Taking a shortcut on my run this weekend, I made my way through the silage field. While I was at it, I thought, I may as well tell him how the field was. Well, my runners were drowned through, the grass was dark green in places and thick, yes definately thick and it reached mid to two thirds of the way up my shin. Not doing too bad he thinks, one more round of fertilizer and we’re nearly right.

So while we may have established that I’m a lazy runner and not too great on grass management (scientifically speaking), I had another reason to suss out the condition of this field, namingly preparation for silage dinners.

Formidable though she was, I don’t think my Leaving Cert Home Economics teacher could have foreseen one of the city girls in front of her marrying a dairy farmer. Had the lovely countrywoman known, I’m sure she would have taken me aside for extra tuition. Where would she start? At some stage, Dearie, on a farm, you will be expected to cook once, twice, sometimes three times annually a dinner to feed up to ten hungry men. Would I have believed her? Actually, it’s probably just as well I was blissfully unaware.

Having not grown up in a country kitchen, I was entirely unsure of what to do so when the conversation came up about feeding the silage men. Is there an easy way to ask a new city wife to cook a mega dinner? I would have done anything to get out of it.

I mean we’re paying them right? They’re on wheels right? Remind me again why I have to cook for all of them? When you’re starting off on this silage cooking business, you’re very self-conscious. I mean, I had, after all, a couple of burnt Shepherd Pies to my name and my new husband was really my only guinea pig.

How much do they eat? What do they eat? Do they drink tea or coffee? Desserts? Do I have to make idle chitchat while I try and run around gracefully in the kitchen firing dinner onto ten plates? That open living space! Nowhere to hide.

Then, slowly I discovered that silage was the bane of most other novice farmer’s wives lives. Those ladies who shudder at the sound of the first silage truck on the road in early May.

In fact, put a group of country women in a room, mention silage dinners and take a step back as sparks fly; they won’t eat stew, they’re sick of fries, they don’t wipe their feet. I heard one poor woman last year mention how one of the contractor's lads complained on social media that he was forced, forced mind you, to eat his dinner at 11am in the morning. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you, virtually!

And I never know exactly when they’re coming. They might cut this evening, if it’s not raining. They may collect tomorrow evening. So is that two dinners? Or is it two suppers? Would they eat the same at both? So many questions, so few answers. Not to mention the night when with only two silage dinners under my belt, I thought they wouldn’t come in to me past 11pm at night. I had fallen asleep when I heard the dreaded shuffle of wellies on the gravel outside. Flying cups and saucers, a loaf of bread was never buttered as fast.

Truth be told now though, I don’t mind it as much these days. I mean I don’t begrudge the boys the chance to take their ease in my kitchen as I serve up food now that I’m a seasoned countrywoman with a few silage dinner tricks up her sleeve. Though, really, it never becomes any easier. Grass thick and dark green? Won’t be long now.