Happy Monday-after-the-Saturday-before-St.-Patrick’s-Day, you guys!
The Saturday in question of which I did not celebrate. You know why? Because even though my name is Flynn and even though I live in a Celt-happy town, this weekend shindig has devolved into an embarrassingly excessive Rage Fest which has very little to do with a) saints, b) Ireland, and c) anything other than copious amounts of green beer and Mardi Gras(?!) beads.
For the record, drunken driving and the vomiting off of bridges are not generally championed as national causes of the Irish. As a rule.
You know what IS Irish, however? Baking while wearing either a Santa nightgown or no pants.
That said- I did corn a beef in a Crock Pot and bake a positively odd-looking loaf of Irish soda bread. So. You can’t say I was completely devoid of holiday-ing. The clan visiting from Cincinnati were a fun crew to overeat with, and my kids enjoyed playing tour guide to their kids. (“This…is a tamales cart. This…is an helotes cart.”)
St. Patrick’s Day- the real one- is tomorrow, and I shall celebrate by…making another corned beef in the Crock Pot (listen, when you’ve hit on a winner, you stick with that winner) and drinking a Scotch for my grandfather. (Because- yes. Thomas Flynn, Sr. enjoyed Johnnie Walker Black Label. Go figure.) And perhaps a vodka tonic for Dave Flynn, because that’s his favorite. (Because apparently being Irish doesn’t preclude you from drinking non-Irish spirits. She gestures emphatically with her bourbon.)
And if I don’t watch it, I’ll need to find my own festive bridge off of which to yuke.
I’m totally kidding, Mom.
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