July 1, 2017

West Coast, Ireland. May, 1992

I love cliches come to life. Owls that “who.” Sober judges. Drunken sailors. And Ireland’s being green as can be. Also, I love that in Ireland, the potato really does rule. As my father and I were driving around the country, we stopped for dinner at a restaurant in Killarney. I still remember the waitress offering me a choice of “boiled, mashed or chips.” When I hesitated, she smiled and said, “I know what you’d like. I’ll bring you all three.” My kind of place. Also, my friend Dali once told me that when she was staying in Dublin, she’d decided to eat in her hotel room one night and went to a nearby storefront for a takeaway tomato-and-cheese pizza. When she got the familiar flat box back to her room, she opened it to find in addition to her pie, you guessed it, a boiled potato. A joke? Maybe not.

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