My grandma asked me today if I am making corned beef tomorrow. I told her that if she hadn’t brought up corned beef I’d have forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day. That day has never really been a holiday I commemorate.
When I left her house it struck me that the atmosphere in my hometown today totally matches the weather conditions I associate with Ireland. Now, I have never been overseas, so apart from calendars and a couple of movies, I’m not sure of the basis for my envisioning. I do have a couple of friends that live to return to that land, and would be defensive if I said anything derogatory about it. Fog lingering low from morning to night, the ever present damp mist moistening the earth and chilling the bones, and the feet of the inhabitants slogging through the muck. I am prepared for a rebuttal of lush green rolling hills, resplendent waters held back by magnificent coastal cliffs, and towns awash with pubs aplenty. Okay, I get that, but I know the lushness of Ireland’s green comes from countless days of bone-chilling dampness.
The scene is so perfectly set that I buckled and bought a brisket and a head of cabbage.