Take Me To Post Comment Form I really haven’t done much for St. Patrick’s Day in quite a while.
It’s been years since I braved the crowds — and the inebriation, and the parking hassles and the things that result from masses of inebriated people, a great deal of which is unpleasant — in Savannah for St. Patrick’s Day. In all the years I’ve lived in the Coastal Empire, and I’m born and raised in God’s country, I’ve seen all of about five minutes of the grand parade.
Managed to walk through it on my way down to River Street. To start imbibing myownself.
I’ve got Irish blood on both sides. Mother’s family traces its roots back to Armagh and Monaghan. Dad said his family came from Sligo and Galway. Of course, he may have said some other counties to others in the family, but the west coast of the island makes sense. Mom’s family has been in North America since the late 1700s. Dad’s? They were latecomers. They put a lot of faith in the potato crop. Perhaps a little too much.
St. Patrick’s Day at our house was always a fairly quiet affair. Not even so much as a traditional Irish dinner, for which we were all thankful and quite grateful. Irish cooking, it turns out, leaves a little something to be desired. Namely taste. I’m no fan of corned beef and cabbage. Corned beef’s OK. You can keep the cabbage.
Actually, we might have a couple of steaks. And maybe something to wash it down with.
Gotta keep some traditions, you know.