St. Paddy’s Day is nearly here, and fingers crossed none of my friends party like shamrockstars and wind up in the back of a paddy wagon. This year, I’ve opted to cook with Guinness rather than drink it—a decision so shocking it probably deserves a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.
Tonight’s menu? Guinness Macaroni and Cheese paired with Irish Soda Bread, generously slathered with a smattering o’ Irish butter. Spot a theme? That’s right—carbs. After this meal, my fitness trainer might just file for unemployment. And if I’m feeling particularly posh, I’ll round things out with a cuppa Irish Breakfast Tea—though I have to wonder if drinking “breakfast” tea for dessert violates some kind of culinary law.
Tomorrow, I’m tackling a St. Patrick’s Casserole because why quit when you’re on a roll? Think of it as a four-leaf clover meal: layers of corned beef (or seitan, because plants deserve a little luck too) stacked atop roasted cabbage and carrots, all drenched in a Guinness-agave glaze. And on the side? A mountainous pile of Colcannon mashed potatoes, tall enough to rival Croagh Patrick—though significantly easier to conquer in stretchy pants.
So why the over-the-top, “top o’ the evening to ya” St. Paddy’s Day feast? Well, for one, kiss me, I’m Irish—or, well, Irish-ish. Okay, not Irish at all, but Irish I was, since kisses sound delightful. Mostly, though, I just love any excuse to cook themed meals—or, let’s be real, any meals at all. Never mind the Reuben I had last night. I already know I eat too much without you Rueben it in.
Of course, with my luck, Trick—the mischievous leprechaun artist from The Naughty List’s Bad Potluck—will catch wind of my feast and crash the party uninvited. I’d rather not spend another holiday frisking his pockets for my fine silverware. Speaking of Croagh Patrick, they call it “the Reek”—though honestly, Trick gives it some stiff competition. Somebody get that leprechaun an Irish Spring sponsorship. Then again, even if I did gift him a bar, he’d probably try to carve it into a miniature sculpture and sell it back to me at an outrageous markup. Classic Trick—up to his shenanigans again and shenanigan.
By the time I’m done cooking, my kitchen will look like a Guinness factory exploded, and I’ll be too full to move. Which, now that I think about it, is probably the only thing preventing me from ending up in that paddy wagon after all.
