husky with sleep, saying that the alarm had indeed gone off and it was time to get up. My eyes scanned the room for a clock. No such luck. I peeled the sheets away from me and walked into the bathroom, showered, dried my hair and put my makeup on. By the time I was done, my husband had returned from his coffee run. Settled once again in bed, he informed me that it was two in the morning and that he had dreamt the alarm. I didn’t bother undressing. I simply flopped back into bed.
The tour to the Cliffs of Moher was magical. Old, wizened Irishmen chatting against wooden gates flashed toothless, boyish grins and tipped hats to passing tourists (who scoured the narrow roads in giant green buses). Sheep roamed on sunny pastures that dipped into the sea. And, despite the fact that I was heading into my fifty-third hour in the same clothes, I felt refreshed, the cold, clean Irish wind licking my face and hair.
We wandered through old castles and monasteries, grabbed a pint at a local pub near the ocean and listened to our tour guide serenade us with traditional Irish songs and the repeated warning of, “Ireland: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.”
Sometime after lunch we arrived at the cliffs. A harpist played near their edge, her music mingling with the whipping wind and crashing of waves against the cliffs below. Hundreds of feet above water, we looked out and around, surrounded by green earth on two sides and the depths of sun-speckled sea on the other two. Following the lead of two other tourists, we scaled a small stone wall (feigning to see the “do not cross wall” sign not far from us) in order to take a photo against the cliffs. The landscape provided a perfect Christmas-card photo opportunity and happy with the effect we proceeded to scale back over the wall. My husband jumped; very handsomely (and skillfully) back over to safety. I had no such luck. The wedge of my boot tipped me backwards on the wall, propelling me into a full roll towards the edge of the cliff. Catching myself (by the grace of God) after only one backwards somersault, I peered back at the remaining four feet between myself and the cliff’s edge and clapped a hand to my chest. So much for the graceful ballerina I’d prided myself on being.
Having survived, what I may add as, an awfully romantic death, my new and nearly widowed husband, headed back to the bus where we dozed on and off from the day’s excitement, all the way home.
Almost as romantic as falling off the cliffs of Moher, was a seaside dinner for two at Ivan’s oyster bar and restaurant in the port town of Howth, Ireland. We settled in at a table by the window and dined on a steaming pot of mussels, with a warm buttery broth that we sopped up with sweet, brown bread. Fresh caught prawns followed, along with grilled Hake filet and a fisherman’s cioppino. After dinner, we walked along the sea wall, watching the sun dip into the dark sea, its’ last rays painting the clouds lavender.
Clark followed a small dog, similar to a spaniel, but clearly a mix, that looked as European as his owner, with old world golden curls. A seal in the water below followed us with large, dopey eyes. Sea gulls perched upon ships’ masts called to one another and no one in particular. Ireland’s “Eye” loomed ahead, a lone island, green with the soft grass, indigenous to Ireland, and a large basalt formation on its’ eastern side jutting up towards the sky. The air was full of both sweet and salt, the breeze cool against our woolen Blarney sweaters. I wanted to lie down, spread my arms and legs across the cool stones of the sea wall and watch the wisps of cloud that were gathering with the dusk. I wanted to feel that delicious smallness that you feel when encountered with the sea or a wide open prairie. I wanted to remember the sweetness of Irish mussels and fresh brown bread.
I love Ina Garten so will recommend any of her recipes. Here is one for mussels in white wine. Try with crumbly, nutty Irish brown bread and fall in love...
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mussels-in-white-wine-recipe/index.html
Found a recipe for brown bread from the usually dependable Gourmet archive, but will be tracking down Ivan's Oyster Bar's recipe, so stay tuned!
http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2001/05/irish-brown-bread-with-smoked-salmon
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