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R. Linda:
Well, the Weasil is back in town without wife or baby. She be in dreary Old Scotland in the Highlands with his family while he be back to have a party. He and his demented friend, one Owen McSweeney, have brewed up some good old-fashioned Irish poitin, as they say in Gaelic and poteen, as they say in English. They got their grubby hands on a load of Irish potatoes (golden wonders, to be exact) and have brewed up a fine batch of what be the equivalent of moonshine in the U.S. I be invited to this hellraising party, but no way am I allowed to go. The wife has put her foot down, and I, for once, be glad of it.
Poitin gives new meaning to the word hangover. I happily pass up the opportunity to have me head pound like a thousand anvils being utilised inside me brain for an unreasonable period of days or even weeks!
Since we be on the subject of poitin, I should give you some background. The stuff was accidentally churned up one day back in the seventeenth century when a henpecked farmer had a week of rain and not much else. Bored out of his skull, he went to his barn to get away from his yakking wife. There he sat among his potatoes, feeling thirsty. Since alcohol was expensive (still is in old Eire), he did not have the funds to go to the pub, which in those days wasn't a pub at all, but a neighbour's house. So he thought about it and thought about it. Being a farmer all his life, he had a certain knowledge that if you ferment your tatties, they produce a vile but potent form of alcohol that, if the farmer is enterprising enough, can turn into animal liniment or some such thing. Thinking on this, he went over to his homemade concoction and took a sniff. Ah ha! It smelled enough like drink, so he decided to taste it and taste it. He did! It could have knocked him over with a shovel had it been such a thing. He poured some grain and malt into the fermented potato water, and then his wife called, which was the end of that.
Several days later, he was down in the barn, and the smell emanating from the potato bin was strong. he went on over and took a look at the old bucket full of "liniment" and put a finger in the bucket, tasted the liquid on his finger and his eyes bugged out of his head in delight. He got some old bottles and bottled the stuff up and went up to the house. The wife was at first suspicious, but after a dram announced it was good stuff and like all western Irish, they put a patch of turf over the front door (this was a sign to come on in) and as neighbours stopped by, they were treated to something called poitin.
Over the years, some perfected the brew with sugar or treacle. It got to be where anyone with a piece of turf sticking over the front door was entertaining with "the drink." These places became known to all in Ireland as "shebeens," in some rural areas, these self-styled pubs exist today. You can find them mainly in the western side of me merry isle, in counties Mayo, Cork, Sligo, Galway, Donegal, and the Aran Islands where with the sea the way it be and the mist and all, the islanders hit the shebeens more than the rest. This is not legal. Did I forget to mention it? But the Western Irish are anti-authority with a tendency to anarchy and a love of outwitting anything in a constabulary uniform.
I have to wonder if Weasil isn't, in some vein, an Irishman at heart. He left his wife and newborn for this party he was involved with. It be typical of Irishmen to hide from their spouses, and the way they do it is the local pubs where women are not usually welcome. For sure, you can find women in the more touristy pubs in the big cities, but not so much in the countryside. The truth is, alcohol is expensive in Ireland, and at home, it is not genuinely tolerated in the house with the wee kiddies and womenfolk. So the only place to go is the locals or shebeens, and once there, the idea is that it is one night out, make the best of it, and so the tendency is to get roaring drunk.
So, I be passing up on this bit of fun and games. I do wonder what he told his wife he was doing. The big party be set, "the drink" be made, and all be arranged at Owen's house. If Mrs. Weasil doesn't know (and I don't think she does), then ignorance be bliss it is, but if she finds out, he flew all the way here, shirking his responsibilities, I be sure she will be hunting his arse like a haggis flying up the highlands with hounds on its bollocks. I can't wait to find out how hung-over he is once this thing goes. I'll keep ya posted. I will.
Gabe
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Well, the Weasil is back in town without wife or baby. She be in dreary Old Scotland in the Highlands with his family while he be back to have a party. He and his demented friend, one Owen McSweeney, have brewed up some good old-fashioned Irish poitin, as they say in Gaelic and poteen, as they say in English. They got their grubby hands on a load of Irish potatoes (golden wonders, to be exact) and have brewed up a fine batch of what be the equivalent of moonshine in the U.S. I be invited to this hellraising party, but no way am I allowed to go. The wife has put her foot down, and I, for once, be glad of it.
Poitin gives new meaning to the word hangover. I happily pass up the opportunity to have me head pound like a thousand anvils being utilised inside me brain for an unreasonable period of days or even weeks!
Since we be on the subject of poitin, I should give you some background. The stuff was accidentally churned up one day back in the seventeenth century when a henpecked farmer had a week of rain and not much else. Bored out of his skull, he went to his barn to get away from his yakking wife. There he sat among his potatoes, feeling thirsty. Since alcohol was expensive (still is in old Eire), he did not have the funds to go to the pub, which in those days wasn't a pub at all, but a neighbour's house. So he thought about it and thought about it. Being a farmer all his life, he had a certain knowledge that if you ferment your tatties, they produce a vile but potent form of alcohol that, if the farmer is enterprising enough, can turn into animal liniment or some such thing. Thinking on this, he went over to his homemade concoction and took a sniff. Ah ha! It smelled enough like drink, so he decided to taste it and taste it. He did! It could have knocked him over with a shovel had it been such a thing. He poured some grain and malt into the fermented potato water, and then his wife called, which was the end of that.
Several days later, he was down in the barn, and the smell emanating from the potato bin was strong. he went on over and took a look at the old bucket full of "liniment" and put a finger in the bucket, tasted the liquid on his finger and his eyes bugged out of his head in delight. He got some old bottles and bottled the stuff up and went up to the house. The wife was at first suspicious, but after a dram announced it was good stuff and like all western Irish, they put a patch of turf over the front door (this was a sign to come on in) and as neighbours stopped by, they were treated to something called poitin.
Over the years, some perfected the brew with sugar or treacle. It got to be where anyone with a piece of turf sticking over the front door was entertaining with "the drink." These places became known to all in Ireland as "shebeens," in some rural areas, these self-styled pubs exist today. You can find them mainly in the western side of me merry isle, in counties Mayo, Cork, Sligo, Galway, Donegal, and the Aran Islands where with the sea the way it be and the mist and all, the islanders hit the shebeens more than the rest. This is not legal. Did I forget to mention it? But the Western Irish are anti-authority with a tendency to anarchy and a love of outwitting anything in a constabulary uniform.
I have to wonder if Weasil isn't, in some vein, an Irishman at heart. He left his wife and newborn for this party he was involved with. It be typical of Irishmen to hide from their spouses, and the way they do it is the local pubs where women are not usually welcome. For sure, you can find women in the more touristy pubs in the big cities, but not so much in the countryside. The truth is, alcohol is expensive in Ireland, and at home, it is not genuinely tolerated in the house with the wee kiddies and womenfolk. So the only place to go is the locals or shebeens, and once there, the idea is that it is one night out, make the best of it, and so the tendency is to get roaring drunk.
So, I be passing up on this bit of fun and games. I do wonder what he told his wife he was doing. The big party be set, "the drink" be made, and all be arranged at Owen's house. If Mrs. Weasil doesn't know (and I don't think she does), then ignorance be bliss it is, but if she finds out, he flew all the way here, shirking his responsibilities, I be sure she will be hunting his arse like a haggis flying up the highlands with hounds on its bollocks. I can't wait to find out how hung-over he is once this thing goes. I'll keep ya posted. I will.
Gabe
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
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