Irish Festival

So, I spent Saturday afternoon, and a considerable part of the evening, at the Irish Festival this past weekend. My friend, Karen, invited me along with her boyfriend and his brother. And, well, what with my former name being Ryan and all (and future, for that matter), I figured I should check it out.

I wasn't sure what to expect from an Irish Festival. I mean, I've been to Italian festivals and Greek festivals, the former typically filling several city blocks with wall-to-wall Sals and Marias, as evidenced by their pendulous, diamond-studded gold nameplate necklaces. On the other hand, Greek festivals, at least the ones I've been to, always seem to sprout up beneath large, white tents: a good thing given the rain that's never failed to accompany them. As far as food goes, most offer the same generic vendor fare: sausage and peppers, pizza, barbecue, etc. Greek festivals do have more of that stuff I keep wanting to like, but won't really acquire a taste for before I hit retirement. The Italians, though, have got zeppoles. Other festivals try to make do with "fried dough," but we all know it's just not the same.

Then there are the non-food booths: You know, the incense/pewter wizards/candles booth, the homemade soap/potpourri booth, the powdered-dips-you-mix-with-sour cream booth, the fudge booth, the sterling silver jewelry booth, etc.

D'oh, time for bed. More tomorrow.