I have no idea how my sister came to know or suspect that B. could get the poitín for her. I have no idea, for that matter, where B. got the poitín from. The transaction was spoken of in veiled terms: the code name was ‘blue nun’, though the unholy liquid thus procured packed considerably more punch than your average Liebfraumilch. It was evidence, too, that the twin Irish traditions of illicit distillation and of keeping a drop of rare oul’ stuff stashed somewhere about the house, were alive and well.
I give in. It’s the fifth day of leftovers and the umpteenth day of cake. It must surely be time to write that end-of-year blog post, if only to keep my hands busy with something other than the TV remote. So here, without further ado or fanfare, I give you 2012, the spuds-eye view.
If there is one event above all others that marks 2012, it’s the loss of my irrepressible, irreplaceable Da. I miss him every day and presume fondly that heavenly consumption of both spuds and Guinness has skyrocketed since he got there. I also presume that he would have been pleased about the many notable things that have happened during the past Daily Spud year, most of which I didn’t get to tell him about in person, and here’s hoping that 2013 will bring even more things for him to be pleased about, wherever he is.
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.