That Dadblasted Seaweed Song

A few weeks ago following Wednesday evening church service, Duckie and I lingered in the parking lot (as Baptists often do) to discuss our mutual obsession with un-Top 40 music.  Bopping from topic to topic -- Eric Whitacre, Il Divo, The Muppets -- we discovered that we shared a passion for Celtic music. 

"Have you ever heard Dulaman?" he asked, completely unaware that I had been blasting it in my Mazda every morning like a pretentious college kid who blows out his Bose speakers listening to Ben Folds.  Wwwwwow, I'm a dweeb. 

He then proceeded to tell me that he was in posession of a copy of the choral sheet music for the song, complete with pronunciation guide and translation.  He brought it to me the next week, wearing his biggest kid grin like he'd just made his first peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.  I was moved.  Share your music with me, and I'm your golden retriever for life.

The stupid song is about seaweed. 

Here I was taking cues from the rousing accompaniment and the heart-hammering chants, thinking that the piece was the record of some epic battle or raging love affair.  Nerp.  Seaweed.

"Dúlamán na binne buí, dúlamán Gaelach

Dúlamán na farraige, b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn"

Which translates:

"Seaweed from the yellow cliff, Irish seaweed

Seaweed from the ocean, the best in all of Ireland"

 

Which begs the obvious question.....  Irish sushi?

The Vegetarian Epicure

In a moment of motherly brilliance, my mum came over two years ago bearing the most thoughtful gift: an antique vegetarian cookbook from a hipper age called The Vegetarian Epicure.  If the illustrations of wavy-looking people bedecked with flowers and embroidered tunics aren't an automatic tip-off as to what kind of lifestyle the author endorses, then perhaps the chapter denoting after-dinner "grass" smoking would be a clue. 

(Webmistress's note:  Though I admit to being fascinated with most things bohemian-flavored, I see the drug phenomenon loping alongside hippie culture like a slow, slobbery neighborhood dog that likes to trip up morning joggers.  Ugh.  To quote Neil Young, a lot of good art goes down the drain. What a waste of gray matter.)

All Californianism aside, I love this book still.  And on days like today when the pressure in my sinuses outweighs the pressure at work, the only things I find remotely palatable are vegetable soup and bread.  There's something about the repetitive action of kneading and chopping that releases tension like a balloon. :)