Erin Go Bragh

It's one of my favorite days of the year; I love it.

I hear the New London St. Patrick's Day Parade was awesome, as usual, but as usual, I was busy doing other, more important things: serving the good people of New London their needed and necessary Guinnesses.......

Just like I did during Luck 'O The Top 'O The in 2012.

And Sláinte! in 2011. Oh, wait, there were two in 2011.

And May The Road Rise Up To Meet You in 2010.

And A Great Day for the Irish in 2009.

And I wouldn't change it for anything. Besides, Mistah is my official St. Patrick's Day Parade photographer:

The Governor, his henchman, the Mayor, and Jake. Now that's a million dollar quartet..

Slips and KYLAH!

Jimmy and his granddaughter

NLHS's finest

An Irish Wolfhound. Natch.

And oh, those crowds:

Apparently all you need to be in the parade is to be in a wagon . . . 

See?

Ah, the obligatory photo of Saint Francis. Oh, wait. Pope Francis.

The O'Fs.

O'Ziggity, O'Zaggity.

And meanwhile, back at the Tavern.........

All the stars were out:

Little Ms. P.

She and He

The Soon-To-Be's.

And just a whole lotta lovelies:

P and M, who made it all happen.

Just you wait to hear more about the guy in the middle; 
just you wait.

We just could not get enough of ourselves, collectively . . .

. . . and why would we?

Aw, my darlin' Schleckie.

Awwww.

Dawnie and Tommy. Double awwwww.

It was, as always, the Best. Day. Ever.

Mistah tells me I ruin photos when I make faces at the camera. But I don't agree with him at all. I think I make them better.

And in the meantime, another St.-Paddy's-Day-God-Bless has come and gone.......

Until next year, kids . . .

. . . until next year.

Uncle Merv gets colonial

Oh darlings, your Uncle Merv had the kind of trip that just *begs* to be run through a filmstrip projector over the roar of elderly relatives cracking nuts and taking names. I don't even know what that means, but I had a trip, and that trip began before poor ol' Uncle Merv even had a chance to change his clock for daylight savings time, so that on the first day of the conference at the ungodly hour of 8am EST, it was decidedly impossible for anyone to explain to UM exactly which end was up, or why.

The conference was a blast, professionally invigorating and socially uplifting. A really great time with really great people in a crazycakes blast-from-the-past location. Like, literally.

I knew it was Colonial Williamsburg, I knew the village was said to be like stepping into the 18th century, but with recycling. But I didn't know exactly what to expect when I first walked on over there.

 

It was so pretty! Quiet and unassuming and cool. I loved all the fences made from random sticks, and the pretty tree lined path that led into the village. Along the way, I stopped in for a little the-YAY-tah. 

Romeo and Juliet, remixed.

Then I arrived at the main drag, Duke of Gloucester Street, where a flying flag signaled my welcome into the various merchants that lined the street.

handsome silversmith

err....just a blacksmith

ah, there's a handsome blacksmith!

It was so funny and interesting, all of it. Of course, I was not there just to visit the handsome tradesmen. I had my share of modern work to do

But Uncle Merv isn't here to tell you about Irish car bombs (puke). Uncle Merv is here to show you the gathering of the troops!

This was billed as  "addressing the troops." What do you think he's telling them?

"Make ready....aim...Shoot the tourists!"

Back to my shops, I started with the magazine and guardhouse and made my way into every door that opened for me.

My, what a big gun you have, sir!

Shoemaker

Bindery and bookmaker (love)

There were spontaneously occurring outbursts of drum and fife, natch.

Apothecary, where you could see the doctor or just buy the stuff to treat yourself

View of the gallows from a cell in the Public Gaol

And the cabinetmaker, ach. A lovely man who let me talk about my Dad for a longish while.

The outdoor spaces were incredibly beautiful, we were forever happening upon unexpected forests of bamboo and unusually constructed markers and boundaries.

Uncle Merv very much enjoyed Colonial Williamsburg, and next time he'll show you the photos that were oriented vertically. But for now, we're almost back to the land of the west in our cycle of sleeping and waking, so I'll leave you old bags to the cracking your nuts.

Get off my lawn.

Kismet

Hey, it's St Patrick's day! Or was yesterday anyway....

Erin go Brauh, leaping leprechauns, kiss me I'm Irish, and all that. And I mean that, I'm Irish.  Half. On the poor, Catholic side ;) I love my Irish roots --  my dad and uncles looked like adverts for the old country if in their tweed caps. I would post a photo proving my claim, but they are boxed away for now.

Instead I will post a video of a family friend, relatively recently departed, singing a beautiful Irish classic right down the road from my home town, in a church belonging to the same parish I used to attend when a wee cailín.



Closer to home today, we did get a visit from the trickster leprechaun. He was up to his usual shenanigans, maybe not as much as last year, but still mixing it up.

Nice of him to at least leave a pot of gold under the rainbow

When it was finally time for me to have a St Patty's Day beer, I opted for a local brew, yes, American, but, not without ties to the Emerald Isle, albeit loose ones.

I was planning on opting for an Irish beer, I really was, but I simply could not turn down my favorite type, an India Pale Ale, with the juicy name of Kismet. I mean, after all one of the word's meanings is luck, and those Irish have it, or so they say, so I say it counts - a totally Irish brew.

Plus, with a leprechaun name like Daffodil O'Rainbow, I'm not immune to the marketing tricks like: "The cosmos have aligned and fate has brought us together."

Yes, indeed, belated Happy St Patrick's day and Kissy Irish kismet to you.

Double Duty

I love to chop. I was born to chop.

And what's better than chopping garlic and onion and ginger and cilantro for one recipe on a cold, rainy March night, you ask?

Well, naturally, chopping for two.

The ol' standby Curry Crockpot Chicken, and Moroccan lentil/chick pea/chicken/spinach soup.

Ohhhhh yes.

They start out looking weirdly alike . . .

. . . incredibly weirdly alike . . .

. . . but they are oh, so different.

The soon-to-be-soup (on the right) gets the green tomatoes from our October garden. Now that's a happy soup.

Chicken added on the left; homemade stock added on the right . . .

(I know, I know, I'm a stock-making, soup-creating, chicken-curry stirring machine.)

(No really. I am.)

And then . . .

. . . our little friends start to do their own thing, and look different from eachother, and, frankly, need to be separated.

I kept adding liquid to the soup -- and put it in the giant soup pot -- waiting for the lentils to melt, until I realized they weren't split peas and never were going to melt . . .

So I added a bucket of spinach . . .

. . . some parsley and cilantro . . .

. . . and . . . voilà!

And in the meantime . . .

. . . to the chicken curry I added some 'maters . . .

. . . some cashews and yogurt and cilantro . . .

. . . and . . . voilà!

Nobody looks forward to spring more than I do. But nobody likes taking advantage of cold rainy March nights more than I do, either.

I am, after all, a stock-making, soup-creating, chicken-crockpot-stirring, garlic-chopping, cilantro-adoring, curry- and moroccan-love machine.