… with Pasta Asparagus and Wine-dyed London Broil.
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.
The Irish don’t merely make bad food; they have a bad relation to food. My sister’s cooking has been, if not corrupted, at the very least compromised by her Irish husband’s palate. To give evidence that my judgment constitutes not a prejudice, but a bias based on judgment consequent and considered, I will tell you how my sister ruins my pasta asparagus recipe to accommodate the aversions of her husband’s Irish[‑American] palate. To give evidence, on the other hand, of my equity and flexibility, I will also tell you about a delicious, crowd‑pleasing, kid-friendly recipe for London Broil that I came up by Italianizing the recipe of an Irish friend’s brother-in-law.
My point: the Irish can be saved, if only they will eat Italian.
My point: the Irish can be saved, if only they will eat Italian.
