The Luck o’ the Irish
My mother was brought up in a Catholic boarding school and most of the kids went home for the holidays, and some didn’t. My mother and her sister, Alice, were two that stayed on throughout the year.
And despite her sadness my mother had some funny stories to tell that would make the “The Trouble of Angels” seem boring in contrast. One of my favorites is the story of going to confession. Apparently one of the older priests was very hard of hearing, and thus the privacy of the confessional was broken when he’d asked: You did what? With whom? My mother said she’d wait in much longer lines to avoid going to him, but sometimes the nuns would step in and redistribute the reticent sinners.
Apparently the nuns wore their rosary beads around their waists, so you could hear them coming from quite far off. That saved my mom’s neck a time or two from being caught in what I’m sure were venial sins.
Coming of age there as she did, she knew nothing about the facts of life. She only knew that the older girls were cloistered periodically. Of course, she later realized it must have been when they were having their periods, but at the time, she thought they’d done something awfully bad. When she herself started, she thought she was dying and had somehow brought it upon herself, so she was afraid to tell anyone.
My mother’s parents were both Portuguese. My grandmother was from the Azores and my grandfather was from Cape Verde. And given Cape Verde’s history, it is highly likely that he had a Black ancestor or two. Of course, when I was growing up in the 60s that would have been a taboo admission, so my mother never ever told me. In fact, she always emphasized the fact that he had blue eyes. Nonetheless, my two older sisters looked like pickaninny dolls. I inherited my father’s coloring, however, and as a result thought I must have been adopted.
Somehow, my mother was a great cook although she didn’t know anything about Portuguese food. She cooked Italian. She learned to cook Southern for my Dad who was from Texas, and because there were a fair share of Irish priests, she learned to cook a corned beef that was to die for. My Dad was Irish and he loved her Irish meals.
After I grew up, I figured I would be able to just wander into the kitchen as she had and wander out with a meal. But being a cook isn’t hereditary, and my exploits in the kitchen were often disasters.
Not long after I got married, I tried my hand with a corned beef brisket. I cut the potatoes and peeled the carrots and shredded the cabbage. And it smelled terrific, but by the time I thought it was done, it was harder than the blarney stone. You literally could not cut it with a knife. Nor was there any simply pulling off onto your plate.
My husband thought it was funny and would regale future guests for some time with the story of my St. Patrick’s Day disaster. He even went so far as to give it to the dog who wouldn’t eat it either. Of course, he shared that part of the story, too. The dog was named Kitty, though, so one can’t pay any attention to his tastes.
My husband and I were married for over 20 years, and separated for 10 or so more before he passed away at age 50. And in the nearly 20 years since, I have never again tried my hand at a St. Patrick’s Day meal.
As I am much smarter than any dog named Kitty, I have instead made friends with several folks of Irish descent who kindly invite me to share their lovely meals. And I had the good fortune to have a smart son who married an Irish lass who can cook a St. Patrick’s Day meal to die for.
Yesterday, on 3/16, one of my dearest friends, invited me to her house for an early St. Patrick’s Day dinner. And it was wonderful. Another Irish lass brought soda bread. Oh my. I was stuffed on my way home, but I woke up this morning with a taste for Ireland lingering.
So, I got up and went to the store and bought a brisket. I came home and found a recipe for a slow cooker that seemed similar to the one Ally used. She said the special flavor came from the Guiness. And perhaps it did.
I quartered the small red potatoes, cut the carrots into fairly uniform-sized pieces, and added the 4 cups of water. Then I placed the corned beef on top of the vegetables and poured six ounces of Imported Extra Stout Guiness over it. And then sprinkled the seasonings on top of that. I put the lid on and turned the slow cooker on high as the recipe suggested. I cooked it for 8 and a half hours only opening the pot an hour before to put in the shredded cabbage.
About an hour ago, I sat down to eat. And it was wonderful. After 50 some years, Danny Boy, I finally had the courage to try it again. Faith and Begorrah! I know there are Irish eyes smiling and I hear the bagpipes calling.