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This week, my parents and brother were visiting from the far ends of the country, so Pancha suggested an Irish dinner to celebrate the Garrity heritage. The only problem with this idea was, of course, that Ireland has just about the worst cuisine in the world.  It’s all very well for Pancha to suggest ethnic-pride dinners, since she can roll out an endless stream of fish tacos and enchiladas and guacamole and salsa and other dishes associated with awesome parties full of happy, beer-bottle-waving people. The more authentic I try to get with the food of my heritage, the more likely I am to end up splayed on the kitchen floor, weeping over what my ancestors suffered before they were able to flee to Pittsburgh and eat sandwiches with the French fries already in.

Here is an authentic Irish recipe: Nail a piece of dried pork to the wall. Point a boiled potato at it. Eat the potato while thinking about meat.

Here is another authentic Irish recipe: Eat grass because Oliver Cromwell took your boiled potato away.

Nonetheless, I vowed we would produce an Irish supper that involved food, authenticity be damned. In addition to my family, the attendees included Konstantin, Pancha, and Pancha’s dad Raphael. Here is what I fed them:

Look at all the enticing root vegetables! Better slice those up.

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