I am Irish.  No doubt about it.  Not by inclination alone, I hunted down my birth parents and lo and behold… Irish.  Which explains A LOT.  Not that it needed explaining exactly.  

I’m torn on St. Patrick’s day because I’m adopted, the biological product of one group of people, the indoctrinated product of another, and to top it all off, kind of an eclectic and frivolous individual.  

I want to roast my potatoes with olive oil, rosemary, and whole cloves of garlic, saute my bok choy with sesame oil, and make my corned beef into Rueben sandwiches. Pass the Russian dressing, the jewish rye, the swiss cheese, and the sauerkraut please. I don’t drink beer anymore, but if I did it would have to be Guinness, not because I like the taste, but because anything else is just a beer. I use it for cooking–okay now I have everyone’s attention—and they’re massing for an attack.

Still, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s no matter where they live or who gave birth to them or raised them.  I get a little homesick for someplace I’ve never been.  So if you raise your glass I’ll say sláinte and we’ll all try to say ‘Beannachtaí na Féile Páraic oraibh!!’ together…

An bhfuil tú dálta fós?