Last night I made Irish potatoes, as I always do the night before St. Patrick's Day. The ordeal was far more dramatic and messy than usual, with the mixer flinging gobs of the butter-cream cheese-sugar concoction to far ends of the kitchen. Despite my best cleaning efforts, I'll probably be finding dried-up Irish potato goo in unlikely places until next St. Patrick's Day. Likewise, the finished potatoes looked less than picturesque (which is why, my friends, they're not pictured here). These factors and others explain the secret I'm about to crack open: I used to think of myself as a domestic diva, but as it turns out, I'm just a diva. When I told the bf this last night, clad in my Irish potato-bespattered robe, he just looked at me, laughed, and said, "That wasn't a secret." So, does this mean that I'm hanging up the apron for good? Not necessarily. (I still like to eat, after all.) It just means that I no longer feel the need to pretend that I'm one of those women who's good in the kitchen. That if I don't feel like attempting a new recipe I won't. That I'll stop looking down on women who buy stuff instead of making stuff to bring to parties - heck, I'll join them.
Hope you have a lovely St. Patrick's Day.