Tuesday is St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m celebrating it in an Italian restaurant called Sarello’s in Fargo, ND. It’s a long way to go to eat Irish cuisine, but I think it will be worth it.
My older son, Kevin, is reading poems as part of the entertainment; and I’m offering an old Irish blessing, one that my mother always gave at family occasions when such was called for. Mother was most proud of being one hundred percent Irish; in fact, her name, Patricia, might have been derived from the saint’s name itself.
In Fargo, we’re going to play Irish rebellion songs in the background as we quaff Guinness and other beers from the Emerald Isle. We’re ending the evening with Bailey’s Irish Cream; and in between the menu calls for fish and chips and smoked trout and shepherd’s pie, but no corned beef. I don’t know why.
I’m half Irish, but it’s probably been since my Mother died that I’ve celebrated in high fashion. I even had to scrounge to make sure I had something green to wear. Otherwise, I guess I could have dyed my hair for the day. After all, I once dyed it coal black to go as a geisha to a Halloween party.
That said, I’m looking forward to celebrating with this son of mine, who has studied his Italian heritage far more than his Irish one. He speaks Italian but not Gaelic, for instance. Yet, Tuesday could be the start of a whole new chapter in his life ,and I’m eager to be there.
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