For St. Patrick’s Day, I will attempt some lovin’ in the oven in the form of a loaf of homemade Irish soda bread today.
If I’m lucky, the bread will be filled with plump, juicy raisins and doughy goodness. If I’m not, the house will be filled with smoke, firefighters and claims adjusters.
Come tomorrow, if the kitchen is still intact and so are all my limbs, I’ll be celebrating the big day by breaking in a new roasting pan with a slow-cooked, Guinness-and-Jameson’s braised corned beef. I figure if the meat turns out bad, at least I’ll be able to pour the drippings in a pint glass and have a nice toasty buzz.
I don’t why I’ve been into the whole St. Pat’s thing the last few years. Maybe it’s a deep longing to better understand my roots and find some grounding in this wacky world. Maybe I just have time on my hands.
Despite our Irish surname (What? You thought “Uncool” was Jewish? Oy gevalt!), we are the muttiest of mutts. Mostly Italian, some Polish, dash of German, a hodgepodge of odd middle European countries (My Love’s side, though they claim only to be Nebraskan, through and through) and, apparently, a touch of the Emerald Isles. At least in name, as no one on my side has any knowledge of an Uncool coming over from there.
My guess – a distant relative wanted by the law in his real home country gets off a ship at Ellis Island and steals the identity of an Irish hobo he found stowing away in the hold and later killed for cheating during a game of Crazy Eights.
Hey, why bother digging around your family tree when you can just pick up any of the unclaimed nuts on the ground around it?
Speaking of nuts, swing over to DadCentric for a debriefing on my vasectomy of many years ago, among other things, in “Birth Control: Your Balls are in Whose Court?”
Until next time, L'Chaim!
Dang it! I mean, Sláinte!