I spent my teenage years in the Throgsneck section of the Bronx in New York. It was a neighborhood of mostly Italians with the business section full of Italian delis, restaurants, and ice cream parlors. My parent’s house was surrounded by Italian neighbors who love having block parties all the time.
Twice a year, the organizers would obtain a block party permit, and the cops would close off both ends of the street for the all-day party. In front of each house, paper tablecloths covered tables, and chairs would appear; the tables would soon be ladened with never-ending pans, plates, and dishes of food cooked by the people from each house. Various types of drinks (alcoholic and non-alcoholic) were also available. The people of the block would meander through and serve themselves with whatever they want while music blared in the air. The Sambuca was free-flowing.
Italian Block Parties is where I was educated in Italian culture, their food, and drink.
Now, I know you’re thinking, what does all this have to do with my headline? Please be patient, one more piece of background; then, I’ll get the main point. My wife grew up on the other side of the Bronx in an Irish neighborhood. She became infused with an Irish temperament and culture.
This morning, I had a hankering (pun intended) for a Vanilla Lemon Ricotta Pound Cake. It’s been decades since I last indulged myself in eating this Italian delight. I went into the kitchen, and two hours later, the result of my efforts is what you see pictured in the photo above. It was perfect, and it tasted heavenly!
The problem was that, afterward, the kitchen looked like this:
I know it’s a helluva mess, and I was bending over the sink to start the cleanup. Suddenly, the sound of an enraged banshee shriek filled the air! My wife has come into the kitchen and has seen the result of my culinary effort. My manhood immediately shriveled up as I turned from the sink to face her.
“What have you done to my kitchen!”
The kitchen area is my wife and daughter’s domain. What I have done to it is akin to defiling a shrine. It shouldn’t occur. Now I have gotten my wife’s Irish up! The following image is how a person’s Irish up appears. The person in the image is not that of my wife but a stand-in. I’m not that stupid to put my wife’s picture in a publication, that would be like asking for a beating! Anyway, here is what having their Irish up looks like:
I cleaned up the kitchen in record time. What lesson have I learned? I should not procrastinate in cleaning up afterward. I asked my wife if she wanted a slice of my cake. She gave me a look that made me feel like a dog or a cat about to be spayed. But I must report that the cake is well worth the trouble I got myself in. I’ll see you around the next time, and until then, stay safe!
Thanks, my friends, for taking out your valuable time to read this story!
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