As we march closer to my third favorite holiday during the calendar year (Christmas, Thanksgiving, St. Paddy's), I am taking this article to try and explain why St. Patrick's day is so darn special to me. This holiday of green, orange and white means so much more than pinching traditions and four leaf clovers
When I was younger St Patrick’s was a day of wonderment and excitement. This was the time of year everyone was going to be in the family basement, procuring all of my favorite food, (meat and some form of potato, usually cooked in some fashion) talking about life and enjoying each other’s company. Each person in that small basement was going to be wearing some shade of green, laughing about how the year was going so far and where we were planning on going next. Upstairs in the miniature room we called a kitchen, there was a pot luck set up and corned beef was on the menu for everyone. Streamers hung down from the drop-down ceiling and there was a leprechaun somewhere, because what is Paddy’s day without the little guy hiding his pot of gold or lucky charms. And who could forget those strange little green buckle hats that seemed to magically appear on heads.
This wasn't a day to bring presents (unless you count food, which I might some days) or celebrate candy and costumes; it was focused purely on fun and the company provided by friends. There were no real explosions, other than the occasional dropped drink (party foul yo) and the turkey was a lot fattier and well by technical definition, not poultry. It didn't matter who you were or where you were actually from on that day everyone was from the Emerald Isle. I always dreamed I could stop a random person on the street and ask if they were Irish, and I would get a YAAARRRR (Not because they were pirates, it’s because they are usually drunk).
As I grew older the regular pot luck traditions died away, we stopped having these romps as often and it became more family oriented. My dad and I would have the usual in that kitchen barely big enough for three and my mother would stare at us like we were crazy (It was too fatty, not that she didn’t like the taste, or so she claims). She still took the time to actually make it for us because she knew we enjoyed eating a non-breaded version of a Reuben. Even during these family only celebrations it was still fun because I knew that I was trying to respect my heritage and family. As a few more years went by, to save my mom the trouble, or if she was still stuck at work I decided to try my hands at baking a hunk of meat on my own. As the fates would have, this was my first major foray into cooking something meaty and delicious. I now try to keep corned beef in my freezer for days that I want something to remind me of the past, or just a killer sandwich.
When was old enough to actually enter the bars and see bands my tradition was going to see bands at Knickerbockers (most of my memories involve that place somehow) after I had my CB&C. The last band on the line-up was always the Killigans, pre-showed by a black man playing the meanest bagpipes I have ever imagined. This unapologetic non-Irish Nebraska Folk Punk band brought the house down. By the end of the show I was covered with sweat, bruises and beer, but always leaning on someone’s shoulder because I was there, again, with friends. And when I could drink it was a great time because I knew that my friends were around me helping me keep a level head and a rock fist held high. When Knickerbockers shut down I was honestly upset. It seemed like my traditions were starting to fade away one by one.
Last year was hopefully my only depressing day in green. I was standing in my kitchen, with only boxers on, eating corned beef at the counter because I couldn’t afford a solid table and drinking a cold one to celebrate. It wasn’t great, and I wasn’t impressed with my life. I kept thinking back to the roaring sounds of laughter echoing in my carpeted basement, or those small home cooked meals at home. That was a real turning point in the holiday for me. I realized what it actually meant, and who should be a part of St. Patrick’s Day each year. It should be a focus on friends and companionship, those who you want to be there and those who add value. The little moments are what makes it so amazing. It isn’t about having a green beer in your hands and a shirt that says ‘Kiss Me, I’m IRISH’, it’s about who you are with. In the future I want to be able to hold pot lucks at my house, drinking with friends. I want to be able to cook the perfect corned beef and cabbage and have my kids say ‘DAD! THIS IS TERRIBLE!!!’ I want to build traditions like my family had in the past.
This year, I may be with my friends kicking back drinking a cold one or at the bar laughing it up with the regulars and asking for a pint of green. I already ordered my corned beef, have my six pack of the black stuff, and am itching to wear that one green shirt I keep for seasonal purposes. All I ask for you t to examine the reasons why YOU celebrate it. Is it for family and friends? Could you be in love with the parades? Maybe even that green beer? Or you could be celebrating a heritage that your family is proud of. Whatever that thing, that moment, that idea you hold dear on this luckiest of holidays, all I ask is that you raise a cold one with me and keep an Irish eye smiling.
When I was younger St Patrick’s was a day of wonderment and excitement. This was the time of year everyone was going to be in the family basement, procuring all of my favorite food, (meat and some form of potato, usually cooked in some fashion) talking about life and enjoying each other’s company. Each person in that small basement was going to be wearing some shade of green, laughing about how the year was going so far and where we were planning on going next. Upstairs in the miniature room we called a kitchen, there was a pot luck set up and corned beef was on the menu for everyone. Streamers hung down from the drop-down ceiling and there was a leprechaun somewhere, because what is Paddy’s day without the little guy hiding his pot of gold or lucky charms. And who could forget those strange little green buckle hats that seemed to magically appear on heads.
This wasn't a day to bring presents (unless you count food, which I might some days) or celebrate candy and costumes; it was focused purely on fun and the company provided by friends. There were no real explosions, other than the occasional dropped drink (party foul yo) and the turkey was a lot fattier and well by technical definition, not poultry. It didn't matter who you were or where you were actually from on that day everyone was from the Emerald Isle. I always dreamed I could stop a random person on the street and ask if they were Irish, and I would get a YAAARRRR (Not because they were pirates, it’s because they are usually drunk).
As I grew older the regular pot luck traditions died away, we stopped having these romps as often and it became more family oriented. My dad and I would have the usual in that kitchen barely big enough for three and my mother would stare at us like we were crazy (It was too fatty, not that she didn’t like the taste, or so she claims). She still took the time to actually make it for us because she knew we enjoyed eating a non-breaded version of a Reuben. Even during these family only celebrations it was still fun because I knew that I was trying to respect my heritage and family. As a few more years went by, to save my mom the trouble, or if she was still stuck at work I decided to try my hands at baking a hunk of meat on my own. As the fates would have, this was my first major foray into cooking something meaty and delicious. I now try to keep corned beef in my freezer for days that I want something to remind me of the past, or just a killer sandwich.
When was old enough to actually enter the bars and see bands my tradition was going to see bands at Knickerbockers (most of my memories involve that place somehow) after I had my CB&C. The last band on the line-up was always the Killigans, pre-showed by a black man playing the meanest bagpipes I have ever imagined. This unapologetic non-Irish Nebraska Folk Punk band brought the house down. By the end of the show I was covered with sweat, bruises and beer, but always leaning on someone’s shoulder because I was there, again, with friends. And when I could drink it was a great time because I knew that my friends were around me helping me keep a level head and a rock fist held high. When Knickerbockers shut down I was honestly upset. It seemed like my traditions were starting to fade away one by one.
Last year was hopefully my only depressing day in green. I was standing in my kitchen, with only boxers on, eating corned beef at the counter because I couldn’t afford a solid table and drinking a cold one to celebrate. It wasn’t great, and I wasn’t impressed with my life. I kept thinking back to the roaring sounds of laughter echoing in my carpeted basement, or those small home cooked meals at home. That was a real turning point in the holiday for me. I realized what it actually meant, and who should be a part of St. Patrick’s Day each year. It should be a focus on friends and companionship, those who you want to be there and those who add value. The little moments are what makes it so amazing. It isn’t about having a green beer in your hands and a shirt that says ‘Kiss Me, I’m IRISH’, it’s about who you are with. In the future I want to be able to hold pot lucks at my house, drinking with friends. I want to be able to cook the perfect corned beef and cabbage and have my kids say ‘DAD! THIS IS TERRIBLE!!!’ I want to build traditions like my family had in the past.
This year, I may be with my friends kicking back drinking a cold one or at the bar laughing it up with the regulars and asking for a pint of green. I already ordered my corned beef, have my six pack of the black stuff, and am itching to wear that one green shirt I keep for seasonal purposes. All I ask for you t to examine the reasons why YOU celebrate it. Is it for family and friends? Could you be in love with the parades? Maybe even that green beer? Or you could be celebrating a heritage that your family is proud of. Whatever that thing, that moment, that idea you hold dear on this luckiest of holidays, all I ask is that you raise a cold one with me and keep an Irish eye smiling.