A Wee Bit Irish

I used to walk with my baby nephew, Patrick, in my arms and sing:

Away...across...the...sea

 

Away...in...the...Isle...of...Greeeeen

 

 

Oh, Patrick B

 

You should be a little Irish lad

 

You should dance with pretty Irish lassies

 

Oh, Patrick B!

 

He always smiled for me, the sweet boy. He must have been dreaming about the pretty Irish lassies. At any rate the day I took him for a school picture with his preschooler brother, he wouldn't smile at all despite our energetic efforts. I thought about singing the song but chickened out in front of the teachers and photographers. Later my big sis, I remember, was irritated with me for not doing it, because her baby Patrick looked grumpy or bored in all the sibling photos.

 

My nephew's first name pays homage to his bit of Irish heritage, and his middle name is the decidedly Irish surname of my great-grandfather on my dad's side, my grandmother's maiden name. I hope Patrick dances with Irish lassies on this St. Patrick's day, if his parents allow, because in theory the boy's more Irish than any of the rest of us.

 

Now, my nephew will thank me to stop embarrassing him, so I'll tell you my plans for the weekend: throw a St Patrick's Day party...on Saturday, the 16th of March. Sunday is my lazy day; I'll toast St. Patrick in my pajamas and reminisce about how all my friends got tipsy at my party the day before (just kidding, you guys.....Not! Hahahaahahahahaha! No, seriously - I'm kidding) Of course, my friends might need that Guinness to drown the taste of the Corned Beef and Cabbage and the Creamy Potatoes and the Irish Soda Bread I'm serving, none of which I have ever made before. Should be an interesting gathering. I have a CD of bagpipe music to inspire them all to get up and do a jig, bellies stuffed with corned beef and Guinness, or else to drive them absolutely batty.

 

And now my friends will thank me to stop embarrassing them. There's only one more person left: me. And that reminds me of the best St. Patrick's Day party I have ever been to.

 

It was thrown by a few Catholic parishes in San Antonio. They pitched in to rent a large space for a bring your own beer and food affair. I was not at that time a lover of beer, but my husband had brought along some Woodchuck Apple Cider, a sweeter "feminine" beer for me. That was a mistake. We had only been married several months; he didn't yet know what a light weight I was with alcohol.

 

We sat at long rectangular tables and watched the band tune up, and then our very own priest, Father O'Gorman, got up and greeted everyone and began to sing some traditional Irish songs. He had a fine voice. Of course, we were none of us surprised. Every year on Mother's Day, he asked all the mothers to stand up during Mass, handed out carnations, and in a strong baritone he sang them a beautiful Irish song about somebody's old Irish mother that made them cry.

 

The dancing started, and several nuns got up to join in the crazy spins and kicks and wild linking of the arms. Never the great dancer but not afraid to be thought a fool, I did my best with unknown material while some middle-aged women stole my husband and spun him around so fast that he looked a little sea-sick when he returned to me.

 

During the breaks I was sipping on that spiked apple cider and not eating enough to make a difference. Halfway through the cider I, a lightweight, was feeling pretty good and making eyes at my husband. By the end of the first bottle, I was periodically draping myself across his shoulders and nuzzling his cheek while whispering sweet nothings. My man, not a lover of PDAs, patiently removed my arm again and again, glancing at all our fellow parishioners. Part way through the second bottle, I was smacking my lips by his face and attempting to nibble his ear - at which point he removed the beer from my reach. But then the middle-aged ladies were back for an encore dance, and I got myself a new Woodchuck Apple Cider when he wasn't looking. When he reappeared I was just as lovey-dovey as ever. Fortunately, another group dance was beginning; he pulled me to my feet, and I had to sober up and de-romance in order to keep time with the steps.

 

Oh, it was a grand time! And it taught my husband something he won't ever forget: never give his wife beer at the multi-parish St. Patrick's Day celebration. When tipsy, I'm not one of the fighting Irish. I'm the amorous kind.

 

In conclusion of this post, I wish to say that whether your name is Patrick or Hillary or Jose or O'Connor or Smith or Green or anything in between, I hope you too will celebrate all things Irish this weekend with good friends, good beer, and good designated drivers. We're all a wee bit Irish at heart, so from my family to yours:

 

Happy St Patrick's Day, ye lads and lasses!

 

 

Alcohol Conditioning

I am not a connoisseur of alcohol. As a young woman I did not sip mixed drinks with my cool, fashion-conscious girlfriends. (Once I did sneak some of my dad's scotch to mix with orange soda in order to cure a cold; the only thing it cured me of was drinking scotch and orange soda ever again. It was something like putting cotton candy in your martini, I imagine. I highly unrecommend it.) I thought I knew something about wine, but I proved my ignorance in a servers' meeting post-hours at a nice cafe where I worked. The owners were trying to teach us about red and white wines. When the question-and-answer session broke out, I spoke up and said, "Whites are all sweet and reds are dry." My boss made an example of me, the poster child of blatant alcohol ignorance.

I was even more clueless about other liquor. Nine months pregnant with my first child and balancing a menu on my belly, I sat in a steak house with my Man and spied a tea I wanted to try.

"I'll take a Long Island iced tea," I confidently told our waiter.

The waiter stared, pen suspended, and my husband almost startled me into labor.

"Whoooaa! She doesn't know what she's saying," he assured the wary server. "Just regular sweetened tea for her."

Then he leaned over and whispered, "Honey, that has alcohol."

"Oh," I said. "I just thought it was like Texas tea."

"That has alcohol, too...LOTS of alcohol."

"Oh. Glad I didn't order that then."

Many years later I would discover per a friend's suggestion that I liked a Zebra or Preacher's collar. So when I found myself in an Olive Garden with several friends, and there was a long wait that prompted someone to suggest we get something at the bar, I knew just what I wanted.

I sauntered up to counter, leaned in and with a smile told the young man there that I'd take a Zebra.

The clever guy knew just what I meant, but he held up a bottle of wine and said, "Ma'am, we only serve wine here. We're an Italian restaurant."

My friends broke out in merry laughter, and I'm good for that. But I really could have gone for that beer.

The one I will never live down, though - the one that will haunt me every December 31st - happened only a few years ago.

I love Champagne, love, love, love, love, love. I don't need to know much about it, because my love is unconditional. Still, I did read a column in the paper that listed several great sparkling wines to enjoy for New Year's Eve, so when my husband casually asked me what kind I wanted him to pick up for the big celebration, I spoke up excitedly, "I've heard Dom Perignon is good!"

"Dom Perignon? That's a hundred-something bucks!"

"It is?"

My husband burst out laughing.

"You could get me some, you know," I retorted. "Maybe it's worth it."

"No I couldn't. Dom Perignon!" And then he laughed some more.

Now every time there's a special occasion, and my Man has to make a sparkling wine run, he smiles and teases in a high, snobby voice, "Do you want me to pick you up some Dom Perignon?"

Yeah, alright, alright. Put a cork in it. Because one of these days, one of these Valentine's days, I'm going to swing by the grocery store...or the French Embassy...on my way home. Then when my Man walks in the door, I'll be sitting in a sweet little red dress with a nice little bottle of wine. I'll extend a glass to him and say smoothly:

"Care for some Dom Perignon, Darling?"

Like Marilyn Monroe, I might even bathe in it - or at least wash my hair in it - because life should be sweet...or dry...and expensive, even for a dork like me.

My poor sophisticated guy and his crazy, Champagne-loving lady