Up the Irish!
Q: How can you tell that you have an Irish boomerang?
A: It never comes back, but it won’t stop singing about it.
I’m not terribly interested in genealogy. I’m basically a European grab-bag, and my family is far enough removed from the old countries that I care more about where I am than whence I came. I’m American, and I’m just fine with that. However, I still feel that there’s something special about names, and my own patronymic line back to the other side of the Atlantic is easy enough to trace that I hold some interest in it.
My surname marks me as a descendant of Seaghdha, a man who was either a complete fabrication or a chieftain of Corcu Duibne sometime in the 7th century. He probably fought some Braveheart-style battles and stuff, and he may have looked something like this:
I find it funny that the Anglization of his name didn’t add any phonetic clarity by the usual English notions of it, but whatever; a few of those dark beers and the name comes out just fine. Being the descendant of some sort of ruler isn’t really anything terribly special—nearly anyone with blood ties to Ireland has some king of something or another in their family tree, and the density of Sheas in some parts seems to indicate that they weren’t shy about making kids—but it does impart some information relevant to the point that I’m avoiding: my ancestors were converted to Christianity well over a thousand years ago, maybe even some by the words and deeds of St. Patrick himself; my ancestors mostly ended up in County Kerry, as far south and west as you can go on the island without getting your feet wet, and sometime in the latter half of the 19th century John Shea, my great-great grandfather, left Cahircaveen and hopped on a ship to sail off to the new world.
St. Patrick is obviously a big deal to Ireland. He was born a Scot, but everyone gives him a pass on that one since he spent most of his life being Irish. As you almost certainly know, the day of St. Patrick’s feast was this past Saturday, and, agree with the church or not, preaching to an island of people ranging from apathetic to hostile takes some serious patience and huevos, and Ireland could certainly do worse for a patron. My own family becomes Irish enough this once a year, and I have fond memories of corned beef and cabbage and The Quiet Man playing on TBS whenever this day came around. We don’t treat it like a more serious holiday, like Thanksgiving or Christmas, but there’s still a certain level of ritual and reflection involved. Since leaving home I’ve celebrated the day myself by cooking the Americanized version of the traditional meal (thanks, Jews, for the corned beef) and playing some rowdy drinking songs on the stereo. I didn’t do any of that this year.
On early Saturday morn’, Xochitl (a coworker) and I got in a car and drove to Savannah. I don’t know what it is about Savannah that made it a St. Patrick’s location, but it is, and it’s one hell of a party. The only numbers I’ve seen made an a priori estimate of around 700,000 revelers, and I don’t think they were far off. I took some photos of the event if you’d like to see what I look like wearing a green plastic hat or are curious about Kat’s roommate’s cats. It didn’t show up in the pictures, but I also chose to rep’ the ATL (throw the peace sign up then upside down) and the emerald isle with a pimp-sized “ST. PAT’S” medallion from Walmart. I’m not a huge fan of crowds, since crowds are likely to puke on my shoes and act as an obstacle between me and more beer, but I had a great time in it. I can’t think of any other situation where it would be possible or appropriate to dive into the middle of a roving band of bagpipes and drums and start dancing. Many thanks to Kat for letting me crash at her place at the end of the night.
We lost Xochitl sometime in the night since she wanted to meet up with some of her friends and then join them back to Atlanta at some crazy early hour on Sunday. Once the crowded bars lost their appeal, Kat, John and I went back and watched The Quiet Man, perhaps the best cinematic expression of Irish-Americaness there ever was. I had great fun and went home on Sunday just in time to get caught in traffic starting around McDonough that may have been related to NASCAR.
I still have a bit of a craving for some corned beef, so I got to thinking once back home: there should be some serious post holiday sales going on about now. I went grocery shopping tonight for some corned beef and cabbage, and I plan to toss it in the crock pot tomorrow morning. I always have way too much, so if you feel like a St. Patrick’s meal a few days late, come on over tomorrow evening. I decided to start at Trader Joe’s just to see what they had, and what they had was corned beef for $4.79/lb and none of the appropriate vegetables. I felt like I’d been flipped off by a grocery store. Publix, thankfully, did not disappoint. I bought a Murphy & David corned beef brisket (spice pack included), a brand I’ve bought before and one that makes no effort to disguise its origins in a cold, heartless meat factory, soaking in brine and sodium nitrite while Rocky punches some cow carcasses in the background. I can appreciate that. Publix was selling it for $2.79/lb (regular price is close to four bucks). Cabbage was half price, and I also picked up a six pack of Smithwick’s discounted seventy cents (which probably only put it at the non-holiday price). Potatoes were regular price, but that wasn’t terribly surprising. I did the crock pot meal last year and it came out pretty nice, but I think I’ll try putting a piece or two of the cabbage under the meat this year to see how it comes out. It’s not quite the same as boiling everything until it all has a consistent flavor and texture, but it’s close enough, and it’s delicious. I can hardly wait.