Okay, look at my last name. I’m Italian—no surprise there—and I know I make a big deal out of it. I guess that’s because I’m more Italian than anything else. My paternal grandparents were born in Sicily. So I write about Italian people, Italian traditions, Italian food, Italian food, Italian food . . . .
But while Italian is a large part of me, there’s more, lots more. My mother was a wonderful mix of Irish, German, Scottish, English, and (she said) a bit of American Indian thrown in.
Well, Mom taught me to love—and cook—sauerkraut and spaetzle (little egg dumplings sizzling with browned butter and salt), bratwurst, German dark bread, apple strudel, and other good stuff. (Sorry Mom, I just can’t handle the beer.) But she didn’t make a fuss about her Scottish blood, so I had to learn to dislike most Scottish food from my friend Eleanor from Glasgow.
That still leaves English, Irish, and American Indian.
Well, my Grandma Blessing (in the German spelled “Bleossing“) never said a word about the English and American Indian pieces of her background, but she made a really big deal out of being Irish. And so, needless to say, did my mother.
She looked forward to St. Patrick’s Day for weeks. She wore green. She dressed my Italian father in green. She died her hair green one year. And yes, she drank green beer. She said, “There are only two kinds of people today—the Irish, and the ones who wish they were.”
What did we eat on St. Paddy’s Day? Why, we ate corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes, of course. I never even tasted soda bread until I met my husband, and while it’s good, tiramisu it ain’t.
Which is my point.
As I used to tell my mother: “There’s a reason you never heard of a good Irish restaurant.” I wonder if there’s even one in Ireland. If there is, they probably have to serve pizza to get anyone to come in. Well—that was just a theory—until I found a little treasure, a book called “Traditional Irish Recipes.” When I tried reading some of them aloud at the dinner table, my family said, “Please, Mom, we’re trying to eat.”
Ready? Here goes, and I quote:
The first dish is called simply “Tripe and Onion.” It’s made with one pint milk, one pound onions, one ounce flour, one ounce butter, and one pound tripe (for those of you lucky enough not to know, that’s the stomach of a cow). Bring tripe “to the boil three times,” blend together with other ingredients, and serve sprinkled with parsley. Mmmm, I’ll bet the parsley helps.
Next we have Orisheen. This dish is made with two pints milk, one pint water, two teaspoons salt, one pound mutton suet (wait, it gets better), and two pints sheep’s blood. Remember to strain the blood—and serve it hot. That way you burn your tongue and can’t taste it.
I love the directions for “Hare Soup.” It begins thus: “Take a large old hare and joint it. Scald the liver out of the hare, bruise it, rub it through a fine sieve and add it to the soup.” Eat fast, before they arrest you for cruelty to old hares.
This next one probably tastes pretty good, but it’s the name of the dish that stops you. “Grunt soup.” Now, grunts are the young of perch, so how bad could it be? But grunt is also what you do while eating Orisheen. I could be wrong.
Now here’s one that’s sure to get your taste buds roiling, “Pig’s Head Brawn.” It’s made with mace, cloves, mixed herbs, peppercorns, two onions, and the best part—the pig’s head, tongue, and feet.
Directions: “Cleave the head in two, remove the eyes and brains and any gristle. Add the spices and simmer for six hours.” Then go out for pizza.
And then there’s “Stewed Dulce.” The directions say to “cut the dulce (dulse, in America, and it’s red algae, if you really want to know) from the rocks at low tide, spread on shingle to dry in the sun, wash well to remove sand and grit. Add milk, butter, salt, and pepper, and stew for four hours. Serve with oatcakes.” Throw out the dulce. Eat the oatcakes.
Let’s end with black pudding. Ingredients: One small onion, one-half pound oatmeal, one-half pound bread crumbs, one-half chopped pork belly, pig intestines—and a half-gallon pig’s blood.
There’s no mention of the oink, but waste not want not, say the Irish, God bless ’em. The English kept them poor enough to HAVE to eat the whole pig. (Note: There aren’t any good English restaurants either. Poetic justice, I say.)
Listen, I have an Italian cookbook that’s 502 pages long, and you drool just reading the darn thing, not to mention looking at the pictures. The Irish cookbook has 74 pages and no pictures.
There’s a reason for that.

Donna loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at WriteforPub.com.