St. Patrick’s Day means drinking, wearing shamrocks and singing “When Irish Eyes Are Smilin’.” Well, that’s not for me.
I used to tell people, in a fine Irish accent, that having a name like Sean Patrick McDevitt means I don’ have te’ be wearin’ any green. In fact, today, I’m not wearing a speck of green.
I have an interesting background. My grandfather was a full-blood Irishman and my grandmother was a full-blood Italian. They had four boys – two look like Opie Cunningham and two who look like extras from The Godfather. My father is one of the Opie Cunningham’s.
I never new my grandfather. He passed away when I was one or two. My grandmother lived two week shy of her 100th birthday and I grew up seeing her every day when I was in grade school (she was the head cook) and every family gathering. So, I guess, I connected a bit more with my italian side than my irish side.
Although, several years ago I had an Irish party and made Irish stew from scratch and had Guinness and other assorted holiday themed food and deserts. My friends were shockingly amazed at how good it all was. Of course, I make a mean spaghetti and meatballs too.
So, in honor of my Irish heritage, I’ll have a Shamrock shake from McDonald’s at lunch and I’ll drink a Guinness or two at home after work.