We’ve made it! Éirinn go Brách and a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day to you all! Before we get to the big reveal of the final 17 Days of St. Patrick Celebration t-shirt, we’ve got a few things to discuss. First, make sure to check out March 15th: Designated Drinker and March 16th: Darby O’Gill and the Little Pub if you missed them this weekend.
Next, we’ve already got a candidate for next year’s St. Patrick’s Day shirt, as my grandmother texted me this wonderful picture ass early this morning from a bar in NJ.
Let me tell you a bit about my grandmother. This is actually a trend with her, drunk dialing/texting me on St. Patrick’s Day. She and I have a long history of March 17th drunk dials. The first and still most epic of these prophetically coincided with the first time I ever drank on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2006.* My grandmother, Margaret Agnes Connelly (readers of Broetry might recognize the name from my dedication), called me at 7:00 a.m. From a bar. ALREADY DRUNK. I’m not sure why she decided that this was the year to start, but she’s been drunk dialing me fairly regularly on St. Paddy’s ever since.
*My first St. Patrick’s Day drinking experience was not a good one. I was at school in Boston, and our dorm was right across the street from the Loews Boston Common. V for Vendetta came out that day, and a bunch of us decided that we should go see it since we weren’t old enough to go to a bar anyway. Our compromise was to sneak in a handle of watermelon vodka (why?), buy the largest Sprite that the theatre sold (why??), dump out half (why???), and fill the cup back up to the top with vodka (oh god, why?????). Obviously we finished it all, and only between like 3 people, but that wasn’t the worst of it. For some ungodly reason we decided to walk across the street to get Chinese food afterwards. Long story short, I spent most of that night puking rice into a dorm suite sink. Why a sink? I don’t know, maybe because it was the closest thing. It was not fun times.
2007 was much better. I was in my final semester at Emerson, but living and interning in Los Angeles. Emerson just opened their own campus in Los Angeles this semester, but back then students in the LA program lived at the Oakwoods, which is this corporate housing/temporary apartment complex that’s mostly used by child actors and aging rock stars. (Rick James famously died at the Oakwoods, in the building next to where I lived, though a few years before I got there.) Anyway, my friend Annie was visiting me over St. Patrick’s Day, and since I was now 21, I decided to do the holiday right. I don’t remember much, but I do remember 1) stopping my car in the middle of the complex on my way back from the store to do a car bomb with three strangers partying on their ground-floor balcony, and 2) that this was my first ever car bomb. Life-changing. “Car bomb” is a terribly offensive term, and we should probably collectively find a new one, but until that happens, this is what I call them. Anyway, car bombs have become a staple of my St. Patrick’s Day festivities, as they combine all of my favorite Irish beverages in one rapidly consumed cocktail/shot/monstrosity.
2008-2012 are mostly a blur. I usually hosted people and drank as many car bombs as possible. One year it was just me and two friends; one year I had like 20+ people over. One year I actually went out to a pub, but only for lunch, and only so I could eat a shepherd’s pie.
(TIMEOUT: My grandmother is drunk dialing me RIGHT NOW. She wants to know if I put my last shirt online yet. “You’re just the best, Bri. You’re the best.” Apparently they’re already moving on to their next bar. “I just loved those articles the whole month. It just tickled my inners. ::Oh, shut up, John.:: Your Uncle John’s being an ass.” Then she asked if I wanted her to call me again later, and I told her she was probably going to whether I wanted her to or not, so I would look forward to it.)
Anyway, shepherd’s pie. My grandfather (on the other side) always made me shepherd’s pie, and he had just died, so I wanted shepherd’s pie that year. Love you Pop Pop! Ugh, what a downer story after my grandmother’s drunk dial. Oh well. It’s entirely possible that I’m mistaking years anyway and this story is apocryphal. Yay false memories!
In 2012 I drank 13 Guinness and countless car bombs (the only evidence I have is from the bottle caps I found in my pocket the next morning), so I decided in 2013 that I was finally going to be an adult and make food, too.
So now I make soda bread (from this awesome recipe—whiskey raisins!), Irish rarebit, mashed potatoes, and other treats to counteract some of the alcohol effects. This year I’m making corned beef for the first time, as well as these absurdly good Guinness cupcakes with chocolate/whiskey ganache and Irish cream frosting that my sister sent me the recipe for. Thanks Anjanette!
I’ll probably go fairly easy tonight since I have work tomorrow, but at the same time a) I’ll be eating the entire time, and b) I’ve been slowly building my Guinness stamina back up the past 16 days, so fuck it. I mean, after all, I am wearing this ridiculously offensive t-shirt all day:
I’d like to remind you that my grandmother bought me this shirt. My grandmother.
I’ll try to remember to post an update picture of my festivities later on so you can see my Irish flag tie, Guinness fedora, and shamrock scarf, but it’s entirely possible that I’ll get drunk and forget.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!