The Wednesday Tipple – Because apparently we’re all Wild Irish Roses on St Patrick’s Day

This is the time of year when people who were born and raised in Michigan by parents who were also born and raised in Michigan claim to be Irish.

“I know technically I’m from Traverse City,” said the woman I met at the story slam at Housing Works, “but I have a Celtic heart. I love everything about it. The books, the music. Also, I speak Irish.”

I was genuinely impressed by this. “Wow. How did you learn it? Did you go to classes?”

“No, I just picked it up.”

This seemed a little farfetched to me. Of course, I’d heard of people who moved to France or Spain, or holidayed in Italy, who got the hang of “another drink, please” and “yes, I would like to eat that” pretty quickly. In fact, I picked up a little Polish myself when Jon and I lived in Warsaw – “yes, a vodka chaser would be warming” and “no, I do not have the exact change, I am sorry.”

The common denominator here is language immersion. In Ireland, not so much.

“What’s the scandal?” said the girl. “To be sure, to be sure.”

It took me a moment to realize what just happened.

“See?” she smiled proudly. “What do you Tink of Dis?”

I was literally speechless.

The more frequently nonsense such as this occurs, the closer St Patrick’s Day must be.

 Wild Irish Rose (per glass)

So the grenadine was a huge plus for me, also the name, which sounds terribly Victorian Era Music Hall Dancer – did you see Wild Irish Rose last night at the Palladium?

• Shake the whiskey, lemon juice and grenadine over ice and pour into a tumbler
• Top up with a splash of soda