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Monday, March 17, 2008
The St. Patrick's Day massacre
I write these words from my parents' kitchen.
I'm covered from head to toe in Bisquick, mashed potatoes and hamburger meat. Moments ago, I discovered a small carrot in my shoe. I'm beaten and bruised but my enemy is fairing far worse than I. It's currently 15 minutes into a 35 minute ride in a 350 degree oven.
Do you hear that, Irish Shepard's Pie?!!! I BEAT YOU! AND IN 20 MINUTES I'M GOING TO FEED TO YOU TO MY FAMILY! WE WILL SING SONGS AND TELL TALES OF OUR EMERALD ISLE FOREFATHERS! YES, INDEED, WE ARE AS IRISH AS IRISH CAN BE! Er...uh...I think my great-grandfather may have been Irish BUT NEVER MIND THAT! ERIN GO BRAUGH, BEEEOTCH!
I'm supposed to be enjoying a laid-back St. Patrick's Day this evening. That went out the window when my sister suggsted that we can a simple chicken meal and try something more elaborate. Of course, she left me do the cooking while she went out shopping for dessert with her boyfriend.
At one point, I was boiling potatoes, browning meat, mixing a biscuit topping and dancing an improvised jig to the Dropkick Murphys at the same time. Needless to say, this level of intense culinary multi-tasking created the Irish Shepard Pie equivalent of Frankenstein. And not the Boris Karloff version. I'm talking about the Robert de Niro one. The recipe produced too much pie for my mother's largest casserole dish, which led me to frantically try scooping out hamburger mix to make room for the biscuit mix. The stuff went everywhere. When the pie finally went in the oven the thing looked like something out of H.P. Lovecraft's nightmares.
In 17 minutes we'll know if it was all worth the effort. HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY, er, NIGHT!