The luck of the Irish

It's like I woke up one day and it was SPRING!

No warning, no segue.

I suppose that is the way these things go, but still. 

The yard looks like a terrible mess. 

It is never what anyone would call "nice", but this time of year it is just shameful, nasty, unkempt. 

Rolf and Freyja set about cleaning out the beds, in preparation for setting in their little garden. Mark and I took down several volunteer trees and cleared a lot of brush, from a corner of the house in the front, that is always neglected. 
There was a new wrinkle this year, with ivy clinging madly to the foundation and making it's way up and under the cedar shake siding. 

I ripped it off, but I can tell, it'll be back. 

It's that kind of thing.

I like to have a dinner for St. Patrick's Day.  I hardly acknowledge my Irish heritage, except on this day.  I am much more connected with my German roots.  I have no idea why.  

I am making the ubiquitous corned beef brisket, except I bought a fancy organic roast and did the seasoning myself. 

Truth be told it is not as good as the shitty, chemical riddled thing that comes in a plastic bag from Safeway, but I did my best. 

I am also making sauted cabbage with chanterelle mushrooms (foraged by Freyja and Rolf in the Tillamook National Forest) and green apples, creamed nettles (foraged by Freyja and Rolf at Sauvie Island), with a bread crumb, horseradish & walnut crumble, mashed yukon gold potatoes and asparagus for the unadventurous eaters. Oh, and a stuffed capon.

Mark's mother's birthday is this week.  I have not made a plan.  I hope that this diner takes care of it.  I baked Irish soda bread, which could count as cake, if you squint.

My friend Lily brought me two presents yesterday.  This amazing California pottery platter, and this two woolen mice. 

Freyja and I taking a break from cooking and cleaning

Irish soda bread, with dried cherries, because I can't leave well enough alone