So we’ve got a fambly tradition of coloring the milk green for St. Patrick’s Day. (And red for Valentine’s Day.) This year, in addition to that, I decided to really blow my little girls’ minds and give them Shamrock Shakes.
That’s right, the wholly artificial and utterly disgusting and yet oh so delicious taste treat McDonald’s dusts off once a year. I loved them as a kid. Oh my did I.
And then one year I didn’t. I don’t know whether they changed their formula or I changed into something approaching a discerning adult or what, but one year in either high school or college I suddenly found what had been a highlight of my year to be completely and totally repulsive. And not in a good way any longer.
So time moves on and one year I find myself in a Mac’s around St. Patty’s Day and for the sake of nostalgia I decide to give one a go.
And it’s better’n ever. Every cell in my body bursts out in spontaneous song, “The Hills of Connemara.” Is it a shade of green never otherwise seen in nature? It is and what of it? The same can be said of “The Quiet Man” and, what’s more, there’s no sense that a forty-minute fight isn’t only necessary, it’s the cure for all. Sure and begorrah.
So. I’m thinking of introducing my bonny wee lasses to this most unnatural delight. But there’s a problem. Apparently there are few if any McDonald’s in SoCal which carry this culinary masterpiece.
Easily solved, of course. I simply have to make them myself. There are recipes online which claim to replicate exactly the real unreal thing.
I mean, duh. Ice cream, milk, peppermint extract and green food coloring. Whew! Thank you, Jesus, that someone went to so much trouble to do the research.
Of course, is it possible I'll get the proportions a bit off? It is. Since my girls have had something like four milkshakes in their lives, I’m guessing they’ll not be too critical.
Since I gave up sweets for Lent, I can’t even taste the concoction to see if it needs more of this or less of that. Oh the pain. The agony. Woe is me. I beat the cat with my shillelagh and that makes me feel better.
So I give the girls the shakes and they are over the moon; The Bean’s curls actually shuddered with joy.
They ask what’s in it and as is my utterly twisted way, I tell them The Boy’s old diapers. They squeal and shriek and giggle.
Then I ask The Bean, “Seriously, if The Boy’s diapers tasted like this, you’d eat them, wouldn’t you?”
She took a sip, looked up and off to the side for a moment, thinking, then nodded slowly. “Probably,” she said.
What higher praise?