The Truth about Black Pudding

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(To the Irish who may read this post, I apologize. I know how wonderful your food is, but my California tastes restrict me at times, and certainly in this instance. The limitation is mine not yours)

Day Two

Dear Reader,

we knew this day that the theme of diminishing returns would be in effect making our most productive and active part of the day the morning. So, after Brown Bear and I had an amazing run along the river (every visitor should go to this river if for no other reason that to see the haunting famine sculpture erected on its banks) we made the kids walk for their breakfast. The Sleeping Man and Big G slept in a bit and joined us after getting lost at the fabulous “Queen of Tarts” restaurant. I would be a franchise owner if I could get the Queen of Tarts in Los Angeles (I would also be 780 lbs so maybe that wouldn’t be my wisest choice). This restaurant started my love affair with Irish cuisine. The kids noticed immediately that the hot chocolate was not as sweet as in the United States (makes sense as I didn’t see one obese Irish person) but the hot chocolates always come with marshmallows so somehow the sweet issue was cancelled out with the addition of the marshmallow.

Squeak ordered the Traditional Irish Breakfast. A gut-buster of a meal it includes:
2 eggs
2 potato pasties (think a mashed potato pancake- please don’t tell me this recipe)
2 sausages
2 slices of irish bacon (more like canadian bacon)
2 slices of toast
1 portabello mushroom grilled (excellent)
1 grilled tomato (again excellent)
1 black pudding

Big G asked when Squeak’s meal arrived

“What’s black pudding?” I am sure he was hoping that it had something to do with shaved chocolate.

Squeak said “something like a sausage”

Big G appeared perplexed “why do they call it black pudding, then?”

Squeak not wanting to go into the finer details so not to curb his enjoyment of this Irish delicacy.

“G it’s a meat that is cooked in blood” I explained and then the lazy, nothing four-legged or that quacks, vegetarian in me stated “G, sweetheart, he is eating a scab sausage”

The table erupted in alternate “eewww’s” and laughter. The kids offered to add some of their homemade, black pudding to Squeak’s plate forever ruining how Squeak enjoyed this Irish staple.

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