Monday, March 18, 2013
Sometimes I stop to think about how much clip art I really use! I know the rules of breaking up long narratives and that it is a help but how often do they change the meaning of what we start out to say as after all they are not my thoughts...they are appealing! So with these thoughts in mind I am going to do today's blog with my words rather than the thoughts of others, framing my thoughts!!!! I have to achieve my goals not the other away around!
My weekly list and things I want to be or do this week!
Just remember, "they" say that:
Of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important.
The pursuit of happiness is the chase of a lifetime
The heaviest thing you can carry is a grudge.
The best vitamin for making friends..... B1
Friends are like balloons; once you let them go, you might not get them back.
The happiness of my life depends on the quality of my thoughts
One thing you can give and still keep...your word.
One thing I can't recycle is wasted time.
A mind is like a parachute...it functions only when open.
Life isn't fair, but it's still good.
Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.
Over prepare, then go with the flow.
A wine hangover is the wrath of grapes.
Life is too short for long pity parties.
Get busy living, or get busy dying.
You can get through anything if you stay in the present.
It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else.
He who dies with the most toys is nonetheless DEAD
Burn the candles, use the good sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special.
Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.
The most important sex organ is the brain.
God must love stupid people; He made so many.
No one dictates your happiness but you.
Happiness is the one thing that believing makes it true
Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift.
Frame every so-called disaster with these words: ' In five years, will this matter?'
Don't compare your life to others.
You have no idea what their journey is all about. Nor do they about yours!
If a relationship has to be a secret, then you shouldn't be in it.
Pay off your credit cards every month.
You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.
Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
When in doubt, just take the next small step.
Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.
Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.
Growing old beats the alternative! -- dying young.
Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.
If you don't ask, you don't get.
No matter how you feel, get up and get dressed - it makes you feel better.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The following quotes truly represent the richness of the Irish Culture (I have to admit that I do love Irish Cream Coffee!)
St. Patrick's Day is an enchanted time -- a day to begin transforming winter's dreams into summer's magic. By Adrienne Cook.
Ireland is rich in literature that understands a soul's yearnings, and dancing that understands a happy heart. By Margaret Jackson.
Only Irish coffee provides in a single glass all four essential food groups: alcohol, caffeine, sugar, and fat. By Alex Levine.
Maybe it's bred in the bone, but the sound of pipes is a little bit of heaven to some of us.
By Nancy O'Keeefe.
In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs. By Sir John Pentland Mahaffy.
There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting. By John Millington Synge.
Back in the 1990's I had the opportunity to work with some Cajun sugar can growers. While I was there, I had the opportunity to meet this wonderful woman (who knew I loved to cook) and she shared some Cajun-Irish recipes with me. It goes without saying that in her eyes, folks like her had a strong influence over both Irish and Cajun cooking as we know it today.
If you have ever had the opportunity to to know a true Irishman or a Cajun true to customary beliefs...you can't tell what is myth and what is real as both of these cultures pass history on through storytelling rather than written word! And both have a zest for life that few can understand. Case in point, I can now find quotes that I was given and were discussed that day on the web from recipes to historical data! So I am passing the following on to you as a storyteller who dares not try to confirm what is true because the knowledge that I gained is still with me almost a quarter of a century later!
I would later learn that while the Catholic traditions of Louisiana were a strong draw to the immigrants from both Ireland and Acadia, a connection almost as binding was the anti-British feeling they shared. The--I hesitate to use the word hatred, but--hatred felt for the English by both the Irish and the Cajuns gave them a commonality that transcended politics, culture, and even religion.
When Nana Cooked for St. Pat's Day
Each year as spring approaches with its fresh new greenery, I am certain the green is in honor of St. Patrick's Day. My Irish grandmother, straight from a dairy farm in County Kerry, loved to announce in her heavy brogue that she lost her Irish accent when she arrived in New York in 1917. No one ever told her the truth.
Proud as she was of her "good, plain cooking," every March Nana's culinary talents re-appeared, just as the lost village of Brigadoon re-surfaces every 100 years.
With the arrival of Nana's culinary magic in the month of March came the departure of her overdone lamb roast with the pasty gravy, the green beans cooked until gray and soft, the potatoes boiled to a watery mush and the sensible, but brownish, tasteless applesauce.
The Irish soda bread, alone, was worth the 12-month wait. One loaf was always plain, while the others were studded with raisins, or flecked with caraway seeds. The ease with which Nana turned out loaf after loaf of this fragrant bread taught me that bread making could be a simple, everyday pleasure.
March always began with the making of two huge pots of soup. Potato soup and country broth alternated as our simple meals on the evenings when food preparations for the imminent "St. Pat's Day" (Nana knew the Saint on a first-name basis) left us little time to fix dinner.
Next came the sausage pies, puff pastry with concealed chunks of country sausage blended with onions, sage and tomatoes. As children, we had the special honor of cutting the excess pastry into shamrocks, to place on top of the pie. My brother's shamrocks always looked better than mine, but Nana assured me that odd-shaped shamrocks were especially prized by the leprechauns. The pies were frozen, unbaked, to be finished in the oven on March 17th.
Stuffed vine leaves (grape leaves) were filled with lamb, scallions, nuts and marjoram, then set aside in the refrigerator until the big day. I once told Nana she was actually making "stuffed grape leaves," which were a Middle Eastern dish. She merely smiled indulgently at what she thought to be foolish mininformation.
The Irish rarebit--our traditional St. Patrick's Day breakfast--was prepared well ahead of time and kept refrigerated. Spread thickly on toasted whole wheat bread and served with quartered tomatoes, it was also presented as a snack to all who stopped by to wish us top o' the mornin', and bring a loaf of their own Irish soda bread to share.
The colcannon (Nana's was a wonderful blend of cooked mashed potatoes, cabbage, milk and green onions) made a mysterious squeaky sound as it cooked. One of our favorite tradition as kids was to chew on the salted cabbage core while we watched the colcannon cook, squealing with delight when we heard the first squeak.
Frying boxty pancakes--a proud rival to potato pancakes from any nation--was part of St. Patrick's Day morning. Nana would give one pancake from each batch she fried to an excited child who was just waiting to sink his or her teeth into the crispy, golden delight.
Then Nana proceeded to make the potato apple--two rounds of potato cake, sandwiching slices of apple, sugar and cinnamon.
The fresh seafood dishes were all assembled late in the morning when the potato dishes were completed. First Nana poached the salmon, half of which would be boned and set on a platter of butter lettuce with paper-thin slices of cucumber and tomato alternating around the platter's edge.
Our very important task was to cut hard-cooked eggs and lemons into neat, even wedges. We were then allowed to place the golden yellow wedges on the platter, wherever we thought most appropriate. (We were food stylists before it was a profession.)
The remaining salmon was made into a superb flan, with chunks of salmon resting on the creamy filling.
A bit of the poached salmon was saved to make salmon rolls for our lunch. The salmon was mashed and mixed with mayonnaise and yogurt, chopped walnuts and apple, thyme and mint. The savory mixture was then placed in a long, soft loaf of bread, and sliced into sections.
I think lunch was actually my favorite part of the day, perhaps because we got to sit down for the first time in hours, or perhaps because we were allowed to have a cup of real Irish tea, sent by my cousins still back in the Old Country.
Corned beef and cabbage was a weekly staple in our house, not a dish for the "big holiday." (Corned beef and cabbage is actually more American than Irish. Nana had never had it in Ireland.) We did, however, look forward to the boiled ham with parsley sauce and the Irish Stew.
But all of the above merely leld up to what was, for the children, the highlight of the meal and the evening: the dessert table.
All the desserts were kept concealed until the dinner dishes were cleared and fresh linens and tableware set out. Then the desserts (each brought by a different friend or relative) would appear, gracing the table with a myriad of colors and tastes.
There were creamy bowls of apple fool, rock cakes, fruit sponge with custard, queen of puddings (with raspberry jam hidden beneath the soft golden topping), Irish coffee cake (unappealing to the children, as Irish whiskey was laced into both the syrup and the topping), and tipsy cake (a rival to English trifle, with amaretto biscuits, almonds, jam, sherry and vanilla).
Following dessert, we were carried off to bed, knowing that after the leftovers were gone our Brigadoon kitchen would disappear for another year, leaving us to enjoy Nana's "good, plain cooking."
How she could shine as a culinary genius that one month each year, I'll never know. Perhaps, as Nana assuredly said, it was partly the work of the leprechauns.
American-Irish traditional recipes for St. Patrick's Day
This is a classic corned beef and cabbage recipe, perfect for St. Patrick's Day or any family meal. I like to add rutabaga to my corned beef and cabbage, and others prefer parsnips or turnips. Feel free to add an extra cut-up vegetable to your dinner, leave one out, or go with the ingredients listed below.
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 2 hours, 20 minutes
Total Time: 2 hours, 35 minutes
Yield: Serves 6 to 8
8 allspice berries
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
2 medium bay leaves, crumbled
2 fresh thyme sprigs or about 1/2 teaspoon dried leaf thyme
1 corned beef, about 4 pounds
3 cups beef broth
1 large onion, cut in 6 to 8 wedges
1 medium clove garlic, minced
2 1/2 to 3 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and quartered (peel if desired)
4 large carrots, halved and cut into 3-inch lengths
1 small head Savoy cabbage or green cabbage, cored and cut into 6 to 8 wedges
1 medium rutabaga, cut into 2-inch chunks, optional (turnips or parsnips)
Chopped fresh parsley, optional
Combine the allspice berries, peppercorns, bay leaves, and thyme in a bouquet garni bag, or fashion a small bag from a double piece of cheesecloth. Tie the bag tightly to keep the herbs and spices inside.
Put the corned beef in a 6- to 8-quart saucepan or Dutch oven; add beef broth and the bouquet garni bag. Add enough water to cover the corned beef brisket. Add garlic and onion. Bring to a
boil; reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for 2 hours. Remove the corned beef to a platter, cover with foil, and keep warm in a very low oven or warming drawer.
Skim fat from the broth and add the potatoes and carrots to the broth (remove some of the broth if there is too much liquid). Bring to a boil; cover, reduce heat to medium-low and cook for 10 minutes. Add cabbage wedges and continue cooking for about 20 minutes, or until cabbage and vegetables are tender.
(If you add other vegetables, such as sliced or diced parsnips or rutabaga, add with the potatoes.)
Slice the corned beef and serve with the vegetables. Sprinkle parsley over the potatoes and cabbage, if desired.
Irish Soda Bread
This is a simply-made bread that involves no rising, and only 2 minutes of kneading...a perfect way for the non-baker to enjoy the satisfaction of making bread, and offering delicious loaves of homemade bread to family and friends.
I double the recipe, leaving two loaves plain; adding 1 tablespoon caraway seeds to one loaf for caraway bread, and 1/2 cup raisins to one loaf for raisin bread. Thus, with one recipe (doubled) you have four loaves of fresh homemade, delicious bread--plain, raisin, and caraway. And don't forget the butter. Try imported Irish butter as a treat!
Yield: 2 loaves
4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
3/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup sugar
6 tablespoons melted and cooled butter
1 3/4 cup buttermilk
2 teaspoons buttermilk, additional
Combine dry ingredients in large bowl. Add cooled butter and buttermilk and mix well. Transfer dough to a lightly floured surface (sprinkling dough with additional flour if too sticky to handle). Knead for 2 minutes, until dough is firm. Shape into 2 round loaves. Rub each loaf with 2 teaspoons buttermilk, then sprinkle each lightly with flour. Cut an X into the top of each loaf with a knife or scissors. Place on a baking sheet sprayed with cooking spray, and floured. Bake in a preheated 375ºF oven for 1 hour, or until a deep, golden brown color.
For Caraway Bread, add 2 tablespoons caraway seeds
For Raisin Bread, add 1 cup raisins
For one loaf of each: divide dough in half, and add 1 tablespoon caraway seeds to 1/2 of dough and 1/2 cup raisins to 1/2 of dough.
To make four loaves of bread (2 plain; 1 caraway; 1 raisin)
Double the recipe
Leave two loaves (half the dough) plain
Add 1 tablespoon caraway seeds to one loaf (1/4 of the dough) for caraway bread
Add 1/2 cup raisins to one loaf (1/4 of the dough) for raisin bread
As the 17th has arrived and I have used much of what I have, there is one poem and one story left to share! Both carry some powerful messages!
The Planters Daughter
When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry Edited and Selected by W. B. Yeats 
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD 1
T. Crofton Croker
MANY years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever farther and farther away from the monastery, and the holy man still following it farther, and farther, and farther still listening delighted to its enchanting song.
But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was nightfall.
And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for they were all strange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and, altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not
like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him, "Brother, what is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?"
And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning? for, sure, there was no change; that all was just as before. And then he said, Brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before."
So upon this the holy man told his name. and said that he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the garden listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him that there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but that what was become of him was never known.
And while he was speaking, the holy man said, "My hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only-begotten Son."
And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, "Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing."
And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.
The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or seraphims; and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in His mercy to take to Himself the soul of that holy man.
Thanks for your patience and understanding that I am a bit too long when I write these things...but as long as there is something to pass on and truth be told...I fear that that is my plight in life....the words that will not stop coming!!!!!
May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun.
And find your shoulder to light on.
To bring you luck, happiness and riches.
Today, tomorrow and beyond.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Oh well on to what I said I was going to do today!!!!!
I have wasted much time this morning as when I sat down to write this.... an invisible wall stood in my path! There were nothing but false starts, ideas that fizzle on the page, observations that lay there like dead fish, the cursor flashing on the screen, taunting me, daring me to continue, the blank page a testament to a a blank mind and the mysteriously missing connection to what is going on at a feeling level! So I begin with the phrase, I do not want to write about.... I list the things I don't want to think about, those that I want to shun, and those that I want to step away from.
Now in recognizing just this....something hardened in my chest softened and was released. Sometimes we just have to stop and feel the heartbreak so that there is room to feel our own life again. In other words, simply allowing the sorrowfulness, we open to the possibility of feeling once again! This is what it is to be human: to learn again and again how to deal with loss; to trust the very way we are made, and knowing that joy is in the fullness of life-nothing left out!
Here is a verse from an old Irish poem in theirs and our tongues!
Cáintear na fileadha ( Men mock the poet for his want of wit,)
's ni hiad do bhionn cionntach; ( Yet not the poet's is the fault of it;)
Ni fachtar as na soighthighe (Out of a little vessel you'll not gain)
acht an Ián do bhios ionnta. ( More than a little vessel can contain.)
REMEMBER THEE Thomas Moore
Remember thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art,
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons -
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
(from The Poetry and Song of Ireland)
THE ROSE OF TRALEE
William Pembroke Mulchinock (1820?-1864) composed this ballad. Living just outside of the village of Tralee, William fell in love with a girl who was a maid in one of the nearby houses. Since a romance with an Irish servant girl could hardly be tolerated by the Pembroke Mulchinocks, in no time at all William was sent to join a regiment in India.
And so the young man soldiered, his thoughts remaining on the girl he left behind. Three years passed before he returned to Tralee. As he came into the village, he saw a funeral procession passing down the street. It was the funeral of the girl he loved, who had died, it was said, of a broken heart. In the public park just outside of Tralee there is memorial to these ill-fated lovers. On the marble stone beneath a carved cross is this inscription: "To the memory of William Pembroke Mulchinock and the Rose of Tralee. She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer." 'Of Irish Ways' Mary Murray Delaney
THE ROSE OF TRALEE
The pale moon was rising above the green mountains,
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea,
When I stray'd with my love to the pure crystal fountain
That stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,
Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me,
Oh, no, 'twas the truth in her eyes ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
The cool shades of evening their mantle were spreading,
And Mary, all smiling, was list'ning to me.
The moon through the valley her pale rays was shedding
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tralee.
Tho' lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,
Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me,
Oh, no, 'twas the truth in her eyes ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
from '1000 Years of Irish Poetry' edited by Kathleen Hoagland
Whether or not World War I soldiers knew the whereabouts of Tipperary, they knew what they meant by it. This anthem of a generation concludes 'For my heart lies there'. The song was written in 1912. One of the first to popularize it was Al Jolson. Among the countless recordings of it is one by John McCormack. Wandering, tramping, going on a pilgrimage; a complex of motifs related to such activities has recurred in Irish writing since Buile Suibhne. In the modern period, particularly, Irish writers great and small have made extensive use of one form or another of peregrination.
Tipperary: from the Irish Tiobraidarann:
The fountain of perception or enlightenment, intelligence
It's a long way to Tipperary,
it's a long way to go - and various.
It's a torture of twists, and about-turns,
The way to Tipperary appears
perennially dark with only occasional twilight's.
If you decide to go to Tipperary
set out while you're young, plucky;
at that age when you're bright-eyed and visions
of radiant horizons of revelation and achievement
and you know nothing of twilight's or the dark;
that age when all creation, all life shines clear
as spring sunlight, bright as light-catching gold.
When you set out you must go alone.
There are no maps of the way to Tipperary.
Your only compass is your own heart. Trust that!
Some see their Tipperary clearly from the start;
see it's a long road, full of daily pitfalls,
a labyrinth of curious sidestreets, inviting,
guesthouses; giddy with the temptations
of those bogey people's trinket stalls'
hokeypokey - daily thieves of eternal energy -
easy come, easy go, you've sold your soul,
you've no more choice. They sell bedlam!
Explore all those sidestreets,
enjoy your chosen resthouses,
fool with a few trinkets to learn
something of the way to Tipperary.
The way to Tipperary darkened
with the shadows of all those
who never got there anyway;
those who settled for some resthouse,
some casual trinket thief of time.
Don't let those shadows,
mumbling in their own gloom,
deter or deviate you.
Hold to your main road. Keep going!
Once you've decided to go to Tipperary
you'll realise you no longer belong to yourself
but must keep Tipperary in your sights daily -
although you can't see it. Purpose is all.
Without your Tipperary you too are a mere shadow
at those Limerick Junctions of daily resolution.
On the way to Tipperary keep your eyes open
for signals of direction, encouragement:
that nod of understanding, comradeship,
a cherishing arm on your pillow. You'll see
beautiful sights on the way to Tipperary;
man's mirage tales, imagination's monuments.
You'll behold the endless vistas, panoramas
of vision. Be curious about them all
for the gracious gifts they will afford you.
Without them you'd live that much the poorer.
It's a long way to Tipperary
and when you get there
nothing awaits you. You'll find no roadsign,
no brassband and welcoming committee
with a proclaiming you're in Tipperary
and a medallion to hang around your neck.
You'll find only what you brought with you
in your heart.
Then, what you must do
is make and leave some record
of what your Tipperary means to you -
as witness for all those behind you
on their ways to their own Tipperaries.
It's a long way to Tipperary
But all our hearts lie there.
by Desmond O'Grady (1991)
"Laddle of Buchan"
Song Air - "Laddle of Buchan"
translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanan
Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair,
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air,
The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake -
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.
Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew -
I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you;
The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake -
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.
The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone,
The coot to the water already hath flown;
There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake -
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.
Whenever there is happiness
Hope you'll be there too,
Wherever there are friendly smiles
Hope they'll smile on you,
Whenever there is sunshine,
Hope it shine especially for you to make each day
for you as bright as it can be.
When the first light of sun-
When the long day is done-
In your smiles and your tears-
Through each day of your years-
May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings, slow to make enemies, quick to make friends. But rich or poor, quick or slow, may you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Enjoy these stories and poems! They are only a hodge-podge of what you will find in Ireland and represent the lighter side of Irish culture. I would never want to claim that these are me or that I have wisdom in such a matter, they are memories and as I remember my Dad and the tales that he enjoyed!!!!
As Father Fitzgerald was walking down the street in Dublin, he spied across the way young Michael Donovan, a small boy living in his parish. Michael was at the door of a home across the street attempting to push the doorbell.
But young Michael is on the short side and the doorbell was simply too high for him to reach no matter how hard he stretched. Father watched young Michael stretch and strain toward the bell for a short time, but the bell drew no closer to the small child‘s fingers.
Father Fitzgerald strode quickly across the street ending up directly behind Michael standing at the door. While gently placing his hand on the small child's shoulder, the good man of God bent lower and gave the doorbell a good hard ring.
Then, squatting down lower to young Michael’s height, Father Fitzgerald smiled knowingly and asked, “And now what, my young man?”
“Now, Fadder?” replied Michael grinning, “Now we run!”
Epitaph on a tombstone somewhere in Pennsylvania:
Here lies the body
of Jonathan Blake,
Stepped on the gas
instead of the brake.
Another epitaph in a cemetery in Thurmont, Maryland:
Here lies an Atheist
All dressed up
And no place to go.
A true Irishman considers a bore to be someone who keeps constantly interrupting.
A true Irishman considers anyone who won't come around to his point of view to be hopelessly stubborn.
(Aha! Now I know where I got that trait!)
A true Irishman has so much respect for the truth that he uses it only in emergencies.
The three elderly Gallagher sisters have never married, they go everywhere together and they are all hard of hearing. One windy Spring day as they are walking down the streets of Dublin…
Mary Elizabeth says, "Whew, it is sure windy today."
Molly replies, "No, no. Today is Thursday."
Kathleen says, "So am I. Let's find a bar!
Whenever I dream,
It seems I dream
Of Erin’s rolling hills
Of all its lovely, shimmery lakes
And little babbling rills.
I hear a colleen’s lilting laugh
Across a meadow fair.
And in my dreams
Its almost seems
To me that I am there
O, Ireland! O, Ireland!
We’re Never far apart
For you and all your beauty
Fill my mind and touch my heart.
‘Twas late one Saturday night, when the local Garda (police officer) spied Timothy O'Carroll driving in quite a meandering fashion along the streets of County Cork. After pulling him over, the policeman asked O'Carroll if he had been drinking that night.
“Who told on me?” asked Timothy.
“Well, so I have, occifer. So I have,” continued the thoroughly drunk O’Carroll. “It’s Saturday night, you know. Me and me lads, we made a stop by the pub, but I only had six or seven pints, that’s all.”
“But then they had somethin’ called ‘Happy Hour’ during which they served these delicious margaritos, or margaritas? Anyway they are quite good. I had four…no five of those. Then I had promised to drive O’Hara, me friend, home, and he invited me in. Well, I had to go in for a couple pints of Guinness. I really couldn't be rude, now occifer, Could I? Of course, on the way home I stopped to get another pint for later…”
At that point Timothy began fumbling around inside his coat and suddenly lifted up a bottle of whiskey for the Garda to inspect.
The policeman gave a deep sigh, saying “Sir, you will need to step out of the vehicle to take a breathalyzer.”
Indignantly, O'Carroll replied, “Why? Don't you believe me?”
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Some days you're the dog, other days the hydrant.
There once was an old man of Lyme
Who married three wives at a time.
When asked, “Why a third?”
He replied, “One's absurd!
And bigamy, sir, is a crime.”
Brian O’Connell drives a double-decker bus through the streets of Dublin. One day a very drunk Timothy Fogarty climbed aboard Brian's bus taking a seat on the bottom deck near Brian. As you may or may not know, Brian is required not to allow any drunks onto his bus, but today he was rather light-hearted so he decided to let the inebriated Fogarty remain on board.
As is his wont when he has had a few Timothy began talking a mean streak, which made Brian suggest that Timothy should sit on the upper deck.
“The air up there is clean and fresh, and you will get a much improved view,” encouraged Brian.
Fogarty agreed and stumbled his way up top. However, he returned in only a few minutes.
“What's wrong?” Brian asked. “Didn't you like it better up there?”
Timothy replied, “It's okay. But it's too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous?” queried Brian. “How is that?”
“There's no driver,” answered Fogarty.
At the very next stop two more drunks climbed on board the bus. The first drunk was Bill O‘Brien and the second was Tommy Lynch. Bill asked driver O‘Connell, “Will this bus take me to 35th Avenue?”
“No, it won't,” answered Brian.
After a short pause, Tommy Lynch asked, “What about me?”
May the love and protection
Saint Patrick can give
Be yours in abundance
As long as you live.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
I was going to make my blog today and the remainder of the week a celebration of my Irish heritage! But my sister-in-law who has lived in NC all of her life sent me a new southern recipe and since my Mom passed on my southern heritage, I am going to give credible time to this too. Thus this blog today, is in true southern style.
Best Laid Plans
A plan is only good if it
Is one that gets recruited;
For good intentions soon will die
Unless they're executed
The Warshing Clothes Recipe
Never thought of a "warsher" in this light before...what a blessing!
Years ago, an Alabama grandmother gave a new bride the following recipe exactly as written and found in an old scrapbook with spelling errors and all.
"The Warshing Clothes Recipe" -- imagine having a recipe for this!
Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water.
Set tubs so smoke wont blow in eyes if wind is pert.
Shave one hole cake of lie soap in boilin water.
Sort things, make 3 piles -- 1 pile white, 1 pile colored, 1 pile work britches and rags.
To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.
Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don't boil just wrench and starch.
Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench, and starch.
Hang old rags on fence.
Spread tea towels on grass.
Pore wrench water in flower bed.
Scrub porch with hot soapy water.
Turn tubs upside down.
Go put on clean dress, smooth hair with hair combs.
Brew cup of tea, sit, rock a spell, and count yore blessings.
For non-Southerners - wrench means rinse!!
Today's "Warshing" Clothes Recipe
Paste this over your washer and dryer. The next time you think things are bleak, read it again, kiss that washing machine and dryer, and give thanks. The first thing each morning, you should run and hug your washer and dryer.
Have you hugged your washer and dryer today?
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