I was born the day after St. Patrick's Day. My dad two weeks before, my mom and her sister a week before, my Godmother days before. In our Irish family, March meant repeated celebration, weekend after weekend, until we all turned, you guessed it...green.
It was no regular occasion approached with mediocrity, but a colorful, outrageous, competition of the obnoxious as we all tried to yell and sing louder than the next. I come from a long line of baton twirlers - my mother possessing the highest level of innate talent.This circus-like activity, coupled with 2 (not 1, but 2) juke boxes in the basement growing up, brings my March memories to an indescribable level.
As I peek (over the cliff) into my 31st year, I'm part little girl in a plastic green hat twirling in the basement, part angst-filled teenager rolling my eyes at the ridiculous characters I'm related to, part 20-something, gassed up on Guinness and once again thinking they were entertaining, and part 31-year old married lady with a whole new life ahead. In the end, all of me approaches March as any legitimate Irishman would. With jovial, hopeful excitement sprinkled in melancholy.
Perhaps from one Irishman to another, or perhaps from one not-so-talented cook to another, I'll share a REAL corned beef recipe with you from one of my favorite blogs, Foodmomiac.
Here's to March memories (and my 29th, er, 31st birthday).
Slainte!
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