Top O' The Weekend To Ya

In sharp contrast to our regular get-togethers, Saturday's St. Patty's Day shindig was a smashing success.

I brewed a special Irish (read dyed green) blend of homemade beer in advance of the occasion and invited only my side of the family. I assured them all that this was a beer-drinking event in order to ensure to them that my in-laws would be nowhere in sight.

My favorite, long-lost aunt M'Lisa, whom I haven't seen near as much as I should, arrived first. Soon after, her husband, then my dad and his new, finally-age-appropriate wife. Eventually about twenty beer-swilling friends, neighbors and relatives were assembled to partake of the malted sacrament.

I took a large glass stein from the freezer, popped the cap off the first bottle and slowly poured. The perfect green brew formed a perfect green head and glistened with fizzy goodness. My brother drank first.

I held my breath and he wiped the suds from his upper lip.

"Damn. That's some fucking GREAT beer, Pete!"

Cheers rose from the crowd and a line formed as I began pouring pints.

That night, in my own home, beer was drunk and meat was eaten. It was a thoroughly different kind of gathering than I have become used to. With the exception of my inebriated Granny B (whose vocal disdain of the establishment grows in proportion to her alcohol intake) cornering my poor, unsuspecting neighbors with her soapbox rants about politics, religion, cats, and all manner of crazy old-lady talk, pretty much no one mentioned Brigham Young or George Bush.

Donna didn't drink but was clearly enjoying the fresh and stimulation conversation about a much wider range of topics than her family is able to muster. She glowed as my relatives gushed sincere praise about her refurbished furniture and keen decorating.

As the last guests shuffled to their cars and we closed the door behind them Donna put her arms around me and said, "That was a really good time. We should make that a tradition every year."

Who am I to argue with good sense like that?