St. Patrick’s Day is filled with nostalgia and I always have a little tristesse.
I do have a dark Celtic side and so this time of year comes with a bit of brooding: whereas most people love the idea of spring, exult in the warmer weather and strip to sleeveless tops and flip flops when the temperature goes above 50°, I get a little anxious, reverting to my ancestral memory of hunkering down for a long winter in a cave lit by lantern on the summit of Knocknarea or (even better) climbing the stone steps to my turret in a chilly castle, gathering my skirts in the low light. I love the cold, wrapping up in layers, hunched shoulders, coziness stretching ahead like a long, foggy highway.
It was a very special day growing up, going to school in particular, my white hankie with green crochet trim in the pocket of my navy blue jumper, and my green velvet hair ribbon. My friend Pat and I both loved any occasion to add some flair to our uniforms.
A cohort of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, carrying the standards of several parishes, formed right outside our house on Kensington Avenue, blocking the driveway. My father occasionally marched with the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick and we were so proud of him. We waited three deep on the corner of the Boulevard while all the high school marching bands trooped by with xylophones, trombones and tubas, flutes and piccolos, playing with their gloves on, wearing helmets with chin straps that didn’t really fit. Rows of men ten wide came into view after each parish’s school and we shrieked when we saw Dad.
We brought home the green carnations that were everywhere, and after school and the parade we had Irish soda bread standing up in the kitchen, picking out the caraway seeds with surgical precision. We could eat three and four slices, toasted and buttered. We had corned beef, boiled potatoes and cabbage for dinner, although most of us didn’t touch the cabbage. It was ceremonial.
My mother let us put green food coloring in our milk and we always made a white cake with seven-minute frosting and turned those green, too. And then we tortured each other with our green gummy smiles for the rest of the night.
When we got older, our mother would let us have stingers, a cocktail made with brandy and green (not white) crème de menthe. We sat in the living room, had some green cake and drank our green drinks. It was wonderful.
Here is the Irish soda bread recipe — it could not be easier; you can add caraway seeds if you want.
2 cups flour
4 T sugar
1.5 t baking powder
1/4 t baking soda
1 cup buttermilk
1/2-3/4 cup of raisins
Caraway seeds (optional)
Mix everything together and form into a ball. Punch it down into a loaf.
Bake on a cookie sheet at 350° for 50 to 60 minutes.
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One of my favorite songs ever is the mournful tale of a woman with such a desperate yearning that she left her home in Ireland to fulfill a dream; you can see why I can get melancholy….
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Leslie Smolan
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