In days of old, right about now I'd be in party panic mode. It had been weeks in planning. Homemade corned beefs would be cooking, food rolling out of my kitchen to fill the groaning dining room table, and I'd start happy hour while putting the final touches on another huge St. Patty blowout. A quiet moment in the pantry by the bar, then the guests would arrive, Camster always the first in the door.
We haven't done big parties in a while, my crew and me. Oh, yes, get-togethers of a dozen or more, but not the 40-50 people coming and going with dancing and antics and embarrassing stories to tell afterward. It's 7 years since I threw the every St. Pat's and every Halloween fests of hilarious insanity.
I miss that. So next year, I'm commandeering Brian's house and we're doing it. Enough of this sanity. If we can't pull off one big blast a year we might as well curl up and die.
Raise your glass:
"Here's to you and here's to me,
And may we never disagree.
But if we do,
Ta Hell with you,
And here's to me."
Happy St. Patrick's Day.
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