Goin' green. Dreamin' chocolate

TAH DAH!

      Guess ya just don't mess with a Leprechaun - especially on the Ides of March.  But I did.  I was just sooo excited to be breakin' a way-too-long silence - mine - that I parked me sorry arse at the keyboard, mouse potato that I've become, and squeezed my eyes shut.  And there I sat, you know the way you would if you were makin' that special wish before you blow out your birthday candles, and said, "Oh, Muse of Muses, the Greenest of Greens, Shamus of the Unsolvable, - I'm lowering me head, now, as in prayer, for effect - Laddie Leprechaun Himself, create for me the most beautiful shower of sparkling SHAMROCKS so that I may share them with me friends as we approach the grand celebration, known to the uninitiated as 'Saint Patrick's Day', of YOURSELF!"  I was just sayin'.  But it seems He was not amused by my pullin' on his little green leg.  I was denied my shower of shamrocks.  He sent this lovely little Lass to show ME.  "THERE'S yer 'shower'.  And there's no messin' with The Laddie!"  Well, 'fie on im', I say.  Me friends don't NEED a visual.  The world of souls, ALL initiated AND devotees of St. Paddy, have The Shamrock etched on their hearts.  Unlike yours - made of stone - in-scribbled with blarney.  You can take your leave.  The Lass stays. And once again, we're ALL reminded of why we must address a 'con' when utterin' yer name!
      (NEXT! I thought I heard my name, was being paged.  But no.  It was only the anchor.  He was giving us fair warning of which woebegone world event we'd be listening to after the tasteless-but-required "after this".  Shamefully tedious, lately, don't you think?  The 'news', I mean.  But like a responsible little soldier, I'd just strained to comprehend the previous item.  It seems that scientists at Oxford - as in the other side of the pond - had finally concluded the long, laborious - and ludicrous in my mind - study that confirmed, as only empirical scientists can confirm, the FACT that the hateful, destructive racism which has been visited upon those of dark-hued skin for ages, is now an anachronism. 
      Yes, fellow world citizens, They-at-Oxford have eradicated racial - and ONLY racial; you women and gays will have to plod on searching for the THE formula that reduces misogyny and homophobia to particulate ionsofice - discrimination by the one-time, oral administration of a drug identified only as "in the cardiac classification", pharmaceutically speaking.  How about hermeneutically speaking.  I mean is this yet another Druidic plot to conceal the formula for gold?  Hmmm?  You really can't make this stuff up, folks.  Real life wins hands down every time.)
      Patrick has always been a special name in our homes. And the festive behavior surrounding the commemoration of the saint's day, in our family, is always the chief ingredient in the 'Mania Mash' that prevails around March 17.  The parades, the marathons, the 'wearin-o'-the green.  St. Paddy's Day ROCKS.
      I started getting itchy yesterday, actually. Well, I was just being pragmatic.  Out doing the marketing, SOMEhow I strolled right by the fresh veggies and next thing I knew my soles were stuck to the slick floor.  Looking up - for assistance - my eyes locked on a glistening row of glass half-barrel sized canisters each  filled with - Confections?  Of the tiny UFO-shaped variety, brightly-colored sugar-coated chocolate. 
      OK, so this wasn't the chain-variety market that my husband and the rest of the prudent citizenry use when a nation-wide depression is scratching at your porch screen door. Rather it was the kind food snobs like me, who prattle on about Madeleine's as though they'd actually read Proust, patronize.  When Gigi shops for her one little grand peep who, being logistically disadvantaged, requires fed-ex ed treats on special occasions, she can be found here - specialing up all SIX peeps, what with the gas prices these days. Arthritic but not astigmatic, I filled my basquette with little bags of green, white and orange specialities toute suite!
      (Apropos of nothing, our anchor was back muddling through what sounded like a 'Willie Wonka' piece, at first bite.  But color me RED, white and green, he was speaking of the mayor of an obscure little Italian village.  It seemed, for good and sufficient reasons, I'd hoped, the man had just yesterday announced the passage of a new town law. Henceforth - and here the techies out-did themselves as the perfectly sync-ed copy, as uttered by the law-maker in real time, was simultaneously being translated from Italian to English, the words marching lock-step across the bottom of the screen - it will be "against the law to die".
      No snickering, please. And no pun intended.  This chocolate theme is heavy on my gastronomic vocab tonight.  As a direct result of the exhaustion of available real estate, there remained nary a soupcon of sod into which a shovel could be sunk for the purposes of internment.  Ergo, no dirt; no death.  At the time of this stunning reportage, two people had already broken the law.)
      For our newest peep, this will be his FIRST sweet celebration of what, I'm sure his three year-old big sister - of "Mommy, what time does the plane leave?" "What plane, sweetie?" "To- Chi- ca- go, Mom." "What?" "Mom- my, Grams- got-me- a- Bears- Cheer- lead- er- out- fit.  I- have- to- be- in- Chi- ca- go. The- squad- needs- me!" - fame - has excitedly described for him.  So that's one organic household that will be putting on a green "Shite Show" Saturday from sugar shock.  Our son's eldest is running the last leg of the local Shamrock Marathon (raising money for the breast cancer fight) after which, he, his sister (dropped in earlier as "Lass") and their little brother, PATRICK-surprise-baby-four-years-ago Saturday, will be visiting US.
      They offered to detail my car - as MY b-day is almost upon us.  Sweet is as sweet does, Saturday.  Seconds after those Shammys are stored, the guys will settle in for some b-ball hd-duty and the treat marathon shall commence in full force.  It's only once a year.  AND everyone will be in the best of moods.  No bickering, Saturday or no b-day cake apres treats.  I run a tight shoppe.
      (Unfortunately, our boy was back with some glum-chum news that is becoming de rigueur in the Mid East.  'Bickering' is but a tip-toe performance when compared to the colossal carnage in THAT arena.  I heard Syria, then more Afghanistani murders.  Iran - always on stage - was mentioned at some point.  But getting back to the Afghanistan theater, I was reminded, sadly, of an announcement in the 'weekend event' section of our paper.
      Most of the events - the great majority, in fact, had an Irish tinge.  So one - under the "Dance" heading really stood out as no cake walk: "Dances of  Afghanistani and Mid Eastern Rhythm Workshop".  Personally, I think decency demands a cancellation.  The potential for Mephistophelian metaphor is chilling and would stand out as a shocking breach of taste.)
      Of course there's not enough 'riverdancing' hours in a week to burn off the tasty calories we shall - as a family - gain this week.  But it is sooo worth it. It's TRADITION.  My husband and I, in a state of combined confusion/depression after listening to the evening news, toyed with a resolution/closure to the 'news' events we'd just endured.
      If the Oxford boys could only put their cardiac chemical in the Mid East drinking water, they might stop the hate/toxic tornadoes in that region.  Barring that, those suffering the ultimate exit, would die needlessly AND criminally should the Italian mayor's reigning trend spread.  Perhaps, we wondered, it would be well to establish a chopper service - if only for the Italians, that would air-ferry/deposit remains over Mt. Etna.  That way, the unfortunate departed can legally make ashes of themselves.
      (Thank Heaven for St. Patrick. Stay as sweet as you can.  Go green and fulfill your chocolate dreams Saturday.  It could be pouring Sunday. Later, Lorane. . . .)