A little note to mark the day...
St Patrick's Day is a strange holiday, celebrated in a drunken marathon binge by green clad college students (and those 21 at heart) with dyed green beer and carnival beads. At 7:45 this morning, on my way to work, I drove past some of these people, already bar-hopping and looking a bit jovial with drink. One had on shockingly green corduroy pants and a spangly top hat. But can anyone tell me, why the carnival beads? Anyone?
I celebrated this evening with a Reuben, a Guinness and a bowl of Potage Parmentier (potato leek soup). Comfort food, made by my mom, who is only just recovering from food poisoning and has very little appetite but has an ingrained need to feed those who are around at dinner time and an iron will that believes, just a little, that if she tries really hard, she won't be sick anymore. I don't take after her at all. Riiiight.
I love her all the more for this, and I love her cooking. I also love this house, and love the fact that I can pack up my baby and my kitten and deposit myself and my menagerie on their doorstep after work to stay the night because my husband is away on business and my nearly 100 year old house feels lonely and sad without him. My parents are the epitome of hospitable, and even though my room was actually demolished to make a sitting/dressing room off their master bedroom (punched through the wall and put in french doors and everything), it's still home to me, too. My sister even stopped by after bar hopping, as my plans altered and I couldn't meet her out, and we watched Will Ferrel's HBO special on George W Bush.
I'm writing this with my kitten curled in my lap, listening to my daughter snore in her pack and play. Life is good. Faith and begorrah, indeed. Happy St Patrick's Day, everyone.