The full Irish breakfast

How the Irish aren’t rolling around their lush green country like Violet Beauregarde after her bubble gum is a great mystery.

You see, yesterday No. 2 graduated from Marquette University. Let me say, Marquette drags the whole process out with mighty pomp and circumstance. I suppose it’s an effort to have parents feel their investment worthwhile. All I know is I didn’t realize how sore I was from Saturday’s yard work until I sat for four hours – two separate ceremonies – and then stood to walk. Following the official gatherings, we headed to Brookfield for dinner.

Actually we headed to Brookfield for an Irish fry up. On the way the graduate asked, “Do we have Guinness?”

No, I replied, but we had Smithwick’s (say it with me, smit-icks) and he could buy Guinness on his way home. (I’m picky about my Guinness and much prefer cellar temperature on tap. Yesterday affirmed that opinion.)

“Do we have blood sausage?” he inquired. “It won’t be a real Irish breakfast without pudding.”

He thought, you see, that he had me on that one. We hadn’t found a proper source for such things. But that was the oldest’s surprise! He’d found a supplier in the Chicago area and arrived Saturday night with a decent stash of both black and white pudding. And then I fried and I fried and I fried. I suspect it’s illegal in some states to fry as much as I did last night.

We had bacon, and black and white pudding, and fresh eggs from farmer’s market. There were blueberry scones and toast. I made mushrooms and served a half a tomato warmed in a skillet with bacon fat. There were even beans. I have no idea how the Irish came to figure a can of Heinz baked beans into their first meal of the day, but we had them.

And we chased it all with beer.

Coming up soon is a trip to the deli. We’ve decided we need bangers and a couple of rashers of bacon.

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Congratulations Michael, on getting the job done. Mommy loves you.