KISS ME…I’M IRISH (or at least a little bit, anyway)

So that’s why no one ever pinched me, at least not on St. Patrick’s Day. I just found out that if a person isn’t wearing green on March 17, you are allowed to pinch him or her! I’ve long been participating in the “wearin’ o’ the green,” so none of my bruises have ever been from any smart-aleck big bruisers, I guess.

I am, after all, one quarter Irish. My father’s father was supposedly 100% Irish, married to a 100% Norwegian girl. He apparently called his children “half-breeds.” I don’t know if that was a joke about the Irish or a slur against the Norwegians, but my aunt claimed it was so. On St. Patrick’s Day, I like to claim a little affinity with the other 34 million Americans who claim a little Irish ancestry.

St. Patrick’s Day was almost my birthday, too. If Mom just would have pushed a little harder, a little quicker, I’d have been more of an Irish lass; I missed it by about 90 minutes. But, anyway, March 17 is the traditional day of St. Patrick’s death, not his birth, so I guess that’s OK.

However, other than my love of potatoes (which I adore baked, fried, frenched, hashed, scalloped, au gratined and any other which-a-way) I probably haven't made much of an Irish woman, at least in the traditional sense. Just as I made for a poor Hawaiian the year we spent on Molokai (I don’t like seafood in any form, except for Goldfish crackers and I don’t think they count; coconut has an off-putting taste and a weird texture and rice makes me get a bit gaggy), there’s no green beer for me (other colors, if there are any, needn’t be drawn, either); in fact I’ve never had a stinky sip in my life. Corned beef and cabbage? Nah, you take it – and far away, please. Soda bread? Thank you, no.

In my family we have always tried to just make the day fun (goodness knows we all need to frolic about a bit in March after the winter woes we have had during the last few months!). Tonight, along with our chicken and green mashed potatoes (see--there’s a bit-o-the-Irish!) we’ll feast on homemade green yeast rolls, lime Jell-O (just because I was asked to make it for a green Jell-O lover; yes, there are some!) broccoli, just because…because…why are we having it again? O, yeah, it’s green and they say it’s good for you. (I eat it but tend to sympathize with Seinfeld’s Newman who snarled it into the “vile weed” category) And there will also be that Irish specialty, key lime pie. Not in its natural state, though. ‘Cause I tinted it, you know, green.

The person we associate the most with Ireland wasn’t even. Irish, I mean. St. Patrick was from England, or Scotland, or Wales…the scholars that be cannot agree. But it wasn’t Ireland. Some Irish raiders captured him and carried him away as a slave to serve in the Emerald Isle. Years later he escaped, went home, studied a lot, and returned to Ireland to preach the Gospel to a people who needed to know about God. I like that. And I like that the special color most associated with him was blue, not green, since I’m a blue-color person. In several artworks he’s depicted wearing blue vestments and blue is commonly used on flags and shields and banners that represent Ireland.

So, even though I don’t pass any of the “You Know You’re Irish If…” tests that are floating about on the Internet today (I don’t drink “tae” or tea or anything else similarly spelled, didn’t call my mother “mammy,” don’t have a gift for swearing (if that’s a gift it should be returned), or a fondness for strong drink, I do appreciate my one-quarter-Irishness (and since I meant this to be just one page, I also can appreciate that I seem to have the Irish inability to make short a long story!). 

Sure and however it tis you celebrate on this fine day, remember this blessing from the Irish:

“May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”