Boring Sick Day, Irish Style

Today is St. Patrick's day - a very holy and revered day in the land of my ancestors (at least, a lot of my ancestors, not including the marauding vikings). But here in North America, it's not so much a holy and revered day, as an opportunity to drink and be merry and throw around stereotypes. Hurrah!

As I am generally lame, rarely drink, and am sick at home with a very attractive eye infection, most conventional celebrations of my heritage were out. But, feeling a longing for connection with my ancestors, along with some severe boredom and hunger, I ended up baking Irish soda bread.

It was fairly traditional - not so much in the ingredients, many of which I didn't have, but in Irish-style poverty and the tradition of stealing roommates' milk and making use of that giant bag of crepe-mix that has been in the cupboard since the dawn of time.

I seem to destroy everything I touch, foodwise, but this wasn't a total disaster. I even figured out how to knead bread without becoming engulfed in a sticky-dough mess, a la dipping my hands in flour. It seems I picked up a few baking tricks from my mother (who never, ever let me eat the dough, and would whack my hand with a spoon if I tried. Cooking as an adult is way more fun).

And, having managed not to burn it to a charcoaly crisp, I ate the Irish soda bread, and it was delicious. That is my story.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!