Kiss Me! I’m Irish/Female/Single/You’re Drunk

Hey yall! Let’s just get it out in the open: I went off the grid for a few weeks.  No posts, no updates on The Great Televised STD Exchange The Bachelor, no new earth-shattering fitness information, nada.  Sorry, but I needed that break.  Things were crazy in my neck of the woods, between a couple big career-related decisions, wrapping things up at my old job, starting the new one (just this past Monday!), and some other items that needed attention more urgently than my dear blogsicles.

But lucky enough for both of us, things have started to settle down and I’m starting to calm the heck down, and I’m officially reviving my corner of the internet.

I figured we could kick things off in a celebratory way, since it is St. Patrick’s Day weekend.   Now, St. Patrick’s Day is special to me for several reasons:

  • I’m about 1/4 Irish.  Black Irish, obviously.  Ain’t none of that carrot-topped freckle-faced business going on up in here.
  • St. Patty was a cool guy who did a lot of good stuff.  Plus side of growing up in the Catholic church and going to Catholic school is that you learn the stories behind the patron saints of various holidays (i.e. St. Nicholas, St. Valentine, St. Patrick, ya dig?) You can read a bit about him here, in case you did not have the pleasure of wearing plaid jumpers to school and having nuns teach your sex ed lessons.
  • Green is my favorite color.

So basically, St. Patrick’s Day is my yearly opportunity to wear my favorite color and to celebrate both my forefathers who hailed from the Emerald Isle and my genetic predisposition to alcoholism.  (Good thing I hate even being tipsy…)  Apparently some people also use it as an excuse to wear things that say “Kiss Me! I’m Irish!” but that’s just weird to me.  First of all, why do you have an Irish-person fetish? Second of all, why would you want a stranger (or strangers??) to kiss you? Haven’t you heard of mono, influenza, norovirus, mouth-herpes?!?!   Be civilized, now.

Anyway, if you feel like busting out some adult beverages in honor of St. Patty, I figured I should be your enabler let you in on the secret to the easiest cocktail in the world: the whiskey sour.  This is my go-to drink when I want something besides a good, dark beer like Guiness.  The “recipe” is so easy a housecat could make it, and it doesn’t take anything fancy (translation: so rachet).  I first made this last weekend, and I felt like to most badass barmaid on the block.  Of course, my standards aren’t set very high – I have maybe 2 drinks a month, on average, and when I do have a drink, it’s usually cheap red wine from my parents’ house.  Or, if I’m feeling rich, Guinness from the local British pub.  (I could drink that stuff like water. Except not, because I’m poor and I’m a lightweight.  But if I didn’t care about my liver or my bank account, I could drink Guinness like water.  So it’s good that I’m poor.)  But even thought it wasn’t fancy (this “recipe” is dirtier than a potato-pickin’ Irish lass), it was damn good.

whiskey sour

…Now what are you waiting for??

All you need is:

  • Whiskey.  Clearly it should be Jameson, because we’re all Irish, or pretending to be.
  • Frozen Lemonade.  I mean the kind in a tube/can that you can buy at Walmart.  If you let it sit on the counter for 20 minutes to thaw, that’s probably a good idea.
  • Optional: Maraschino cherries in a jar.  I think these taste like leprosy and clinical depression, but some people like a cherry + some juice added in.

All you have to do is:

  • Mix a scoop of slightly-thawed frozen lemonade with a generous pour of Irish whiskey.  Adjust to taste.  I like a lot more whiskey than lemonade (why even bother, you know?), but some people like more lemonade….pansies.
  • Add lots of ice.
  • If you’re a weirdo that likes this kind of thing, add your maraschino cherry and stir in a little of the juice.
  • Enjoy being fancy and feeling Irish.  For a more authentic Irish experience, demand that everyone call you “lassie.”

Bam.  You’ve got yourself a delightfully Irish drink…and a strong one at that.  (If you can go back for round two, you’re a champ.  Or a budding alcoholic.)  It ain’t fancy, and it’s so simple that some might call it cheating…but I just call it the luck o’ the Irish.

May the sound of happy music, and the lilt of Irish laughter, fill your heart with gladness that stays forever after.

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