Spring Forth … I’ll Be Right Behind You

The vernal equinox is perhaps my least favorite day of the year, if not in an absolute sense — I’ll certainly have worse days than this — then at least philosophically. 
Today is the day I stare ahead to months of longer, warmer days. 
… to clouds of choking pollen. 
… to sweating. 
… to smog. 
…  to enduring the giddiness of every frolicking, happy person who loves the sun. 
You know how Seasonal Affective Disorder affects people who dislike winter? Yes, there is an opposite of that. 

Review: Chips and Cheese

The chips are Xochitl blue corn chips — organic, no preservatives, no cholesterol, no trans fats, no GMO. 
Not bad.

I picked up a bag on a recommendation that they are among the highest rated corn chips, but, honestly, for the price — about twice typical corn chips — they don’t impress. 

They are very thin, however, which means a one-pound bag contains a lot of chips, and, when you’re dipping them in cheese, the chip-to-cheese ratio nicely favors the cheese. 
Mmm … cheese. 

Speaking of, I used a Serious Eats cheese sauce recipe that’s pretty good. (Tip: If you’re careful, you can make that work in the microwave.)

Overall: Recommended; would eat again. 

I’ll Drink to This

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m an American with a bit of Irish blood, married to an American with more than a bit of Irish blood … so, drinking and revelry shall commence.

Or, more accurately, commenced two days ago.

The city of Atlanta believes in only holding parades on Saturdays — and with our traffic, who can blame them? — and pubs are always eager to get an early start on any holiday, so we’ve been honoring our heritage more or less continually since that morning.

On average, the volume of Guinness has probably exceeded the volume of Irish in my blood.

Where was I?

Right. Drinking.

An Englishman, an American, and an Irishman are out drinking.

Three flies come along.

One lands in each man’s glass.

The Englishman sniffs, pushes his drink away.

The American shrugs, removes the fly, and continues drinking.

The Irishman removes the fly and screams, “Spit it out, ya bastard!”

I regret never having told that joke to my grandmother, daughter of Irish immigrants, source of my Irish blood. I imagine she would have liked it. Anyway, I’ll raise a glass to her tonight, and I’ll try my best to identify with the Irishman.