Am I Still Irish if I Don't Eat the Food?

I believe I've mentioned before that I am fairly giddy about food. It comes from my birth family. We love to discuss dinner over breakfast. Vacations revolve around what we're going to eat that day. "What do you say we head to In-and-Out for lunch, Jamba Juice for an afternoon snack and then go to Mandarin Gourmet for dinner? Other than that, I don't care what we do today." Even our most treasured family heirlooms are memories of food. "Remember Nannie's gravy?!? Mmmmm. Now that was eating."

So put that together with the fact that the biggest chunk of our family ancestry comes from Ireland, and you should have a clan that enjoys some good corned beef together on St. Patrick's Day each year.

Problem is, I have come to the slow realization that I hate Irish food. Corned beef? Yuck. Steamed cabbage? Whew. Boiled potatoes and carrots? Pass the salt and pepper, please. And soda bread? Well, I'm redeemed there. It's difficult for me to dislike anything that has "bread" in the title. But still.

Growing up, we had a traditional Irish meal each March 17. It was part of what we did, and there was no questioning it. Once I got married, I continued on the tradition without scrutiny. "Sorry, honey, it's what I do." Then, last year, after cooking all day and ending up with a smell in my kitchen that would easily qualify for a chemical weapon, I looked around to see no one eating the meal (except the soda bread, of course; we would have starved that night without the soda bread). And it hit me -- maybe I shouldn't do this next year.

So I celebrated St. Patrick's Day this year with just a green sweater and prayers of thanks to God for faithful servants like Maewyn Succat. And maybe a little mood music from Celtic Woman so I could pretend to riverdance around my kitchen. You can take the girl out of Ireland....