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17 March 2007 - 23:39

corned beef and cabbage

Get home around noon, and one of the first things the wife does is pinch me.

No green, you see.

But hey, that's hardly my fault. I'm working, you know.

And besides, I don't wear green on Saint Paddy's day.

I'm the other color on the Irish tricolor. The part farthest from the base. The part that flies the freest, snaps the loudest.

I'm Orange.

And yes, I know my grip on the claim of "Irish" is tenuous. At least to Irish eyes.

But I've a direct male ancestor who was born on the Green Isle. True, his parents were English, fleeing the tyranny of an English King for the religious freedom offered by William Penn in the Americas. But he was born in Eire, so mightn't he, and we, be Irish?

And I've other ancestors buried in Ireland. By their own castle no less.

Well, yes, he was part of the conquering English invasion force, but surely we can let bygones be bygones by ,now, right?

Right?

But most important of all, I've an Irish wife, and two Irish sons. Surely that counts for something? (Youngest son wore his green Dropkick Murphys t-shirt to work today. Not sure how they'll take to the word "shitfaced" printed across the front...)

'Course, the problem is, the only orange I've got to wear is hunter orange. Hardly the same. So, as we headed off to Mass, I was wearing a green shirt.

This was a special Mass, for both Saints Joseph and Patrick, with special performance by the choir.

I really wanted to hear the wife sing Amazing Grace, but alas, it was not to be. 'Cause when I delivered her baked green bean dish to the kitchen, I made the mistake of asking the woman in charge if she "needed any help" since I wasn't attending the Mass.

Well, she had just about everything under control, but she had plenty of last minute tasks to do, too.

An hour an fifteen minutes later, the wife called to let me know Mass was over.

Yeah. I know.

I'm still in the kitchen...

I first got the task of brewing coffee. No simple thing when you read the instructions taped on the wall (on a page of someone's prescription pad, no less).

For a full pot (80 cups), use two and a half cups of coffee.

For 55 cups (the most frequent volume, judging by the stains on the stainless steel) use...

Two and a half cups of coffee.

Really.

The advice of the kitchen manager (relatively new to this responsibility)?

Make 55 cups, and use two and a half cups.

Or maybe a little more...

Got to hear the phrase "Dammit!" come muffled through the closed door of the walk-in cooler. Seems one of the church groups this past week made use of the margarine for today's corned beef and cabbage dinner.

So guess who got to make a run to the store? (And visit with the store manager about where he could find himself a sharptail lek)?

The dinner was great, the beef fantastic. We shared our table with one of the more senior members of the congregation.

Who mentioned she received "special dispensation" to enjoy roast beef for dinner this past Friday.

Guess it helps when the parish priest if your son...

And the rest of the evening?

Spent flipping between PBS for Celtic Woman II, and QVC for all those wonderful Irish brogues hawking their wares...

Listening to: Well, believe it or not, I'm bouncing between two MySpace windows, one for Celtic Woman, and the other for the Dropkick Murphys.

Sl�n agus beannacht leat.

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