Clodagh McKenna might just be one of the happiest people I’ve ever met. A bundle of enthusiasm, the queen of 'Irish soul food’ has a smile as sunny as her yellow blouse, her lilting voice frequently bursting into peals of excited laughter. And it seems she has plenty to be pleased about: her new recipe column in the Evening Standard is the latest of a string of successes in her twenty-year career in food. An alumna of the Ballymaloe Cookery School & House in County Cork, Clodagh started out by running farmers’ markets in Ireland, before penning five cookbooks, opening a restaurant, hosting numerous pop-ups and appearing on television across the world.

Her food is simple, seasonal and always stylish, presented with seemingly effortless grace. She passionately advocates eating with the seasons, for the sake of our health, the environment and our palates. So it is no surprise that the natural world is ever present in Clodagh’s food and styling: her home and kitchen are filled with wildflowers and bunches of dried leaves, her dishes elegantly garnished with petals and crushed herbs. Her unbridled joy at cooking with fresh ingredients is evident from the merest glimpse at any of her recipe videos: she handles every garden vegetable as though it were the finest saffron, inhaling the scent of a bunch of parsley as she might a Valentine’s bouquet. Her excitement is infectious.


As the US ambassador for Kerrygold, Clodagh spends much of her time in America, becoming the face of Irish food stateside, introducing television audiences to modern cuisine from the Emerald Isle. Despite a gruelling schedule that sees her splitting her time between London, Dublin, New York and Toronto, Clodagh insists she loves nothing more than having guests over for supper at home. ‘My heart fills with joy when I see everyone sat around my table enjoying my food’, she says.

These simple-yet-sophisticated meals, filled with the bounty of the season, have formed the basis of Clodagh’s latest cookbook and television series, Clodagh’s Suppers, which will be released in autumn 2018. In between her monthly transatlantic journeys, I met with Clodagh to learn about her food story and the ingredients for a perfect supper.


Can you summarise a supper at Clodagh's?

Cooking for people is one of my favourite things: it's how I socialise. I make everything: down to the syrup for the cocktail guests receive when they arrive. The menu is always based on seasonal ingredients, some of which are local and foraged. I cook everything personally; there isn’t a chef downstairs while I’m upstairs hosting.

So how do you go about planning them?

The first thing I do for the menu is to look at what’s in season and what I’ve been cooking for myself at home. I try to pick dishes that really sing of that particular time of the year, so, in autumn it would be apples, blackberries, figs or perhaps wild mushrooms. Then there’s the logistics of finding all the best producers. I always try and get one producer from Ireland, the rest I find locally; the best butchers, grocers and fishmongers in my area.



If people want to organise supper clubs themselves, what advice would you give them?

I would say, start off by making dinners for your friends, and organise them really well. You will always be stressed if you haven’t planned well enough. So, start by working out how many people you’re going to invite. Work back from there and plan the menu, your shopping lists and the tableware you’re going to use for each dish. Then organise your menu so that there is one course that needs your immediate attention before serving, and make the other two things that can be prepared beforehand and served straight away. If you do too many “stand-over” dishes then you’re not going to be able to do a good job. So only pick one that will require your attention for twenty minutes straight.

When faced with the prospect of losing his property to the Great Fire of London, Samuel Pepys made the smart decision to bury some of his most valuable possessions. These included important papers, his finest wine, and a block of Parmesan. Yes, really. Rather than saving his jewels, heirlooms and books, Mr Pepys opted for cheese. Though it is likely that there was a pecuniary incentive for this (since having been presented to Henry VIII in 1512  by Pope Julius II, Parmesan was well known in the English court - and it was extremely expensive) there is no denying the fact that Pepys clearly felt quite strongly about cheese.

And he is by no means the only one. A cursory glance at the diets of Western Europe indicates that cheese holds a significantly high position in people's estimations. Part of the sacred triumvirate along with wine and bread, cheese has had a colourful history and continues to play a crucial role in modern diets.

While there is naturally debate as to the origins of cheese (some archaeologists trace its production in Poland to over 7000 years ago) - it appears to be generally presumed that it was first produced in Anatolia and Mesopotamia in around 6500BC . This is likely to be due to changing climate and a move to pastoralism, though a popular story upholds that it was discovered by accident, when a traveling merchant stored milk in sheep's gut. The milk fermented in the heat, and cheese was the result. Nice idea, but unlikely, as most neolithic humans were lactose-intolerant. What we do know is that the Greeks loved cheese (Homer's cyclops made his own feta, and they even had a God of cheesemaking, Aristaeus) and the Romans considered themselves masters of it.  Some of our famous modern cheeses can be traced back to Ancient Rome: Pecorino Siciliano, for example, is discussed by Pliny the elder. Though cheese may have been created in Britain before the Romans arrived, they certainly made an impact by instating their own methods for its production,  making it part of the daily diet and paving the way for generations of cheese obsessives like Pepys.

While no one in the world eats more cheese per head than the  French, the UK  makes more varieties of cheese per capita than any other country. While Italy proudly states that it produces 487 types of cheese (which, as they like to make clear, is more than France) the Brits have over 700 types. This is an incredible feat, especially given the fact that during WW2 the only cheese production permitted was a bland cheddar hybrid, which all but wiped out other traditional cheeses.

Now that we have artisanal varieties aplenty, the UK's cheese obsession is more striking than ever. I can't be the only one to notice that cheese has an uncanny ability of turning perfectly sane, balanced individuals into drooling maniacs. Those who ordinarily follow standard portion protocol consider eating half a brie, or chewing from a block of cheddar to be perfectly normal. (Not that this is a modern phenomenon: in the fifteenth century, Boccacio wrote in the Decameron of an utopian 'mountain of parmesan cheese'.)  Buzzfeed, a reasonably reliable barometer for the mind of the average western millenial, is littered with articles for cheese obsessives,  boasting ambiguous titles such as: 23 Things You’ll Only Get If You’re Obsessed With Cheese and 25 Incredibly Cheesy Recipes You Need In Your Life. Cheese-obsessed characters are also a common feature in films and cartoons. Take Wallace, for example:

http://imgur.com/gallery/h9l5u

As it turns out, this proclivity to cheese obsession is not simply the result of Western gluttony. Recently published research indicates that it is scientifically possible to be addicted to cheese. This is due to casein, a chemical present in all dairy, that can trigger the brain's opioid receptors, potentially leading to addiction. (This puts a whole new slant on the Pepys story - was he just protecting his stash?) Such a finding might explain why the cheese toastie has such cult status. An essential post-night out or mid-revision snack for British students, such is our collective ardour for the toastie that it is  now possible to order them directly to your door. There are dozens of articles online about the art of the toastie, all laden with drool-related adjectives and references to gastronomic nirvana. One even went so far as to describe a sandwich as "sex in bread". The idea that slapping a few squares of processed dairy in plasticky white sliced could be sexy might seem ridiculous, but the author of that article is clearly not the only person to think so. Take the following clip from the 2014 film Chef - a masterclass in food porn.



Admit it, there is something very sexy about that sandwich. Is it the careful placement of the cheeses, the aesthetically pleasing range of colours, the oozing cheddar, seeping between the slices or (my favourite) the satisfying crunch as Jon Favreau slices through it with the epic chef's knife? Whatever the secret, put the film title into YouTube and the 'grilled cheese scene' is the first thing that comes up. So I'm clearly not the only one to see it that way. And this attitude doesn't stop at sandwiches - anything laden in melted cheese (especially pizza) is frequently described as 'sexy'. Like chocolate, cheese that is hot, molten and messy really seems to turn people on. Which is really saying something when you consider that up close, even mild varieties often smell (to quote author Andrew Dalby) like 'baby's vomit'.

Addictive and erotic properties aside, what is it about cheese that really keeps people coming back for more? It is the quintessential comfort food, helping us through life in a myriad of little ways: melted on toast, squished in a roll, grated over pasta (I have waxed about that particular dish here), and slathered over vegetables - a reliable way of getting children to eat them, by the way. Cheese just seems to keep people happy, combining a satisfying saltiness with the comforting creaminess of milk, which is, after all, our first food.

Cheese also has versatility on its side; it can feature in any meal of the day, and in Europe constitutes an entire course. Cheese also simultaneously functions as a sign of haute and peasant cuisine. In Britain, a sophisticated cheese course (served with port, following dessert) is the benchmark of upper class eating, whereas in mainland Europe, eating a selection of cheeses after a meal is considered standard, peasant fare. It is, after all, a basic foodstuff, something has has sustained us and kept us from starvation for hundreds of years. Its simplicity is, in itself, comforting. In agricultural communities cheese is a truly local food, representing a sense of place. The cheese will taste of the local grass, literally transferring the taste of the earth.

But there is something more to it than that, something I couldn't quite put my finger on until I visited Neal's Yard Dairy in Covent Garden in the name of journalistic commitment (and delicious free samples). I knew already that the making of cheese was part of a pivotal change in human development - indicating progress from merely gathering food to farming and processing it. Gareth at Neal's Yard helpfully pointed out that it is this process that makes cheese so special; we consider the transformation of one raw material into another to be a magical and mythological action, and we are therefore awed by the finished product. (Just look at the way people obsess about wine and craft beer production.)

This insight helped me appreciate the nature of our cheese obsession, for the look, taste and texture of a cheese is dependent on a million different variables, allowing producers infinite room for experimentation. There is always the chance that you will create something new and unexpected, a foodstuff that is wholly unique. A gift that keeps on giving, cheese promises unending opportunities for new tastes and experiences. Quite simply, it is alchemy; gastronomic gold.

Every morning, at approximately 8.04am, listeners to the Chris Evans Breakfast Show will hear the tinny voice of Helen O'Connell singing "How d'ya like your eggs in the morning?" Those of us who don't fumble around for the nearest blunt instrument to slam down on the snooze button (or at least those who don't make it in time) will hear Dean Martin state proudly that he likes his eggs with a kiss. Good for you Dean. From my experience, however, it takes a little more than a healthy dose of PDA to turn some eggs into the perfect breakfast. There is nothing quite like the disappointment one experiences when someone doesn't make your eggs just how you like them, especially in the morning. 

Working the breakfast shift in a cafe will inevitably mean spending a rather long time discussing eggs. Poached or fried? Hard or soft? White or brown toast? ( Let me say now that I've made a personal vow never to let the words "sunny side up" ever escape my lips). It also entails spending a long time scraping the remains of the unloved eggs into the dustbin, and seeing that there are those who will only eat the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, and will leave the rest. Sacrilege. Still, the experience has shown me, to my relief (but mostly my amusement), that I am obviously not the only person who feels like getting the eggs perfect is an exact science. 

My favourite requests so far:

"Supremely hard-boiled please."
"None of that wibbly-wobbly stuff if you don't mind."
"I want them extra stiff."

And why shouldn't we be particular about it? After all, the humble egg forms a fundamental part of the Great British Breakfast, along with Weetabix and PG Tips. We all know that nothing will set you up for an exam or a long day at work quite like eggs for brekkie. And we're not the only ones either -- you can find them boiled or fried on top of the foul medames eaten in Egypt, or whisked into the feathery omelettes consumed with rice and soy sauce by the Japanese (or at least by all the Japanese students  I once shared a kitchen with.) 

So why the obsession? We're know they're good for us (incredibleegg.org tells me they contain the best type of protein found in any food -- score!) but I like to think there's something symbolic about eating eggs too. They are simple, versatile, filling and cheap. They make for comforting and wholesome meals, especially at the start of the day when you'd rather be hiding under the duvet.   There's even something satisfying about simply holding one in your hand, smooth and oval-shaped, ever so fragile. Eggs are, after all, where we all begin. A sign of new life, expectation and change. And are these not dissimilar to our emotions in the morning? With every boiled, poached or scrambled dish of that example of nature's genius that is the egg, how can we not but feel buoyed up, invigorated and excited about the day ahead? Can we not almost see it as a rebirth? A chance to screw up our courage and face the world with new, fresh hope -- to simply have another go.  

I have recently started working in a local café. It's a quaint little place that bridges the gap between shabby chic and cosy old caf. Every day there is a delivery of 15-25 loaves of sliced bread from the local bakery for the making of fresh sandwiches while-u-wait. This is currently my job. I stand begloved  behind a display containing large bowls of rare roast beef, sliced ham and marinated tuna, and small bowls of chutneys, mustards and mayos, waiting to be called upon. From midday onwards we are flooded with hungry customers, (mostly regulars) who all turn up eager for their fix of Britain's finest lunchtime invention. Most don't look at the menu chalked up on the board above my head but speak out their order directly -- usually a combination of several combinations (the gentleman who on Monday ordered bacon, egg, ham, lettuce "oh and a bit of cheese as well, maybe some brie?), or a simplification of a classic (the softly spoken lady who asked for "just cheese and cucumber, thanks"). The most popular this week has been the hot roast pork roll, served with butter, a smush of apple sauce and stuffing, several tong-fuls of sizzling,gravy-dripping meat and a crispy-yet-soggy piece of crackling on top. It's like Sunday lunch, but better. No awkward formalities, no annoying relatives, and no blessed potatoes. Just a hot, fragrant, soggy-yet-satisfying bap. Bliss.

As a healthy-eater/quasi-vegetarian in a society of ever expanding waistlines I am unsure as to whether this sandwich addiction is a positive thing or not. Everyone asks for butter, and no one has yet made a comment about the thickness of the bread (2 to 3 times your average slice -- "how do you even fit it in your mouth??" I ask myself) or the quantity of fat on the meat. This is not the haven of the roasted sweet potato, kale and chickpea eater. You can't get the egg without the mayo. And there's no quinoa in sight. It is heavy, hearty and comforting fare. From the careful opening of the grease-paper wrapping, to the eyes-closed-in-contemplation swallowing of  the first bite, to the satisfied chewing of the final crust, it is easy to see that these oh-so-British delights will no go out of fashion any time soon. Whether they're simple, sophisticated or just a bit naff, one's sandwiches for lunch form an integral part of our national identity. It wouldn't be proper to do without them. Watching the umpteenth customer stride away from the counter, smiling with paper bag in hand, I can't help feeling (sweating and covered in flour as I am), that perhaps I do a national service by making sandwiches. They seem to be good for the soul.