At this time of year, I always find myself stuck in a column conundrum. Should I gripe (again) about our silly habit of moving the clock forward every March? Or should I attempt to wax philosophically about the ribald, drunken holiday waiting just around the corner — you know, the one we’ve so brazenly concocted in the name of a saint?
It is Monday as I write this — the first Monday of sanctioned delayed daylight. Personally, I think it should be illegal to get out of bed until at least a streak of morning light pushes above the horizon. But then our prisons would be filled with folks who work the night shift.
Next Monday, we will honor St. Patrick by drinking green beer all day long. In my research, I have never come across any references to Paddy’s consumption of green beer, although one reliable source mentions his passion for strawberry margaritas. As far as I know, he had no clue about bangers, corned beef or Mulligan Stew, either. In fact, it is said the Irish saint’s cookbook contained only one recipe: Put potatoes in water and boil.
Our government has been rather successful in hypnotizing us to believe we are “saving daylight” at this time of year. Some of us are even convinced the snow melts much quicker when we tack that hour of morning light to the end of the day when the sun is warmer.
And tradition says every bar and restaurant in America must serve corned beef and cabbage next Monday. I don’t like corned beef and cabbage. In fact, I prefer old school Irish cuisine — boiled potatoes — and snake.
If it is true that St. Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland, one must wonder what he could have accomplished with an extra hour of “saved daylight.” Perhaps he would have figured out a way to catch them and cook them, rather than simply chasing them away.
Just think of the tradition! On Monday, all the bars and restaurants would be serving snake. I hear it tastes just like chicken.