Wee Stories

A Wee Story - Back in the Day

My husband tells me the story about the beauty of Irish rail, 'back in the day'.

He recalls the time when the train from Ballina to Claremorris wasn't running and a bus was laid on to transport passengers between the two stations, so that the connection to Dublin could be caught.

On one memorable day the bus arrived behind schedule, several minutes behind schedule, and on disembarking my husband's heart dropped seeing the train disappearing down the tracks having left the station already.

It had waited long enough for the delayed bus.

Within a further few minutes though his heart lifted. The train was reversing back down the tracks to pick up the now arrived, left behind passengers.

"Only in Ireland," he chuckled, "only in Ireland."

There was a peace and joy in that chuckle, and twinkle in his eye as he read out the contrasting story in the picture below about the efficiency of the Japanese bullet train.

"18 seconds per train
Recent data released on Japanese trains showcases an unparalleled dedication to punctuality, with an astonishing average delay of merely 18 seconds per train. This outstanding performance once again solidifies Japan’s position as a global frontrunner in transportation efficiency and precision."

My own mind circled round the beauty of diversity and flexibility and efficiency and the dance between them, not tension, just a dance and a richness that differing systems in the world brings to the human soul.

I laughed inwardly at the idea of a station master asking a Japanese bullet train driver to reverse direction to collect delayed passengers, who through no fault of their own, had missed the connection.

And I smiled at the thought that the next bullet train would probably be passing in minutes anyway so there would be no need for such a call.

But my heart rested in the same peace and joy that leapt to my husband's eyes and made them twinkle at the memory that 'back in the day' there was a willingness to reverse direction, to change a plan, to accommodate others whose own dreams would have otherwise been smashed to pieces by the twin 'gods' of rigid impatience and inflexible efficiency.

The Baked Potato

Friday, and instead of meat or fish, my husband asked for a baked potato for his lunch and baked beans. He added butter and a glass of milk to the dish when at last the potato was cooked.

That's the thing about baked potatoes they seem to take forever to cook right the way through. It's no good now serving a hungry, hard working man a potato that is lovely and crispy on the outside but rock hard in the centre. That would just increase his indigestion, struggling through that stone so as to 'please me'; and, at the same time, not drawing attention to the incompetence of my skill in cooking whilst multitasking, cleaning the house.

Most baked potatoes, for a large sized one, equivalent to a woman's fist, takes about an hour in the air fryer. I always pierce the potato all over with a fork, give it a thin smear of olive oil and a liberal dose of sea salt before cooking. The temperature is set to 200 degrees C and the timer for half and hour. In between sweeping and dusting rooms I give the basket a jog to rotate the potato and ensure even cooking. After about 20 minutes I turn the heat down to about 180 degrees, so that the outside remains crisp without burning and when the 30 minutes is pinging on the timer, I reset it for another half and hour.

The husband passed through the kitchen about 15 minutes before lunch time, and his passage reminded me to check the potato for consumption readiness. To my horror it was still as hard as a slab of set concrete. The innards resisted the probe with all their might. So, I set about stabbing the potato as deeply as possible with the probe from multiple angles, sending a wee prayer skywards that it would be ready by 13:00.

The clock ticked on, and I carried on with the cleaning.

I'm happy to report though, that between the prayer and the stabbing the potato was lovely and fluffy by the time the final ping sounded from the timer and not overly burnt on the outside skin!

You dear reader might like to offer some advice about improving the technique ...

Mulling over the incident, I was struck how problems in life are often like cooking baked potatoes. Time passes and the problem never resolves. No solutions present themselves and the heat from the tension of carrying the problem seems oppressive. But something is definitely happening deep within. A final thrust, a piercing, a cry from the heart can undo all that tension, all the bottling up, all the stress; and release a breath that breathes new life into the problem; dissolving, as it does so, the resistance and stubbornness that was preventing resolution.

God is good. All in His perfect timing.