The Ghost of St. Patrick's Days Past
Celebrating a complicated holiday in the kitchen
St. Patrick’s Day has always been a problematic holiday for me. As an Irish-American who grew up in an intensely Irish-American household, it’s a day full of signifiers that I’ve never been quite able to navigate. When I was kid, it meant nonstop performances and parades as an Irish dancer. As an adult, it meant an excess of alcohol consumption, usually not in the best of circumstances. Throw in Catholic guilt and displaced nostalgia and you’ve got a stew of conflicting feelings.
For Irish people and Irish-Americans, St. Patrick’s Day is the high point of Irish culture. It’s “our” day. Except there’s very little culture. It’s been co-opted by green beer and Kiss Me I’m Irish buttons and schmaltzy Irish accordion music. And there have been times in my life when all that was fine and sometimes it was more than fine. If I’m being completely honest, sometimes it was wonderful, and I miss it.
I especially miss the boozy glow of Irish drinking songs, which are full of lost battles and heart-shattering losses. “The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad” said the great G.K. Chesterson and I think he was on to something.
When I gave up drinking I was a bit at sea as to how I was supposed to manage St. Patrick’s Day—not that I did a particularly good job of it while sailing along on single malt and stout. Obviously, I couldn’t go near a pub and expect to come out sober.
This, of course, was no big loss. As I got older, I grew tired of how challenging it had become to get a proper pint on St. Patrick’s Day. Sure you could go and get your plate of corned beef and boiled potatoes while you were at it, but it was going to be awful and expensive and you’d have to wait forever for it.
In L.A. I would go to Molly Malone’s in the morning and drink my whiskey and Guinness and listen to some Irish music and get it all out of my system by 8am and then I’d go to work, slightly inebriated, but my obligation to celebrate the day over.
As the years wore on the holiday began to mean less and less to me. Nuvia would have to remind me to play some Irish music, and I would, but some years the music that had once brought so much happiness felt distant and cold.
When Nuvia and I were married we made our wedding a blending of Irish and Mexican cultures. We had our wedding at a winery in Baja. We used claddagh rings as our wedding bands. We danced to the Pogues “A Fairytale of New York” and had both a trio and a Mariachi band perform. We served salmon for dinner and had midnight tacos as a surprise for our guests. And, of course, we had an abundance of whiskey and tequila.
For our first St. Patrick’s Day, we made Irish tamales: authentic Mexican tamales stuffed with corned beef. I had no idea how much work went into making tamales. The tamales were delicious but we argued the whole day. Perhaps “argue” isn’t the right word. I resisted being told what to do, which was kind of ridiculous, because if you’ve never made tamales before, there’s a lot to learn.
Having survived that early test of our marriage, I resolved never to do it again.
Until this year.
Throughout the pandemic, we’ve been having Zoom dinners with a close group of friends who all live nearby. Each family makes enough food for all the other families. We meet up to drop it off and then we go back to our homes, log on to Zoom, and eat together.
As the months have gone on these meals have become more elaborate. What started as a potluck has become a three- and four-course affairs. So when our latest “gathering” fell on the weekend before St. Patrick’s Day, I decided to bring back the Irish tamale served with a side of Irish soda bread.
I started baking on Thursday night because once my parents got wind of my project both requested a loaf. (In fact my father requested two.) So I cooked four loaves on Thursday night, using my mother’s recipe, and shipped them off to West Virginia and Virginia on Friday morning. Then I baked four more loaves on Friday afternoon and put the corned beef in the crock pot. I rarely eat meat, much less cook it, so it was strange to heave the old carcass into the pot and top it off with Guinness—like the ghost of St. Patrick’s Day past. The aroma of baking bread and the simmering strew of beef bathed in Guinness filled the condo.
I bought the masa and corn husks from Northgate Market, and used potatoes and onions we already had, plus carrots from our CSA box. Saturday morning I woke up early and ready to go. I soaked the husks, chopped up the potatoes and carrots, and shredded the corned beef. Nuvia and sat down together to prepare the tamales, carefully spreading the masa onto the husk, adding the ingredients, and wrapping it up tight. Within an hour we had our first batch done and in the pot. Our second batch took even less time. We were done before we knew it.
We bundled up the food and made packages for each family and then went to the drop off spot. Many people in our group have received their first vaccination shot. Some have or are about to receive the second. We all lingered a little longer than usual, sensing that maybe, just maybe, the next time we have dinner together we’ll be able to break bread together—Irish or otherwise—in person.
PssSST…
It’s been an exciting week for Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise and Fall of SST Records. I reviewed dozens of photographs from photographers whose work I hope to include in the book. Some of the names are widely known while others will be unfamiliar to most people. Some of the photos I’d seen before while others have never been published online or in a book and were an absolute thrill to examine.
One of the things I’ve learned from working on these rock music books is that most publishers don’t consider the manuscript turned in until the photos have been submitted as well. For many musicians, this can be tricky as they don’t own the photos in which they appear.
A photographer once told me this was a concept that Gene Simmons of KISS didn’t understand. Apparently when he was writing his book he called up a friend who was a photographer and demanded he turn over all of “his” photos. The two met for lunch and it wasn’t until the photographer took a photo of Gene’s hamburger and explained the difference between Gene’s burger and the photographer’s photo that the distinction between the artist and the image was finally made clear.
To be honest, I’ve been dreading this part of the process, but all of the photographers I’ve talked to have been really professional and totally on the ball. And did I mention these photos are amazing?
I also got to see a revised cover comp this week and between imagining what the book will look like on the outside and the inside it’s starting to feel real.
In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I’ve been trying to think who in the SST catalog is the most Irish. The two main contenders that I’ve come up with are Murph aka Emmett Jefferson Murphy III of Dinosaur Jr and Eddie “Keltic Ruins” O’Bryan, one of Zoogz Rift’s “Amazing Shitheads” (and SST employee).
Both are good selections, but I’ve decided to go with Glenn Lockett aka Spot who produced much of Black Flag’s early work and countless classic SST albums. Spot has an affinity for Celtic music and has performed at numerous festivals in Texas and Mississippi. Spot recently recommended the work of fiddler Liz Carroll and her latest album, Half Day Road, reflects her passion for traditional Irish music. Give it a listen…