The Meat and Potatoes of Life: Saved by the bolognese

Lisa Smith Molinari

St. Patrick’s Day is one of those ambiguous special occasions that can be quite confusing for non-Irish adults like me.

As a kid, the allure of St. Patrick’s Day was uncomplicated. I got to wear something green to school, and if I begged, my mom would take me to McDonalds for one of my all time favorite seasonal treats. Mildly green, with just a hint of mint, the Shamrock Shake was strangely delicious when paired with a side of fries for dipping. And I didn’t need to be Irish to enjoy it.

As a college student, having Irish heritage was still irrelevant when March 17 rolled around. No one I knew was interested in getting in touch with their roots. To the contrary, St. Patrick’s Day was simply an excuse to drink green beer at the local bars until we made complete idiots out of ourselves. In fact, my best St. Patrick’s Day memory was during my senior year in college at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Our marathon annual “Green Beer Day” celebration ended at dusk, when the shopping cart we were riding down an alley while laughing hysterically came to a stop in front of a police officer.

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