Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

     For the last ten days, my two older sons have been away from home. The Eldest travelled with his school on a rugby tour and Middle son went to Irish College in Waterford. Youngest son stayed at home. He had mixed feelings about being the sole object of my attention: he loved the empty house but when I suggested we could go on little adventures together and stop in O’Brien’s for a treat, he shook his head and said, “No way!” I left him off.

     My sons' temporary absence gave me a foretaste of the Empty Nest Syndrome. At first I didn’t like the quiet house and almost felt lonely. You know those people who live near Heathrow and then can’t sleep without the noise of jumbo jets rattling their house, I found the peace unsettling. However, after a day or so I got used to the quiet and then found unexpected pleasures: I didn’t have to crank out a dinner every night nor make four sets of lunches every morning; the pile in the laundry basket didn’t grow any bigger – Youngest Son takes recycling personally - food lasted longer, the house remained in the same state as the day before, no dumped bags in the hall, no trails of muck, rain and grass through the kitchen. The house became Zen-like in its simplicity and reading more attractive as I was not required to drive someone somewhere NOW.

     Youngest son slept in a different bed every night because he could. He had complete monopoly of the TV but was generous with it. He recommended Come Dine With Me saying, "You wouldn’t believe how mean these women are to each other!” We watched the final of the Cork edition together. I didn’t know the history of the five contestants: three women and two men. One man was a doormat – there’s always one in every group, the second man was larger than life in every way; big rings, large head and a booming voice. He seemed like a good laugh and would have dominated the conversation only for the women verbally tearing lumps out of each other. I can’t remember their names but I will call the 52 year old brunette, Karen, the 25 year old brunette, Anne and young blonde, Simone. It was Simone’s turn to cook. In her kitchen she was marinating lamb chops. While kneading the chops into a tepee shape she said, “I know Karen has a thing about lamb ever since her pet lamb was slaughtered when she was a child but that’s what’s cooking….” and broke off laughing in hysterics. For Anne the vegetarian, Simone was cooking a massive vegetable casserole that would have fed Croke Park on All Ireland Final day. It had twenty different kinds of vegetables, ready-chopped. She seemed lost as to what to do with them. First she sautéed them, then she mushed them, and then added more to it. Eventually she had no dish big enough to contain it. It was like the Magic Porridge Pot: it kept growing and growing.

     At the dinner table Karen sniffed the lamb with suspicion and shook her head in disbelief. Anne was not impressed with her main course even though Simone went to the trouble of serving it in a pretty, heart-shaped bowl. She gingerly prodded the mess with her fork and after putting it to her mouth said, ‘It’s disgusting’. They got past their prejudices and mid dinner, Karen said to Anne, ‘Isn’t it hypocritical of you being a vegetarian?’ Anne looked surprised and clearing her throat said, ‘Do you even know what hypocritical means?’ I thought that was a fair question. ‘Are you calling me thick?’ said Karen. Loud man begged the two of them to calm down. Doormat said his appetite was ruined. To the camera after dinner, Karen, shaking with rage said, "For a 25 year old to talk to a 52 year like that is disgraceful. She doesn’t know her place." Who talks like that anymore? I didn’t know foodies were such divas. I was flabbergasted by their rudeness. After all, Ireland is a small place, Cork is even smaller, and on TV too.

     Middle son has just sent me a text saying ‘Will u be coming this weekend or something’. He must have run out of money. It reminds me of the story my dad used to tell us whenever we asked for our pocket-money. A boy sent his father telegram that read - No Mon, No Fun, Your Son. His father replied – Too Bad, So Sad, Your Dad. Absence from home makes little boys broke!