just me, living here

So, I thought I was being adventurous this week.

I picked up a box of Donnelly Irish Sausage Rolls from Jungle Jim’s in Cincy a few weekends ago on the recommendation of our good friends from Northern Ireland, who swore they’re about as authentic as you can get in the States. My husband and I were intrigued. They’re made in the USA but follow Irish-style recipes, sold frozen and ready-to-bake. On our international shopping trip, I made it my mission to grab a pack, and this past weekend I finally baked them up in my kitchen. Easy, right? Preheat, pop them in, and wait for that flaky golden goodness.

Except… they split wide open right down the center like they were airing out their Irish grievances. Instead of a neat little sausage pillow, I ended up with pastry carnage. Still edible (and actually pretty tasty), but let’s just say these were not Instagram-ready.

It got me thinking: maybe you just can’t replicate the real thing. Those gas station (or petrol station if we’re being proper) sausage rolls in Northern Ireland have something magical about them. Maybe it’s the pastry. Maybe it’s the hype. Maybe it’s the fact that you eat them while sitting in your car in the rain.

Whatever it is, mine weren’t it. Someday I want to wander into a petrol shop in Belfast, grab a warm sausage roll wrapped in its little paper sleeve, and finally taste what all my clumsy baking attempts are chasing after.

Until then, I’ll keep eating my split-down-the-middle Donnelly rolls and dreaming of flaky perfection. Because sometimes you just can’t fake the real thing.