The Sandpoint Eater: Ode to Irish pastures

By Marcia Pilgeram
Reader Columnist

In Ireland, cream runs as thick as an authentic Irish brogue. Real cream. Not the apologetic half-and-half that passes for luxury here at home, but proper heavy cream with substance, character and the faint sweetness that comes only from deeply contented cows grazing in the rich pastures of Ireland.

On my last visit, I traveled to East Cork to spend time at the famed Ballymaloe Cookery School, the culinary heartland founded by the legendary Darina Allen. Ballymaloe is more than a cooking school; it’s a storybook disguised as an organic farm. The gardens spill over with herbs and edible flowers, bread emerges warm from the ovens at all hours and butter is treated with the reverence it deserves.

Through a personal connection to Billy the dairyman, I was fortunate enough to tour Ballymaloe’s small but remarkable dairy and creamery. Tucked behind the kitchens and gardens, the modern machinery hums quietly with the old-world rhythm of milk becoming cream, cream becoming butter and butter becoming something close to sacred.

The cows themselves seemed blissfully unaware of their reputation. Ballymaloe keeps Jersey cows and Friesian-Jersey crosses, all grazing on thick organic pasture under idyllic Irish skies. Jerseys, with their caramel-colored coats and enormous eyes, are especially prized for milk rich in butterfat — the kind of milk destined to become cream. Watching them move lazily through the fields, tails flicking as they graze contentedly, I understood immediately why Irish dairy tastes different. 

“Happy cows” may sound like hyperbole or marketing nonsense until you stand ankle-deep in a lush clover-covered Irish pasture and see what genuine contentment looks like.

At home, I am frequently accused (lovingly, though perhaps not without concern) of using too much cream in my cooking. Health conscious friends eye my “heavy” Alfredo sauces with suspicion, and my daughters often ask whether every soup truly requires “just a splash” of heavy cream. More than once, I’ve heard, “That was not a splash, Mother — that was a small tidal wave.”

But in Shanagarry, the village nearest Ballymaloe, I felt vindicated. At Ballymaloe, cream is not an excess; it is an ingredient treated with respect, woven naturally into the fabric of everyday cooking. Cream enriches soups, softens scrambled eggs, tops fruit desserts, folds into airy mousses and is whisked into classic sauces. Nobody reaches for reduced-fat substitutions because there, dairy is celebrated precisely because it is extraordinary.

During my visit to the dairy, I watched fresh milk being separated, the cream rising thick and pale gold. It bore little resemblance to the homogenized supermarket cream most of us know. You can taste that landscape in the dairy: the mineral richness of the soil, the sweetness of clover, the freshness of coastal air carried inland from the nearby Atlantic. 

Since returning home, I’ve begun culturing cream for butter-making again, inspired by what I tasted in Cork (and previously in France). Cultured cream develops a subtle, slightly sharp depth that transforms butter from a condiment into something deeply flavorful. The process feels wonderfully old-fashioned: warming the cream gently, adding culture, then waiting patiently — 60 hours, to be exact — while invisible bacteria work their quiet magic. By Day 2, the cream thickens and sharpens, ready to churn (with my KitchenAid paddle) into butter that is rich and tangy. It’s the perfect partner to my daughter Ryanne’s award-winning sourdough bread.

There is something deeply satisfying about creating this butter in a tradition so ancient and elemental, even with an electric mixer. Milk becomes cream. Cream becomes butter. Butter melts into potatoes or pastry or warm soda bread. 

In a world increasingly devoted to speed and convenience, traditional dairy practices remind us that some processes simply cannot be hurried.

Back home, I suspect I will continue to be accused of overusing cream. Frankly, I intend to lean into the criticism. Life is too short for dry mashed potatoes or bland pasta sauces. If the cows of County Cork taught me anything, it’s that richness — real richness — comes from quality, not restraint.

So yes, my Alfredo sauce will remain gloriously decadent. My soups will continue to receive their generous finishing pour. And my scalloped potatoes, layered with cream and cheese, will carry the spirit of Ballymaloe into my kitchen forevermore.

I now consider myself fully endorsed by the good cows of Cork, particularly the lovely, doe-eyed Jerseys, who graze upon pastures of endless shades of green, stitched together by hedgerows and stone fences, and I take their approval very seriously indeed. 

This week, I’m paying homage to those lovely cows of Cork and their glorious cream. Since scalloped potatoes are a family favorite, it seemed fitting to prepare this simple but tasty dish that arrives at the table bubbling with rich cream and bronzed beneath a crust of gruyère. The recipe is seasonless — equally delicious on a cold winter day or packed up, potluck-ready, for a summer barbecue. May it bring a touch of green pastures to your own table.

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Scalloped potatoes with seasoned cream and cheese

These potatoes are rich and decadent as a side or main vegetarian dish. Infuse the cream with favorite herbs to create a desired taste profile. 8 servings.