Maura’s List of Ridiculously Great Irish Things

(google image via literatehousewife.com)

(For best results, please read with an Irish brogue.)

Sure, if I didn’t have big plans for this week! I thought I’d be tellin’ ye all kinds of tall tales and reciting dirty limericks and playin’ Irish drinking songs for ye on th’ days leadin’ up to this, St. Patrick’s Day. But alas, it was not meant to be. I’m still tryin’ to handle my tasks at the office now that I’m one editor short.

While I’m doin’ me work, I’ll be leavin’ ye with some ridiculous Irish greatness to consider.

~*~

Confession Jokes

Who doesn’t love a quick bit about sin and atonement? There are lots of jokes about confession, but this one’s my favorite:

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six months since my last confession. On top of that, I’ve been with a loose woman.”

The priest sighs. “Is that you, Tommy O’Shaughnessy?”

“Yes, Father, ’tis I.”

“And who might be the woman you were with?”

“I shan’t be tellin’ you, Father. It would ruin her reputation.”

“Well, Tommy, I’m bound to find out sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now. Was it Brenda O’Malley?”

“I cannot say, Father.”

“Was it Patricia Fitzgerald?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll not name her.”

“Was it Fiona Mallory, then?”

“Please, Father, I cannot tell you.”

The priest sighs in frustration. “You’re a steadfast lad, Tommy O’Shaughnessy, and I admire that. But, you’ve sinned, and you must atone. Be off with you now…”

Tommy walks back to his pew. His friend Sean slides over and whispers, “What’d you get?”

Tommy pats his friend on the back. “Three more good leads, lad. Let’s go.”

The Wild Rover by The Pogues

No one captures an Irish drinking song better than Shane MacGowan and his band’s punk take on this traditional Irish tune.

Requiscat by Oscar Wilde

Wilde is widely considered to be one of the most brilliant writers of his time. What I love most about this piece is how he uses understatement and control to so elegantly convey one of life’s most devastating emotions.

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

James Joyce’s Dubliners

When you have an Irish mother like I do, Irish fiction has a way of peppering the bookshelves. When I was 9, I picked up Finnegan’s Wake, realized it was too far over my head, and never revisited Joyce again.

Until.

Last year I read Dubliners, and spent every last word cursing myself for having missed out on Joyce for so long.

If you’re so inspired, read this Dubliners excerpt, titled “The Sisters.”

Irish Cream Coffee

Forget Guinness. Here’s how to celebrate the luck o’ the Irish.

1 12-oz. wine glass, preheated 10 oz. Bewley’s Gold Roast Instant Coffee
1-1/2 jigger Bailey’s Original Irish Cream
1/4 c. heavy cream, whipped until stiff peaks form ground cinnamon (optional)

Pour hot coffee into the heated glass. Add the Bailey’s and stir well to blend. Top with a mound of whipped cream. Sprinkle with cinnamon if desired.
Yield: 1 serving

Irish Soda Bread

Of course you’ll need to nibble on something while you enjoy your favorite Irish beverage. Here’s a recipe from Gourmet Magazine, March 2002 to get you started.

(google image via justcastironcookware.com)

Irish Setters

When I was but a wee lass, we had a dog who looked just like this:

(google image via dogbreedinfo.com)

His name was Rory, and from what I remember, he slobbered a lot and wasn’t very smart, but I loved him.

Irish Blessings

I like to laugh at the raunchy ones. (Who doesn’t?) But what I like even more is a kind phrase said with sincerity, like this one.

May you live a long life
Full of gladness and health,
With a pocket of gold
As the least of your wealth.
May the dreams you hold dearest,
Be those which come true,
The kindness you spread,
Keep returning to you.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to ye and yours!

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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#30 is coming: Watching Chicago Go Irish

(via 2sistersblog.com)

Every year on March 1, my mother breaks out four things: 1) the Irish flag, 2) Irish decorations, 3) Irish accessories, and 4) a host of jaunty, traditional Irish tunes. There are four weeks of nothing but leprechaun socks and fiddles and tenors and bass drums, because even after St. Patrick’s Day has passed, she just keeps going, enjoying her heritage until April Fools Day shows its impish, pranking face.

If you don’t think this is an important element in shaping a family, look at it this way: I spent exactly 1/12 of my childhood celebrating a single day. There was a period where I tried to ignore all the Irishness, just to be rebellious, but these days, on the day, I’m the person who passes out clover stickers at work and wears buttons that say things like, “Top o’ the mornin’!” and “Pretend I’m the Blarney Stone.”

It also means that, should we ever walk into an Irish pub with a live band, I’ll make you learn to sing along to this:

The Dubliners & The Pogues – Whiskey in the Jar

That’s just how it is. When you have an Irish mother, you can’t help yourself. When my boys are grown, I hope they’ll know these songs by heart, too.

~*~

When I was young, we’d go so far as to travel three hours to celebrate appropriately. In my mother’s hometown of Pittsburgh, there’s a massive Irish population that puts on an equally massive St. Patrick’s Day parade. We didn’t go every year, but we went often enough. And when it was over, we walked around town in our Irishness to find other people who were Irish, too, even if just for the day.

Ah. Fun, Irish-y times were had by all.

We’re not going to Pittsburgh this weekend. Not at all. After 36 years of learning to celebrate the day, I’m finally ready for the biggest St. Patrick’s Day celebration there is this side of the Atlantic. And as my half-Irish/half-Sicilian luck would have it, the festivities just happen to be in my favorite American city.

Chicago.

(Oh, my heart just wept happy Irish tears.)

Because here’s what you must know: When I first put together my 36×37 list, St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago was the very first thing I thought of. And now we’re headed there tonight at 3:00 PM ET. Which just goes to show: once a lass sets her sights on something, nothing can tell her “no.”

I’ve packed my greens, complete with shamrock-dotted knee-high socks, so I can do this up right, 36×37 style. When my fellas and I get there, we’ll see a river dyed green and men in kilts and lots o’ bag pipes and Irish wolfhounds and Celtic dancers and people who are far drunker than I could ever hope to be.

I’ll take pictures. I’ll post them here. And as an added bonus, my posts shall greet thee with a wee Irish tune every day next week. You’ll either love them, or you’ll say what H said tonight when I popped in some live cuts from the Pogues: “How could anyone clap for this stuff?”

Céad míle fáilte! (One hundred thousand welcomes.)

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Brain. Stormin’.

About 2 ½ hours into our honeymoon, GB and I got lost in County Clare, Ireland, smack in the middle of The Burren. (If you’ve ever pictured “the middle of nowhere,” then you know exactly where we were.) I’m still not sure how it happened, because we had all the proper tools for navigation: he had 90 minutes of left-side driving under his belt, and my 25-year-old hands held the map.

Rock Formation in The Burren

“We should go left when we get to Drumduff,” I said. “So I guess let’s just keep driving?”

GB nodded and picked up his speed. We let five minutes pass in concentrated silence.

“You said ‘Drumduff’?” he asked eventually.

“Right. Left at Drumduff, drive for a while, right at Martry.”

We drove a bit longer, sneaking glances at the map until at last we came to a fork in the road. The road sign didn’t say “Drumduff” because the road sign didn’t exist.

“Now what?” I asked. It wasn’t a statement I made out of exasperation, because more than anything, I was curious. Really, what would come next? I remember tapping my index finger against my lips while I watched my new husband closely. “This is it,” I thought to myself. “This is where I find out if he’ll stop for directions.”

“I don’t get it,” he said, taking the map. “Why isn’t this marked?”

“We’re going to die here,” I joked. “We’ve just gotten started, and this is the end.”

“Well, let’s drive for a while,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find someone we can ask.”

“Ah ha.” I thought, and patted myself on the back.

Eventually, we found a local farmer who helped send us on our way, and we were no worse for the wear.

~*~

There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.

I have to be careful and tee this up the right way, because I’m about to hit you up for advice. Here’s the thing: It’s time to buckle down on my final list of 36×37 assignments, and I’m four ideas short.

Here’s what I have so far.

(They’re on my set-in-stone list. Nothing can alter my plan.)

1)      Learn to fly

2)      Take trapeze lessons

3)      Play a round of golf

4)      Take a class in basic Italian

5)      Attend the Chicago St. Patrick’s Day parade

6)      Drive a bulldozer

Good list, right? A compelling list, even.

But watch what happens next:

7)      ?

8)      ?

9)      ?

10)   ?

It figures. Now that it’s crunch time, I’m completely out of ideas.

That’s why I’m here, at your doorstep, looking so forlorn. I need suggestions, and I’m hoping you’ll have them in spades.

So tell me: In all of your years, what were your biggest or best or most surprising adventures? They don’t have to be anything earth-shattering, because honestly, I don’t think I can swing three months of backpacking through the Alps so late in the game. But if there’s something memorable you’ve tried or experienced, and you think my family might enjoy it, too, I’d be grateful to hear what it is.

~*~

Oh, right. Back to The Burren.

So we drove for a while until we found that local farmer. His ruddy face looked skeptical as we approached, but he smiled at us anyway.

“Hello,” GB said with his sweet Kentucky accent. “We’re trying to find Martry?”

“Oooowh shourrre,” the farmer replied in his thick Gaelic brogue. “TekahliftatedanixtcurveandablahblahblahGuinesslepruchan.”

I’ll never know how we did it, but we made it out of there anyway.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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