Every year, during the week before Easter, I make my pound cakes. Using the best butter I can buy, lots of eggs, flour and sugar along with my favorite flavorings, I bake at least one cake in an old cast-iron lamb mold that has been handed down to me through generations of use in my dad’s family.
Not one drop of Irish blood runs through my body, but every year on St. Patrick’s Day, I am Irish. My desire to be Irish began during my grade school days in a St. Paul suburb where the teachers advised their students that only those who were Irish could wear green. The others must wear orange. That meant no fluffy little green shamrock pin for me.
I’m in a rut. I cringe when I’m asked to prepare an appetizer to take to an event. I can never decide what to make. I browse through several cookbooks, check into my recipe collection and flip through the most recent food magazines. I mark potential candidates with torn strips of sticky note paper.
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