Let me begin this blog with the disclaimer that by marriage I have a right to make fun of the Irish. I have on my sister’s side an Irish brother-in-law, whence a half-Irish niece and nephew (both with red hair, thanks no doubt to genes deposited by the Normans during their sojourn in Sicily); and on my brother’s side, a half-Irish sister-in-law, whence two quarter-Irish nephews (the remaining quarter being Puerto Rican, with that delicious pulled-pork my sister‑in‑law cooks making that miscegenation well worth it). So I claim a familial right of mocking my own, but I am ready to take up arms shoulder‑to‑shoulder with my clan, if you should mock mine as I’m about to.
My point: the Irish can be saved, if only they will eat Italian.
Wrong. They wouldn’t even taste it, not one of them. It’s Thanksgiving, and you don’t eat cabbage on Thanksgiving. You eat two kinds of potatoes—mashed and sweet—and you eat string beans or asparagus, but under no conditions do you eat cabbage, let alone broccoli di rape. And, by the way, you eat only the white meat, and throw the dark meat away! Is that not taking white too far? May not one subjected to witnessing such things be forgiven a bit of brotherly mockery?