Really, what is a cook to do when their refrigerator is full of the raw ingredients that well-wishers brought to your home believing that you needed aforementioned ingredients to prepare a St. Patrick’s day feast despite the fact you told them you, your bank account, and Costco had it all covered.
Now, when I open my refrigerator, I am assaulted by cabbage, carrot, and potatoes of white, red, and russet varieties gushing from their precarious positions on my frigid shelves. I know escape is their aim. Unluckily for them, I have thwarted their daring and rash escape attempts by hurriedly assaulting them in a foodie embrace to prevent them from hitting the dreaded kitchen floor. And if my arms don’t do the trick, at least the door is a good twenty feet away. That distance alone should hold them.
But seriously, what the hell is a single girl supposed to do with 10 pounds of potatoes? I sure as hell ain’t eating all of them.
Any one in blog land have any suggestions? I’m all ears*.
*figuratively of course
** BTW: I’m listening to Wolf’s “You’re A Wolf”
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A brief post…life has been…let’s just say tis a mad, mad, mad hatter world and I left my hat next to the drunken leprauchan…and then the bastard stole it. Oh well…he left his pot o gold so we’re even…
St. Patrick’s is tomorrow. Unless you’re Catholic and living in Ireland, then you celebrated it yesterday since Ireland’s Bishop received a special dispensation from the Vatican to celebrate it early so that millions of Irish folk wouldn’t be lying wasted with drink in the streets on the first day of Catholic Holy Week aka the week prior to Easter.
Still with me?
For those of the Celtic descent it’s a day to remember your Irish roots and binge drink. For everyone else, it’s a day to wish they had Irish roots and drink like they did. My mates and I have already finished a box of shamrock shaped cookies from Smith’s Bakery in Bakersfield brought up special by my loving mother. She would be the one who generously donated her Irish DNA to myself.
I spent yesterday whipping* up an Irish banquet: colcannon, soda bread, corned beef & cabbage with potatoes, parsnip & carrot puree, swiss chard with pepper and nutmeg. While whipping I was also imbibing Smithwick’s, Guinness, Harp, and my lover’s first batch of homemade, self-monikered “Black Cat Stout.” All of it soooo tasty. So overwhelmingly so that I ate too much, drank too much….insert Dave Matthew’s Band’s “Too much” here. Hence today I’m dehydrated and so tired…and still up at 11 writing a blog, drinking a margarita, consuming a leftover shamrock cookie and listening to singer De Sela Lhasa’s “De Cara a la Pared”** when I’ve to rise for work at the 0600 hour when the sun is still slumbering.
Oh well…I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
*Speaking of whipping there was no true “whipping” of either eggs, cream, or people, but Goddess knows, my 17-year-old sister sure could’ve used one for being surly in my house. Out of town guests need to remember that, when leeching off someone else’s hospitality (whether they’re related to that hospitality or not), politeness goes a lot farther than smarminess.
**Have I also mentioned I have good stock Mexican roots from mi padre? When Irish and Mexican meet in America you get…Mexican nachos served with apple pie…and fireworks, lots and lots of fire works.
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