Every year, and at about this time, the little flower heads on my modest backyard crop of potatoes slowly open to the world. It’s a sight that never fails to delight, with different varieties putting forth delicate blossoms of blue or purple or pink or white.
My Da never had much truck with Father’s Day.
And yet I wish, as this year’s Father’s Day rolls around – and as I have wished every day for the past two months – that he were here, even if all he were to do was give out, in his characteristically forthright way, about what is, after all, a makey-uppy date on the Hallmark calendar.
I’ll mark the day by having my first taste of those spuds, planted in the greenhouse by neighbour John’O, and whose progress the Da had keenly followed. They’ll be enjoyed in the best way possible – steamed, served with butter and salt, and eaten with family – which is just how he liked them.
Much planning on the part of Sharon and Bill had gone into the idea of a party which would bring New Orleans po’boys to the northside of Dublin. I was excited to say the least – that they were sandwiches which would feature deep-fried oysters was, frankly, all I, or anybody, needed to know.
As time went on, and with several expat Americans involved, the plan expanded to include root beer floats, and there was even talk of homemade tater tots. Throw in both chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies and it would be a feast to do Uncle Sam proud.
And then, as timing would have it, invited parties started dropping like flies, and I thought, for just a moment, that po’boys might be no’boys.