After Thanksgiving, Mr. O and I, with our thrifty hats on, bought and froze a fourteen-pound turkey, without a clear idea when we ought to roast it.
And then came St. Patrick’s Day.
Now, the denizens of Chez O are only a quarter Irish (each), so we’ve never celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with green beer or renditions of Danny Boy. One year we might have had bangers and mash. But winter seems almost over, and we wanted to get together with friends (there are never enough weekend hours for visits!), so we decided that our turkey would meet its end in mid-March.
Turkey can’t be served on its own — too majestic — so Mr. O made his Nana’s stuffing with breakfast sausage and onion, and a golden-brown gravy, while I made my Dad’s cranberry sauce, a simple green salad with vinaigrette, and Nigella Lawson’s chocolate Guinness cake (which tastes like it sounds, with a fluffy cream cheese & cream frosting that floats on the cake like foam on a pint). Our friends (hey there, BA and AT!) brought us some lovely wine, and we had a cocktail composed of whiskey, ginger ale, and lime juice. Mr. Baby entertained us by destroying our carefully-built block towers, and the hours slipped away with conversation, clinking of glasses, and scraping of forks.
It’s never a bad day for a feast day.