Growing up, I never did much cooking. Dad loved to experiment with various gourmet recipes, and I was a hazard to myself and others around flames, hot water and sharp objects. The kitchen was a veritable gauntlet of dangers to me, and I was more than once ushered out as I climbed up on counters to reach one goody or another. Once a year, however, my presence was expected in the kitchen.
About a week before March 17th, my mother and I would troop out to Jewel and stock up on flour, baking soda, eggs, etc. Then, we’d bring our hard-won—to me, grocery shopping always seemed more of a penitential torment than an errand—ingredients home and banish the boys from the kitchen. It was Irish Soda Bread time.
I come from a long line of Irish folk. Several lines, actually. My name inevitably gains commentary upon introducing myself to new people—“Shannon O’Shea! Oh, you must be German!” It never gets old. Really. I grew up ridiculously aware and proud of my name and the heritage it represented. As such, my annual baking of Irish Soda Bread with Mom was my finest hour. We painstakingly scrubbed the kitchen and our hands clean before beginning, since we’d be giving out loaves of bread to classmates, relatives and family friends and the usual cleanliness just wouldn’t cut it. When Mom declared us properly sanitized, we began.
We’d measure “the white stuff” first. 3 ¾ cups of flour, 2 tsp. of baking powder, 1 tsp. baking soda and another of salt, and two tablespoons of sugar. I measured meticulously, while mom dumped heaping cups of flour, stating that Irish women like her grandmother weren’t too stingy with ingredients. After sifting all these together, we started phase two. In went an overflowing cup of raisins (we’d always end up adding more throughout the process) followed by 2 tablespoons of melted butter, an egg I would always crack with vicious energy, and a cup and a half of buttermilk. We’d work all these together into a thick, sticky ball of dough. Usually, mom and I doubled the recipe, so we’d separate the giant mass and each knead our own loaf. The kneading was always the most fun. Since we always kneaded the dough into a layer of flour to dry it out some, we’d cover the counters in wax paper. The kitchen, our hands, and our clothes always got covered in flour and dough anyway. After the dough was properly kneaded and floured, we’d press our respective loaves into the round baking pans—always greased. Before placing them in the oven (anywhere from 350-425 degrees, until done depending on the oven) we’d cut a careful cross in the middle of the dough. It helped with the rising somehow, and it was tradition. The magical word Tradition was enough to insure my unquestioning compliance then, and I’m sure Mom wishes it still did! We’d make ten or so loaves that day, keeping a few for ourselves and distributing others with that same sense of Irish pride.
As I grew older, the number of loaves we baked dwindled, along with the time we had to make them. Homework got harder, friends took precedence over family time, and things like boyfriends, work, golf team and choir sprang up where few activities had been before. But year after year, we’d faithfully make at least enough loaves to eat ourselves, and give at least one away. Until this year. My first year at college, I managed to get home the weekend before St. Patrick’s day and make the bread. Somehow this year, my schedule and Mom’s just didn’t match up. And somehow, St. Patty’s Day just wasn’t the same.
For some people, St. Patrick’s day goes by unnoticed, except for the overwhelming appearance of green everywhere (can you guess what this Irish girl’s favorite color is?), for others it’s an excuse to get drunk. For me, it has been and always will be the day I make a mess of the kitchen with my mother. I hope this will be the only year that I fail in what has been my childhood duty.

Ingredients

Directions