celtic_writer

Genius in Pearls

Thanksgiving. It was an eight-dishwasher-load feast to clean up, a multitude of children running through the house, playing games in the stark attic, all reappearing to ask politely for glasses of milk to accompany third-desserts of pumpkin pie or brownies or something else totally sweet, and not normally allowed.

When you are at Aunt Mary's, you can have whatever you want. No parents are asked for permission. I am happy to report all went home fat, full and foolish.

My sister Kathy also brought a gift, clothed in a Hefty sandwich bag. Our mother's pearls, scooped from the cleansing of a now-retired safety deposit box. The ones our mother left to me.

I am not a pearl person. But I remember when my mother bought this necklace, soon after my father Frank J. passed. She loved this band of jewels. And I know she bought them with a bit of the money Frank J. bequeathed to her, the stash he put away to make sure she was protected.

And I know she bought them because she missed him. She had spent 3/4 of her life with the man.

"You should have pearls, Mary," she told me before she left, fully assured I would get the message.

I hold their roundness in my palm, and, gently closing my fingers upon them, think of her.

There is genius in pearls. They take a long time to form, and men dive to great depths to retrieve them. And you can hold them in your hand, or wear them around your neck, a talisman to remind you from where you have come, a place you realize was safe and good and fine.

Full moon tonight here in Mason Neck, and elsewhere. Dear Doug left this morning to drag the trailer down south, to attend to some business scheduled for Monday. Labbie Walt sleeps on Marg's bed in my office, and he is dreaming, paws moving in pursuit of bunnies and duckies, or children who gleefully toss the Kong for him across the yard.

Cuz's Needlepoint, Derek's Joke, The Best Way to Cook Corned Beef and More

Once again, it's the national holiday.

My cousin Maryann spent many long hours creating this needlepoint piece for me. Cead Mile Failte is Gaelic for "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes." Thanks, Cuz.

There is a corned beef cooking in this kitchen where I sit writing. I was 16 before I realized that beef brisket does not have to taste like shoe leather in honor of St. Patrick. Here's a secret: boil the corned beef as you normally would, but an hour before it is due to be done, take it out of the water, dry it, coat it with peanut oil, mustard, and brown sugar. Then put it on the bbq grill for 60 minutes. Nectah from the Celtic gawds.

There's an Irish fellow named Frankie Quinn singing right now on XM Radio. I think the only singer in his family is the sewing machine. Soda bread will soon be in the oven.

Friend Derek from Mason Neck also emailed this Irish joke:

Jacques Chirac, The French President, is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.

"Hallo, Mr. Chirac!" a heavily accented voice said. "This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!"

"Well, Paddy," Chirac replied, "This is indeed important news! How big is your army?"

"Right now," says Paddy, after a moment's calculation, "there is meself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbor Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!"

Chirac paused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command."

"Begorra!" says Paddy. "I'll have to ring you back.

Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!"

"And what equipment would that be Paddy?" Chirac asks.

"Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy’s farm tractor."

Chirac sighs amused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke."

"Saints preserve us!" says Paddy. "I'll have to get back to you."

Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. "Mr. Chirac, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified Jackie McLaughlin's ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well!"

Chirac was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites and since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" says Paddy, "I will have to ring you back."

Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. "Top o' the mornin', Mr. Chirac! I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war."

"Really? I am sorry to hear that," says Chirac. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Well," says Paddy, "we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and decided there is no fookin' way we can feed 200,000 French prisoners."

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Exploding Turkeys During Cold Season

Talk abounds in northern VA about the menu for the annual Thanksgiving clan gathering here a week from tonight.

I have been contemplating frying a turkey, a process much different from the traditional baking method.

According to The Food Channel, one must purchase two hundred dollars worth of equipment and supplies in order to dunk the unsuspecting bird in boiling peanut oil for about 45 minutes. And, according to the gent on cable, one should also have a fire extinguisher close by, just in case the turkey is too tubby for the amount of oil in the pot, causing spillover into the heating unit and a must-do call to the local fire department.

There is also talk of not-quite-defrosted turkeys exploding when placed in hot oil, blasting bird innards to the yards of neighbors, who might think there'd been a drive-by turkeying and call the authorities.

There are also lots of people sneezing here. The cold season has started, and every ah-choo reminds me of the unique remedy touted by my grandfather, John Leo Casey.

Pop Casey, as he was known, was a short Irish fellow from Jersey City who worked as a dispatcher for the Pennsylvania Railroad. He was a crusty gent, and at 5' 2" tall, called everyone he met "Shorty." He lived to get a rise out of you.

One Thanksgiving during my childhood, my mother Dottie M. came upon a Three Stooges-like scene of her father and my 7-year-old self out on his driveway. He was holding me back with his hand on my head and I was swinging my 7-year-old arms with all my might in an desperate attempt to punch him in the stomach, the result of him ticking me off about something during that happy holiday celebration. Dottie M., appalled by my un-lady-like behavior, commanded me to stop. Pop said, "Leave her alone. There is something wrong with a kid who doesn't have any spirit."

Pop would tick you off. Then, assured of your strength of character, let you in on the secrets of life. Like how to cure the common cold.

According to Pop: "If you have a cold, swallow a thumb-full of Vicks Vapo-rub and wash it down with a swig of kerosene. It'll cure whatever ails ya."

I remember sitting there, three white dots and a big cartoon balloon above my head, thinking, "This is totally whacked."

But he did use his own remedy. I witnessed it. Plus the man smoked three packs of unfiltered Pall Malls a day...and lived to be 84.

Don't anyone light a match.

Image: Turkey, by Ms. Vicky Kate Gillen, then age 8.

Food and the Beet Wars

Look what's on the menu at Denny's in Woodbridge, VA.

Seems to me you could also call it "heart attack between two pieces of toast."

Food.

My stepson Jonathan was leader of a punk rock band in the late 80s called "Food," a troupe that started and ended its musical career the same night at the 9:30 Club in DC. When asked why he and his fellow band members named their musical ensemble after essential body nutrients, he replied, "Well, everybody knows food."

Yep. I suppose he's right.

When one encounters such culinary concoctions in life, memories spin back to recipes of childhood. My mother, Dottie M., was not fond of cooking, but had definite ideas about "nutrition." These thoughts included a stern list of foodstuffs:

1) Wheat germ

2) Frozen peas and carrots

3) Scrambled eggs

4) Steak

5) Beets

To which her kinder responded:

1) Yuck, we all hated it...especially when that horrid brown mess was swirled into orange juice every a.m.

2) My brother Kevin hated Fridays, as that time period GUARANTEED there would be frozen peas and carrots in the oh-so-Catholic tuna noodle casserole that evening.

3) Scrambled eggs. Poor brother Fran was forced to eat them. He used enough ketchup to drown us all so he could slide those suckahs down his throat. What a display.

4) My younger sibling Kathy would cry when steak was served. Seems the quality of beef my parents could afford at the time was too tough for her fledgling teeth. So beef nights were always full of tears.

5) Beets.

Ugh.

I know. They are full of iron and oh-so-good-for-you, but I am telling you, you can have mine, all swimming hot and warm in a bath of butter. If there is a hell, it is a beet.

One evening, around the time I was eight or so years of age, three aforementioned-prepared beets were placed upon my dinner plate. The verbal instruction was:

"Just eat one."

Nope.

My father Frank J. got Irish. "You are not leaving this table until you eat that beet."

OK.

I was abandoned by the others. Dishes were done. The whole family went about their business. Just like that crazy clock on The Twilight Zone, the hours went by. I sat. The single beet placed on a plate in front of me grew tired. I watched it as its moisture became rivers of red juice.

About 10:45 p.m., my old man came into the kitchen.

"Why haven't you eaten that beet?" he demanded.

"Cause you don't have to eat 'em. You hate 'em."

He grabbed the beet from the plate, threw it in the trash and commanded, "Go to bed."

What was it Winston Churchill said? "We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields, and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!"