Justin Rosé and the Golf Club Sandwich

Tomorrow, in honor of this year's British Open, I'm preparing my golf enthusiast husband a hole in one meal.  It's un- FORE -gettable...

For lunch, I'm serving:

Gillian's "GOLF CLUB" Sandwich

Recipe yields 1 serving

Ingredients:

3 slices bacon

2 slices Ciabata bread, pressed

2 tablespoons avocado with sea salt, black pepper and evoo

½ ounce alfalfa sprouts

3 slices (1 ounce) cooked deli turkey breast

3 slices (1 ounce) cooked deli honey ham

2 slices tomato

Red onion, thinly-sliced

Directions:

Place bacon in a heavy skillet.  Cook over medium high heat until evenly brown.  Drain on paper towels.

Spread each slice of Ciabata bread with avocado.  On one slice, place bacon, alfalfa sprouts, tomato, red onion, turkey and ham. Then top with the second slice of bread.

In keeping with the golf theme, I'm also serving "chip it in" chips with sweet chili and sour cream.  However, if you'd prefer a more healthy side, you could offer lightly-dressed greens instead.

For dessert, I'm serving:

Martha Stewart's "TEE-TIME" Cupcakes

And as a treat for myself, for working so hard, I think I'll have a glass (or two) of  "JUSTIN ROSÉ."

Have a great weekend!

Review: Confessions of a Catholic Cop, Pt 2

* This is the conclusion to PART I of my review...

I cozied up with Confessions of a Catholic Cop on a rainy Saturday night.  And save 20 pages, I finished the book in just one sitting.  So you could say it was both entertaining and well-paced.

I even cried!

(But that's not saying too much, considering I cry watching Dateline.)

From the rip though (or cover flip though), Fitzsimmons goes to work.  And he's a painter.  The kind I imagine, that sits, unassuming, drawing pictures in his mind with words.  Of you and yours and those and theirs, all while friendly chatting.

And then he paints on pages... palpable descriptions of varied individuals (and places also).  Interesting ones.

That said, the characters of Confessions came to life for me.  And I believed them.  Their motivations, insecurities, and frailties, too.

I liked them, and felt for them even.

Without giving too much away (because I've never been good at keeping surprises), I was sad to finish Fitzsimmons's book.  And if I didn't have a thing for a man in uniform before reading Confessions of a Catholic Cop, I do now!

My only criticism, and it's slight, is the Law & Order reference.  It distracted me, and took me out of the world of Michael Beckett, the protagonist.  Not to mention, I kept waiting for Ice-T to pop up.

via

But moving on now to the big discovery I mentioned in PART I of my review... about how I felt a pull to Fitzsimmons... how the similarities of our stories were undeniable... ya da ya da ya...

Let me just say, my instincts were right on! 

Upon reading one - County Cavan - reference midway through Confessions, the light went off.  

"That sounds familiar," I thought. 

And then I put it all together.  My great-great grandparents, the Colwells and Reillys, were from County Cavan in Ireland.  More specific, they lived in the Parish of Castlerahan, in the Townland of Clonkeefy.

I thought about it a little more, and as bizarre as it might seem, I remembered seeing a - Fitzsimmons - listed alongside my family, the Colwells, on the First Official Census of Ireland taken in 1821.

(Yes, I'm a nerd.  I have this document.)

And you know what, I was right.  There he was, plain as day.  Well maybe not plain as day, but there, yes.  See for yourself.

Michael Fitzsimmons - Age 45 - Servant & Labourer

I could draw this out invariably, but after a few shared emails with the author, and based off what he knew about his ancestors prior, I was able to place our families together in Clonkeefy.

In the early 19th century, no less.

Pretty cool, right?

Moral of this post, follow your intuition.  Oh, and read this book!

Review: Confessions of a Catholic Cop, Pt 1

I'm not going to lie.  I don't read enough.  In the way of books, that is.  Wait.  Let me rephrase.  I don't read enough adult books.

I mean, I read a million children's books a day.

But I can't say, in all honesty, that I've read a real book since devouring Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love on a Mexican beach two+ years ago.  And unbeknownst to many, it was no crime novel!

So, you can understand my initial hesitation when I received the offer to review Thomas Fitzsimmons's, Confessions of a Catholic Cop: the story of a ten-year police veteran/ part-time actor who digs deep to solve an arson plot that leaves those closest to him, changed forever.

Read about the author here.

"Why me?"  I asked.  "How can I relate?  I don't read crime fiction."

(At least, I didn't read crime fiction then.  I do now!)

Needless to say though, I felt a pull to the material, to Fitzsimmons, as strange as that might sound.  And I always try to follow my gut.

To start, I'm of an Irish Catholic New York-based family (like Fitzsimmons).  And it so happens close relatives have served in the NYPD and US NAVY (like Fitzsimmons).

My Father:  Machinist's Mate 2nd Class

Basically, the similarities were too compelling for me to ignore.

Not to mention, I watch loads of whodunit shows on ID.  And I actually favor a good mystery, a suspenseful crime story on television.

So, I agreed to review his book.  Or at least, I'd give it a go...

Check back soon for the conclusion (nuts+bolts) of my review. And let's just say, I'm glad I followed my instincts on this one!

I made a truly interesting discovery...

Tots Illustrated

I wrestled with the sheets in a semi-state of sleep, as my husband woke to watch his show.  And lucid thoughts came clear...

I saw his mug on the cover of a magazine.  Mulligan, that is.  

* If confused, Mulligan is in reference to my son, Aksel Mulligan-Kohn.  

But really, my husband flicked the telly on at little after four am this morning to watch Irish golfer, Rory McIlroy, tee off in the 2011 Open Championship.  And as I said, in a haze of sleep, the golf dreams and hair parallels rushed forth, all too real... 

IMAGE

Live from the ESP Dream Studio, I commentated:

"It's a shame, Nick (Faldo)," I said, "Such an upset after three days of beautiful, error-free golf.  But it's over.  After that last triple-bogey seven, Rory's gone and thrown it away."

"You're certainly right," he replied. 

"But there's hope for the game just yet," as Kid Mulligan shown through the fog, his locks blowing on the links.

"Hold your breath.  This is it," he continued. 

(A BRIEF PAUSE)

IMAGE

Now you know how it ends... the dream.  My boy was victorious!

But seriously, I couldn't help but make the comparison.  For one, my kid's got the hair.  Can you deny it?

And two, he's got good form.  Just see for yourself.

Not to mention, with a family name like Mulligan...

My kid, and his hair, make me happy!  If you know what makes you happy, link-up here.  Or click on the cute pic below...

Not a Blarney Stone, or Shamrock Unturned.

Being the good ole Irish-American girl that I am, and now having a wee one of me own, I feel obliged to share a little about past experiences.  In reference to my previous blatherings about how I wish to tell a story, and to pass on a definitive "something" that Aksel can take pride in, an anecdote of our ancestral homeland...



Besides, what better day than this very one?  Em, it is Saint Patrick's Day.  Hullo?! 

First of all, I love to travel!  When I was eligible at eighteen, I applied for a passport.  And, with my blue book in hand, I was off and running, actively seeking to behold the wonders of this wide world. 

As a side note, I've barely left my home, since the age of twelve, without a spiral-bound book, a black felt-tip pen, or two, and liquid paper.  So, in traveling, not only was it crucial that I SEE the world, but it was, for me, a requirement that I also write about it.  It was my personal goal to form knowledgeable, first-hand opinions about differing cultures.  Twas my objective, if ye will, to question people, and myself for that matter, thoroughly and often.  I sought to listen as graciously as I knew how, which I might mention at the time, was not saying very much. 

Basically speaking, I didn't want to leave a Blarney Stone, or a shamROCK unturned!

So, when it came time to navigate my travels, it was totally necessary I visit Ireland.  It was for me, a Mulligan, a sort of sacred journey, my very own rite of Irish passage. 

I attempt now, with my honest-born gift of gab, and my slew of dusty journals to recount my most special Celtic memory.


Proudly Irish, I'll always be a Mulligan!

I was twenty-one when I first visited Ireland.  A junior in college, and not a smidge scared, I packed my bag and left for the green isle.  On my flight's descent into Dublin, I felt overcome with emotion.  Staring out my tiny window, I felt strangely prepared.  Like I was there to solve some familial mystery, and I'd studied my evidence the night before.  I had, in fact, just received a lengthy email from my father, tracing our genealogical roots, which had been cleverly prepared by my priest-for-a-cousin, Kenny (aka. Abbott Matthew Leavy).  There were countless cousins, aunts, and uncles, who were born in such & such county, and had X amount of children, with silly names like Cornelius... it went on and on.  Albeit, I came to Ireland out of curiosity, with just a sliver-of-a-plight to answer questions for myself, about my past.

Growing up in a small southern town, with a tangled mass of dark curls, and an unforgiving name like Gillian Eleanor Mulligan, I didn't exactly blend in!   I was tormented actually, and felt inferior for a great part of my childhood.  For quite some time, I resented my heritage.  Not because I wasn't proud to be of Irish descent per se, but because I was so physically different looking than my classmates.  People always asked what ethnicity I belonged to, and oftentimes it embarrassed me!  So, I came to see what the people of Ireland were like.  To observe how they looked, and to compare how I was or was not similar.  Did I, in fact, look like an Irish woman?

Well, I got my answer!  It came from a very wise man, seated at a very old bar, nursing a very large Guinness, in a very dark pub.

His name was Michael Jordan.  The place was Mulligans on Poolbeg Street.  The story goes something like this...

My first logical stop in Dublin was Mulligan's Pub, and I couldn't think of, or justify, a more fitting place to start!  I walked for a long, long time, down endless side streets, staring hopelessly at my pocket map to find Poolbeg Street.  After quite some time however, I arrived at my destination, weary and starved!

I opened the heavy door, peered in with curious eyes, and rolled my suitcase over the threshold to enter the establishment.  Upon doing so, the pub seemed to let out a startled gasp (for air). 

Moldy, stagnant, dark, and dank are just a few pleasant adjectives that come to mind.  Did I say awesome, too?


 _________________________________________________________

INT. MULLIGAN'S PUB (DUBLIN) - DAY

GILLIAN

(pitchy in tone)

Hello.  Do you serve lunch?

The two male patrons and barman, startled by the glare of the opening door, look up to observe the unusual visitor.

BARMAN

No, Miss.

GILLIAN

(excited)

I'm Gillian Mulligan... and I'm here... at Mulligan's in Dublin, Ireland!

Smiling broadly, she settles in, and jumps on a barstool.

GILLIAN

(continuing)

I'd like a half-pint of Guinness with a dash of black currant, please.  Could I also have a packet of Walker's crisps?  I'm famished!

Talking aloud, but not to anyone in particular, she exclaims!

GILLIAN

  I have to drink Guinness, even if I don't like it!  It would be blasphemous, to be a Mulligan, at Mulligan's in Ireland, and not drink one.  For the merit of this experience, I must!

Silent moments pass.  The elderly gentleman to her left, pushes his newspaper aside, takes a long look at the girl, and speaks.

MICHAEL JORDAN

(with an unphased air)

Well, ya don't really look very Irish, Miss Mulligan. 

Lifting his nearly empty pint glass to his mouth, he swallows the remaining dark stout.

MICHAEL JORDAN

Em, but then again, ya don't really look like you're not Irish either.

__________________________________________________________

I love this memory of Ireland!  I hope my wee little leprechaun makes the trek one day...

This entry is in honor of my Great-Uncle John, who sadly passed away last night.  Although we saw each other infrequently, I will miss him greatly!  An inspiring, motivated man, he loved to travel too...

A present from the barman at Mulligan's Pub on Poolbeg Street:

One of my FAVORITE things!

A Half-Pint and Guinness!  (Staged, of course!)



The River Liffey at Dusk.

A (Lil') Man's Best Friend.

Seeing as I'm of the following clans:  the Mulligans, the O'Briens, the Colwells, the O'Rourkes (you get the paddy point), it's only fitting I recommend (on this most sacred of Irish days) a GREEN product.

So, here it is...

Me wee lad, Aksel Kieran, loves his GREEN LeapFrog pooch, Scout.  And, I'm not exaggerating on Patrick's behalf, either!  Saint, that is.

Reminiscent of the 80's Teddy Ruxpin, this talking pup (he can learn your name) is my little man's best friend! 

And while I'm on the subject, he doesn't cost too much GREEN!

Happy St. Patrick's Day! 

LeapFrog My Pal Scout

The Red Bog.

It's no secret, I'm fascinated by geneaology.  If you've been reading all along, you know this.  If not, I'm telling you now. 

So, it should come as no surprise when I say I love NBC's hit series Who Do You Think You Are, sponsored by Ancestry.com.

I'm writing this now, because I was especially touched by last night's episode featuring Rosie O'Donnell.  It struck home, and I'm assuming it's because her ancestry is very similar to mine.  We're both of Irish descent, and our families settled close to one another in New York.

Unlike Miss O'Donnell though, I'm not starting at ancestral square one.  I'm lucky in that I already possess names, dates, documents, and certicates, et cetera.  I'm blessed, actually!  (See below.)

From the first official census taken in Ireland in 1821,  my great-great-great grandfather, Charles Colwell, born c. 1783 and his wife, my great-great-great grandmother, Anne, born c. 1787, are recorded.  Four of their children who were alive when the census was taken in 1821 are also listed:  Patrick (1811), Bridget (1813), Charles (1815) and Thomas (1817).  In 1826, my great-great grandfather, Philip, was born to this family.

(I have a brother named Patric, and a sister named, Bridgette.)

Thanks to my cousin Abbott Matthew Leavy of St. Anselm Abbey, many of my familial questions have already been answered.  For instance, I know much of my family came from a muddy plot of land called the Red Bog, in the Townland of Clonkeefy, in the Parish of Castlerahan, in County Cavan, very near to the border of Northern Ireland, but there's so much more I want to know.

For example, I'm terribly interested in a lass named Brigid O'Brien, and another named Annie O'Rourke. 

(My great-grandmother and great-great grandmother, respectively.)

Not to mention, the mug of ol' Thomas Mulligan, my great-grandfather and namesake, is a total mystery!  No Mulligan I know has ever laid eyes on him, and it's my mission to find a photo.  He was an alcoholic who deserted his family in the early 30's.

So, I'm energized to start researching, and I'm constructing my own elaborate family tree.  I just wonder what I'll learn?!

Do you know your story?

PS - If you're a relative, be forewarned, I will be in contact soon. 

PPS - And this doesn't just include my Irish relatives!

PPPS - For more like this, click on the label entitled Ancestry.

The Story of a Boy Named Aksel.

I'm a curious mother, and I've wondered from day one what characteristics Aksel would develop over time and from whom they'd come?

With that being said, I've been collecting old family photos for ages now and for lack of a better phrase, I'm beginning to put my child's cultural puzzle together.

For example, who does my child most resemble?  I have my ideas...

Join me as I take a step back in time, and let me ask:  Do you have photos saved?  Do you know your genealogical story?  Where did your child get his eyes from? 

I know where my Norwegian/Irish/German/Welsh/Italian/Native American boy got his... GRAMMY!

The Story of a Boy Named Aksel.

(In Pictures)

Aksel Kieran Mulligan-Kohn

"Grammy"

Judy Dianne Hirst Kohn (D)

Happy Birthday, Grammy (D)!  Similar Smiles?

Aksel Kieran -- 6 ½ Months

Aksel's Norwegian Relatives:  The Gundersons

Bottom Left:

Great Grandfather Ronald Eugene Gunderson (M)

Back Row:

Great Great Grandfather Olaf Gunderson (M)

Great Grandfather Ronald Eugene Gunderson (M)

Aksel's Welsh and Italian Relatives

Bottom Left:

Great Grandmother Eleanor Jones (M)

Great Great Aunt Donna Jones (M)

Second Row Left to Right: 

Great Great Grandmother Althea Mae Manginelli (M)

Great Great Great Grandmother Nettie Woods Manginelli (M)

Great Great Great Great Grandmother Martha Denend (M)

Back Row: 

 Great Great Grandfather Elmer "Red" Jones (M)

Great Grandmother Eleanor Jones (M)

"Lulee"

Grandmother Laurie Marie Gunderson Brown (M)

Aksel's Irish Relatives:  The Colwells

Second Row Left to Right:
Great Great Great Grandfather Phillip Colwell (M)

Great Great Great Grandmother Jane Geheren Colwell (M)

Third Row Far Right:

Great Great Grandmother Anna Margaretta Colwell Mulligan (M)

I think I look a little something like my Great Grandmother Anna!

Same hand on the hip and all!

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