Mom is cleared for surgery. April 22nd. Good to have a date set. Hoping after the surgery when she isn't bleeding anymore she can get some strength back. Now on to the pre-op tests. The hospital called here Friday, Joe answers, and gives the phone to mom, who fake hears. Sadly Joe has no idea what they wanted either. What the hell? Mom tells me the hospital is picking her up on Monday. Sigh. I called them back and it is too early for any tests yet, so I have no idea what the call was about. I figure if they pick mom up Monday, they'll bring her back PDQ. LOL
Joe turned 60 this week. How did we get so old? John came home for a meal yesterday and we had a good visit. There was cake and ice cream. Mom was pleased with both the visit and the cake and sat up for quite a while! She has mostly been staying in bed, so I like to see her sitting up. Consequently she slept very well last night too. John will be home for Easter too. I think we will have him grill some burgers for us, maybe a steak. Yum.
Finn got his teeth cleaned. $412.87. Sigh. I know. If you have never loved a cat you will never understand. The vet got a couple of fat cat jokes in too. I told him Finn is just big boned . . .
I went to a socially distanced St. Patrick's Day Party. It was fun and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It had been ages since I had been to any sort of party. I left a bit early for the party because it was such a lovely Saturday and figured I'd go through Coal City and go by the relatives' houses. I am Bernie's daughter after all, and Bernie sure loved a ride. I was successful, ran into cousin Debbie walking her dogs and had a nice visit, then caught cousin Pat walking into his house, he and Mary were heading out to church. 2 for 2. I had 5 beers and plenty of corned beef, creamed cabbage and colcannon. Good eats.
Have a good week all. In memory of St. Patrick's Day 2008, and for your reading pleasure, and with permission of the author, my friend Kathleen Lestina, here is The Feast of Saint Patrick, a very true story. I can't believe it was 13 years ago!
Kay ☘
The Feast of Saint Patrick
By Kathleen Lestina
By Kathleen Lestina
The Feast
Each St. Patrick’s Day or thereabouts we gather to celebrate our Irish heritage. Well, some of us are celebrating our Irish heritage, the rest are just celebrating…
We have done it for so many years now that we’ve come up with the perfect Irish feast; corned beef, Irish stew, colcannon, creamed cabbage and…
The Flag
The flag is a shot made of Bailey’s Irish Crème, Orange Liquor, and Green Crème de Menthe. There is an art to making the shot; one must have a steady eye and an even steadier hand. The spirits are poured in order of the colors of the Irish Flag; the Crème de Menthe goes in first, then the Bailey’s and finally the Orange Liquor. We drink beer when we are not drinking the shots—and we only have a shot when the circumstances warrant it; circumstances such as, that we have opened the oven in order to admire the sliced corned beef warming in the foil pan awaiting its fate.
The Clan
We, like the feast, are the same every year…the hosts are Mark and Donna, the Riley’s. Marilyn (Mare), is Mark’s twin sister and her husband George—is my husband Joe’s brother—and there is Dave, one of Donna’s triplet brothers (his guest may change from year to year, this year it was Karine from Germany, who we all thought was a welcome addition to our Irish festival) myself, I’m Kathleen and the other Kathleen, or Kay as we affectionately call her. Sophie, Mark and Donnas’ dog, also attends dressed in her St. Patrick’s Day scarf—and there may or may not be cameo appearances by the cats. Mark and Donnas’ boys, Jackson and Lucas are there and if we start to get a little tipsy and say the occasional silly thing they are at the ready with their wry looks and their sideways glances that make us feel an inch tall and as though we should straighten up and act like proper adults…
Each guest arrives with their special dish in tow. Mark makes the stew, Kay supplies the creamed cabbage, Mare brings the corned beef already cooked and the potatoes and cabbage ready to be cooked for the colcannon. Dave and Joe and I bring the ingredients for the flag. When a new guest and dish arrives there is certain amount of opening and smelling and oohing and aahing –and occasionally, the arrival of a new guest is also deemed a circumstance which warrants a shot of the flag. In addition to the ogling over new food arrivals, each new guest that enters must don one of
The Hats
There are always hats. Mark and Donna supply them. They have changed over the years, unlike most aspects of our fete. We’ve had all kinds from green plastic bowlers to headbands with sparkling clovers on springs (My Favorite Martian style). This year the hats were particularly festive, and particularly tall. They were felt beer mugs, a foot tall or better, complete with sudsy tops and green floppy brims. As each of us was fitted with our faux fresh from the keg adornment, the wee lads would giggle at first and roll their eyes at last at the sight of us.
This year I brought pub chips and malt vinegar for an appetizer and we crunched and munched for a bit before we descended the basement stairs in preparation for the inevitable …
…battle…
…or ping-pong game if you prefer.
I must back up a bit. The Riley’s basement is the perfect spot for a social gathering on any occasion and often is just that for those of us in our clan. There’s a game for everyone from foosball, pop a shot, air hockey, to most recently a Wii. The biggest attraction and source of competition between us, however, is the ping pong table. Kay is the champion. Notice I did not say she fancies herself the champion; no, she is the champion and no two ways about it. Consequently, no one wants to play against her, yet everyone does and is always beaten badly. It’s hard to hold her ping pong prowess against Kay, what with her red hair, infectious laugh and ready grin; her victims usually come away from the table sporting a grin of their own. Kay’s mastery of the game is renowned and unquestioned, but the real rivalry begins when the brothers, George and Joe approach the battlefield, or ping pong court if you prefer.
The rivalry between the brothers has always been legendary but middle age and several pounds have made ping pong the best expression of it to date. This year was no exception, and so as I said, we descended the basement stairs. The Irish music was playing loudly, some of us or perhaps just I made a fool of myself by attempting a jig. We all took turns losing at ping pong to Kay and playing the other games in the meantime. The spirits of the flag had made their way down the basement stairs as well and some in the group had seen fit to partake of a shot due to the circumstance of their loss to Kay or due to the circumstance of a sunken pop a shot or due to the circumstance of Jackson or Lucas creating our Wii character with a thicker waist and larger mouth than we thought appropriate. We were having a marvelous time.
Kay had come away from the table once again victorious and the brothers took their places. The music was turned up in anticipation of the yelling and swearing that would ensue as their game got underway. We are used to their rivalry, and after all these years are not even particularly interested in it. They play and shout and sweat and swig while we all play and sing and revel in each other’s company. We’re conscious that the game is going on, we may stop to watch a few shots and smile, but the only two people completely enthralled are George and Joe.
They stare one another down from opposite sides of the court. Every name called, every tattle ever told, every sibling spat from earliest memory on finds its revenge in this battle. Joe, at times is known to duck when George gets a certain glint in his eye, and this is only because he says George once threw a ping pong paddle across their family room at him in a fit of defeated rage…although George denies it vehemently—he insists he had won and thrown it in triumph. In any case this year’s battle raged on as it always does.
None of us can remember what actually happened, although Karine from Germany maintains she heard a piercing haggish moan just before the crash, so that can only mean a Banshee had called from outside…whatever it was…a Banshee, a Pooka, a Demon or a Leprechaun, something caused George to slip and crash his right arm through the thick glass of the basement window. We all stopped what we were doing and turned aghast to find George pulling a blood soaked arm from the shattered glassy shards. We froze. All but Kay, that is, who had the sense to rush over and wrap his arm in a blanket. She shouted orders and we ran up the steps. 911 was called and we circled around our wounded kinsman with concern. Marilyn sobbed as we waited for help to arrive. The paramedics rushed in and it seemed to take them a moment to determine which of us was the victim…but they eventually decided upon George and went about preparing him for his ride to the hospital in the ambulance. They questioned us, of course to determine what had happened, and we told them, each adding our take on the events that had just occurred from our specific vantage point. The largest paramedic scanned the bloody scene and all of us and said, “So this happened from ping pong?”
“Aye, ‘twas ping pong,” we said in unison, and together removed our 18 inch felt beer steins from our heads…
Not much more was said after that, for what could be said, it was what it was. George was bandaged and taken to the waiting rescue vehicle and Marilyn and Kay were off to the hospital with him, with only one look of longing from each of them for the three bottles on the counter which contained the spirits of the flag…I can’t be sure what they were thinking, but I can only imagine that they were certain that if ever a circumstance warranted a shot of the flag, this undoubtedly was one…
The Aftermath
There was a flourish of bleach and mops and brooms and dustpans. The battlefield was cleared and cleaned, the kitchen floor was scrubbed until all that was left that was the knowledge that the rest of us were left to carry on; to cook the potatoes and cabbage, assemble the colcannon and have our dinner. We rose to the challenge. We knew as well as we’d ever known anything that these indeed were circumstances which called upon the spirits of the flag. Mark and I, the philosophers of the group, were determined the most suited for preparing the colcannon. We reveled in our appointment and gathered at the stove top with pints (for drinking) and spoons (for stirring) and our wits (for philosophizing). The front of a stove and the expectation of a delicious outcome are the perfect precursors of profound thought—and profoundly think, we did. We recounted the tale of George’s recent fate, once or twice, and toasted the flag thrice, for bloodshed in honor of George, for tears in honor of Mare and for loyalty in honor of Kay. We didn’t shirk our responsibilities, though, no, we stirred and watched the pots of potatoes and cabbage as carefully as any Celtic mother in time honored tradition. Jackson, or maybe it was Lucas came in and pointed out as only a child can that the burners were not lit—and alas, he was right, clever lad. Without a moment’s hesitation we ignited the burners and began once again to drink thoughtfully, to think, profoundly and to cook—this time with better results.
We ate our feast and grew weary. We drank another toast to our battle scarred brother, our worry worn sister and our loyal trusted friend. We vowed to gather next year with them (and to make sure Mare pre-cooks the colcannon and George wears shoes with better traction) and enjoy the Feast of Saint Patrick.
We have done it for so many years now that we’ve come up with the perfect Irish feast; corned beef, Irish stew, colcannon, creamed cabbage and…
The Flag
The flag is a shot made of Bailey’s Irish Crème, Orange Liquor, and Green Crème de Menthe. There is an art to making the shot; one must have a steady eye and an even steadier hand. The spirits are poured in order of the colors of the Irish Flag; the Crème de Menthe goes in first, then the Bailey’s and finally the Orange Liquor. We drink beer when we are not drinking the shots—and we only have a shot when the circumstances warrant it; circumstances such as, that we have opened the oven in order to admire the sliced corned beef warming in the foil pan awaiting its fate.
The Clan
We, like the feast, are the same every year…the hosts are Mark and Donna, the Riley’s. Marilyn (Mare), is Mark’s twin sister and her husband George—is my husband Joe’s brother—and there is Dave, one of Donna’s triplet brothers (his guest may change from year to year, this year it was Karine from Germany, who we all thought was a welcome addition to our Irish festival) myself, I’m Kathleen and the other Kathleen, or Kay as we affectionately call her. Sophie, Mark and Donnas’ dog, also attends dressed in her St. Patrick’s Day scarf—and there may or may not be cameo appearances by the cats. Mark and Donnas’ boys, Jackson and Lucas are there and if we start to get a little tipsy and say the occasional silly thing they are at the ready with their wry looks and their sideways glances that make us feel an inch tall and as though we should straighten up and act like proper adults…
Each guest arrives with their special dish in tow. Mark makes the stew, Kay supplies the creamed cabbage, Mare brings the corned beef already cooked and the potatoes and cabbage ready to be cooked for the colcannon. Dave and Joe and I bring the ingredients for the flag. When a new guest and dish arrives there is certain amount of opening and smelling and oohing and aahing –and occasionally, the arrival of a new guest is also deemed a circumstance which warrants a shot of the flag. In addition to the ogling over new food arrivals, each new guest that enters must don one of
The Hats
There are always hats. Mark and Donna supply them. They have changed over the years, unlike most aspects of our fete. We’ve had all kinds from green plastic bowlers to headbands with sparkling clovers on springs (My Favorite Martian style). This year the hats were particularly festive, and particularly tall. They were felt beer mugs, a foot tall or better, complete with sudsy tops and green floppy brims. As each of us was fitted with our faux fresh from the keg adornment, the wee lads would giggle at first and roll their eyes at last at the sight of us.
This year I brought pub chips and malt vinegar for an appetizer and we crunched and munched for a bit before we descended the basement stairs in preparation for the inevitable …
…battle…
…or ping-pong game if you prefer.
I must back up a bit. The Riley’s basement is the perfect spot for a social gathering on any occasion and often is just that for those of us in our clan. There’s a game for everyone from foosball, pop a shot, air hockey, to most recently a Wii. The biggest attraction and source of competition between us, however, is the ping pong table. Kay is the champion. Notice I did not say she fancies herself the champion; no, she is the champion and no two ways about it. Consequently, no one wants to play against her, yet everyone does and is always beaten badly. It’s hard to hold her ping pong prowess against Kay, what with her red hair, infectious laugh and ready grin; her victims usually come away from the table sporting a grin of their own. Kay’s mastery of the game is renowned and unquestioned, but the real rivalry begins when the brothers, George and Joe approach the battlefield, or ping pong court if you prefer.
The rivalry between the brothers has always been legendary but middle age and several pounds have made ping pong the best expression of it to date. This year was no exception, and so as I said, we descended the basement stairs. The Irish music was playing loudly, some of us or perhaps just I made a fool of myself by attempting a jig. We all took turns losing at ping pong to Kay and playing the other games in the meantime. The spirits of the flag had made their way down the basement stairs as well and some in the group had seen fit to partake of a shot due to the circumstance of their loss to Kay or due to the circumstance of a sunken pop a shot or due to the circumstance of Jackson or Lucas creating our Wii character with a thicker waist and larger mouth than we thought appropriate. We were having a marvelous time.
Kay had come away from the table once again victorious and the brothers took their places. The music was turned up in anticipation of the yelling and swearing that would ensue as their game got underway. We are used to their rivalry, and after all these years are not even particularly interested in it. They play and shout and sweat and swig while we all play and sing and revel in each other’s company. We’re conscious that the game is going on, we may stop to watch a few shots and smile, but the only two people completely enthralled are George and Joe.
They stare one another down from opposite sides of the court. Every name called, every tattle ever told, every sibling spat from earliest memory on finds its revenge in this battle. Joe, at times is known to duck when George gets a certain glint in his eye, and this is only because he says George once threw a ping pong paddle across their family room at him in a fit of defeated rage…although George denies it vehemently—he insists he had won and thrown it in triumph. In any case this year’s battle raged on as it always does.
None of us can remember what actually happened, although Karine from Germany maintains she heard a piercing haggish moan just before the crash, so that can only mean a Banshee had called from outside…whatever it was…a Banshee, a Pooka, a Demon or a Leprechaun, something caused George to slip and crash his right arm through the thick glass of the basement window. We all stopped what we were doing and turned aghast to find George pulling a blood soaked arm from the shattered glassy shards. We froze. All but Kay, that is, who had the sense to rush over and wrap his arm in a blanket. She shouted orders and we ran up the steps. 911 was called and we circled around our wounded kinsman with concern. Marilyn sobbed as we waited for help to arrive. The paramedics rushed in and it seemed to take them a moment to determine which of us was the victim…but they eventually decided upon George and went about preparing him for his ride to the hospital in the ambulance. They questioned us, of course to determine what had happened, and we told them, each adding our take on the events that had just occurred from our specific vantage point. The largest paramedic scanned the bloody scene and all of us and said, “So this happened from ping pong?”
“Aye, ‘twas ping pong,” we said in unison, and together removed our 18 inch felt beer steins from our heads…
Not much more was said after that, for what could be said, it was what it was. George was bandaged and taken to the waiting rescue vehicle and Marilyn and Kay were off to the hospital with him, with only one look of longing from each of them for the three bottles on the counter which contained the spirits of the flag…I can’t be sure what they were thinking, but I can only imagine that they were certain that if ever a circumstance warranted a shot of the flag, this undoubtedly was one…
The Aftermath
There was a flourish of bleach and mops and brooms and dustpans. The battlefield was cleared and cleaned, the kitchen floor was scrubbed until all that was left that was the knowledge that the rest of us were left to carry on; to cook the potatoes and cabbage, assemble the colcannon and have our dinner. We rose to the challenge. We knew as well as we’d ever known anything that these indeed were circumstances which called upon the spirits of the flag. Mark and I, the philosophers of the group, were determined the most suited for preparing the colcannon. We reveled in our appointment and gathered at the stove top with pints (for drinking) and spoons (for stirring) and our wits (for philosophizing). The front of a stove and the expectation of a delicious outcome are the perfect precursors of profound thought—and profoundly think, we did. We recounted the tale of George’s recent fate, once or twice, and toasted the flag thrice, for bloodshed in honor of George, for tears in honor of Mare and for loyalty in honor of Kay. We didn’t shirk our responsibilities, though, no, we stirred and watched the pots of potatoes and cabbage as carefully as any Celtic mother in time honored tradition. Jackson, or maybe it was Lucas came in and pointed out as only a child can that the burners were not lit—and alas, he was right, clever lad. Without a moment’s hesitation we ignited the burners and began once again to drink thoughtfully, to think, profoundly and to cook—this time with better results.
We ate our feast and grew weary. We drank another toast to our battle scarred brother, our worry worn sister and our loyal trusted friend. We vowed to gather next year with them (and to make sure Mare pre-cooks the colcannon and George wears shoes with better traction) and enjoy the Feast of Saint Patrick.
