My cousin Carol just got back two weeks ago from a fantastic pilgrimage/tour of Ireland. She has not given me any particular details yet -- I think I'm going to have to see her face to face for that to be accomplished, because she told me that she took over seven hundred pictures. Which, I don't think are going to lend themselves to being sent to me via email, including captions, without causing my aged computer to melt all over the top of my desk.
My husband and I want to go to Ireland someday, the land of our forebears. Our last name, McKinney, is pretty self-explanatory, but my own heritage includes staunch surnames from the land of Eire such as Hoy and Dunkin. And probably some others, but the idea of doing genealogical research makes me want to melt all over the top of my desk. And not in a good way. More in a Wicked Witch of the West kind of way.
Since we want to go to Ireland, we've discussed several times, with worried furrows in our brows, our intense dislike of Guinness. We are plebian beer lovers who enjoy a nice, cold Budweiser, but what happens if you go to an Irish pub and ask if they have draft Bud? The Irish people are famed for their gregarious welcomes of eager tourists, but this doesn't seem like a good way to endear ourselves to someone who may be, after all, our dear old long lost Uncle Paddy.
So we've decided to train our reluctant palates. not only to get in training for that Irish getaway that we feel certain is in our future, but also because Guinness is supposed to be really good for the digestion, as well as having the same healthful benefits as red wine. What's not to love about that? Well, other than the taste, of course.
Which could be best described, in my opinion, as "Erin go braaaaaaaaaagghhhkkkkk...."
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