An Irish Stew

© Fionnuala Kearney

The small trolley veers to the left. I ignore its mood, pull it sharply into submission and begin filling it with carrots, onions, potatoes, neck of lamb. I salivate, can almost taste the end result, just like Mam used to make.

I fought with her before she died so my brother fought with me, then I paid it forward to both my sisters. What a mess. I add fresh thyme to the trolley just as my phone rings. Sinead. My youngest sister's number dares me to answer but I can't. Or won't. I put some crusty white bread in the trolley, perfect for soaking up gravy.

My children's faces flash through my mind. This dinner time, four eyes will peer accusingly, wondering what I've done with their fish fingers.

‘Ugh! What's this?' they will parrot.

‘An Irish Stew,' I'll reply.

I seal the meat, add onions, carrots and water. Bring to the boil. The scent is laced with nostalgia as I add some thyme, then simmer gently.

News 24 is on the television as if to remind me what a real disaster is. Sitting down with a cup of tea, I add some time, simmer gently and pick up the phone.