Taking & Supping the Soup

'GET THE CARROT,' boomed the master of the workhouse.

-DONG-

'BRING FORTH THE CARROT.'

-DONG-

'IN THE NAME OF QUEEN VICTORIA.'

-DONG-

'FOR THE GLORY AND HONOUR OF ALMIGHTY GOD'

-DONG-

A group of visibly well-fed, robe-wearing members of the state church, the 'Church of One Ireland under One God, King and Providence,' processed through the dining hall of the work-house and into the kitchen. They accompanied a small box, heavily gilded with gold, frankincense and myrrh, somehow.

It was time to prepare the food for the starving, dying, disease-ridden, damned, savage, good-for-nothing, two-faced, Romish, decaying Irish peasants who had been pouring in through the doors of the work-houses, since their precious crop, the potato, le pomme de terre, or de spud as they commonly referred to it, had failed two seasons ago. They venerated their sole foodstuff as they would venerate the 'Blessed Sacrament' in their heathenish practice. Of course, for them it was equally as uncomfortable to pray before anything as they had to do it in a bush, an area of hedgerow, or somewhere that usually involved having a variety of wild shrubbery in their overly active nether-regions.

The members of the state church had been running this work-house all summer for the glory of God and in the hope of saving the souls of the Irish through the medium of hearty proselytising assisted by the presence of wholesome food for the body.

Several clergy members dropped to their knees in preparation for the next part of the ceremony.

'BRING FORTH THE SPATULA OF THE LORD.'

As the tool of the Lord was brought into the kitchen by the spatula-bearer, the box was opened in front of the range where the healing meals for the bloody Papists were prepared. A large pot of water over a small open flame awaited, the pinnacle of the lavish procession.

'WITH THIS PINCH OF SALT, WE REMEMBER THE SACRIFICE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST FOR THE REFORMED. WITH THIS PINCH OF SALT, WE SALINATE THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE IRISH WITH THE HOPE OF FINALLY BRINGING THEM TO GOD, WHO, THROUGH HIS ULTIMATE WISDOM, MAY EVEN NOW REJECT THEM FOR THEIR OBSTINATE REJECTION OF THE TRUE CHURCH FOR ALL THE TIME WE HAVE BEEN HERE.'

'Amen,' replied the congregation quietly, now in their dozens.

The salt was added to the large vat of heating water and was accompanied by a sung response. The spatula-bearer took up his place in front of the box. Using the tool of the Lord, he careful lifted what once was a carrot and held it aloft.

'WITH THIS CARROT, WE PRAISE THE WORKS OF LORD IN THE DEEP AND ALOFT IN THIS WORLD.'

'Amen,' came the hallowed response from those gathered.

'WITH THIS CARROT, WITH WHICH OUR PRESENT ORGANISAION WAS FOUNDED TWO SCORE YEARS AGO, WE FEED THE HUNGRY TO DRIVE OUT THE PAPISM OF THE IRISH AND PERFORM THE WILL OF GOD.

'Amen.'

The spatula held the Carrot of the Lord. It was the sole ingredient, apart from the soul-saving salt, to be added to the cauldron of the Church. The carrot had been added to the cauldron for every meal, and then removed before serving, since the beginning of the present famine in Ireland. In blatant disregard for any nutritional value, it was believed that it was the Carrot’s spiritual nourishment that was truly for the benefit of those present. At this stage, the Carrot was not much of a carrot. It was a soft, multi-coloured (mostly a dark grey-blue) smush that was moulded back into the basic shape of its former self once it had been retrieved from the boiling water that was to be served to the hungry stomachs waiting in the dining hall.

After the slow, stately lowering of the Carrot into the vat, most of the congregation went back about their regular duties and jobs. The spatula-bearer remained with a core group of clergy for the Removal of the Carrot once the water had reached boiling-point. For this ceremony, an Auxiliary Tool of the Lord was often needed to graciously scoop out the remnants of the Carrot for its return to the box. This was also accompanied by sung responses and psalms.

The serving then began. Small bowls were half-filled and brought out to the almost dead Irish peasants. For the previous forty minutes, they had been treated to a reading from the Gospel of John and a sermon based on the First Letter of Gee to the Phallopians. The Irish looked about at each other, puzzled, but respectfully listened to the clerically-clad man, as they tried to hear his words over the growling of their stomachs and the wails of their children.

At long length the small bowls were placed before the Irish. They were told to wait until all the bowls were served and a prayer was said.

'WITH THIS SOUP WE SEEK TO WASH THE CLAPTRAP OF ROME FROM THE BOWELS OF THESE ASSEMBLED IRISH. WITH THE WORD AND BROTH OF THE LORD WE AIM TO DRIVE THIS LAND FORWARD TO PRODUCTIVITY AND REAL UNION WITH GOD, HER MAJESTY AND THE EMPIRE.'

'Amen,' said the staff and clergy'.

'Amen,' then fumbled the Irish, as they assumed they were to respond.

*

A third of the way down the table, Gearóid turned to his father.

'Da, what's this?'

'It's soup, son. We listen to a bit of Proddy shite to get a sup o' soup for the dinner.'

'Da, I think I got hot water instead of soup.'

'Ah no, now c'mon and eat up.'

'Sure, there's nothing to be eaten except that fleck of blue on top.'

'Wha'? You got a fleck of blue?! Ah, be the name o' Jaysis, sure there's eatin' 'n' drinkin' in your soup.' The Lord must have a plan for you. Maybe you won't die after all, ho ho.

'Da, what's Proddy?'

'It's the divil himself son, but if ye pull the right chain, you get a sup o' tepid water, a bit of blue shite and a stool to sit on for half an hour a day. Now, shut the fuck up.'

*

By the following month, in order to survive, most of the people in that room had said that they were, at one time or another, members of the state church, Presbyterians, Quakers, Keynesian Economists, Methodists, Vegetarians, Train-enthusiasts, and Progressive Democrats.

Imagine being a tenant farmer in 1840s Ireland—it'd be shite. The Irish prayed for a saviour, a liberator, a power figure that would rise from nothing and champion their cause in a non-violent, rational fashion. These prayers were answered and the Irish were delivered from the depths of depravity and systematic repression by such a man. To this day, the Irish still praise the name of William Ewart Gladstone. They may, erroneously, put the emphasis on the second syllable of this grand old man's name, but God love them, they mean well in their reverence of their political hero.

On 24 April every year, the Irish have a quaint tradition to honour their favourite Prime Minister; they take to the hillocks of their island to fly kites in honour of Gladstone. The kites are often in the shapes of blight-corrupted potatoes or the bones of dead children to recall their misery and suffering. When asked why they still do it one Irishman replied, 'sure dat's de way we like it, j'kno'?' to the absolute befuddlement of this writer. What’s the point in having a history full of wretchedness, severe melancholia and repression if, in the generations that follow, one can’t contentedly, almost gleefully, wallow in it like an otter in a basin of yesterday’s breakfast milk?