Kerry Says

Of all the terribly tacky traditions North America has foisted on the feast day of St. Patrick, none was as delicious as the Shamrock Shake.

A frosty mint delight, in its heyday the Shamrock Shake was a St. Patrick’s Day must. Though its colouring was slightly putrid and mint is a sorry substitution for chocolate, this was the IRISH shake and we were proud to have it and to call it our own.

It was extra special for this Irish Catholic girl stupid enough to always give up sweets for Lent. You see, giving up fighting with my brother was too difficult, and my HILARIOUS suggestions I give up smoking never went over well with my mother.

No sugar for 40 days in a row… well 6 days at least (everyone knows Sundays don’t count) was tough for this addict… very tough.

Evey year, just when I thought I’d never survive it, came St. Patrick’s Day. A day smack dab in the middle of deprivation in which ethno-cultural obligation meant my parents, and God apparently, looked the other way as I sucked back 12 ounces of sugary goodness.

The Shamrock Shake, a reminder of life’s little overindulgences just when the endless days of sacrifice may have led me to forget.

You were a true hero of hedonism in a puritanical time and I salute you.

And I haven’t forgotten you. Yea, though the cruel masters of the McDonald’s Corporation decided that among all of the high fat, though not particularly high quality, items on their mighty menu, you (along with the McLobster) would have to go, I have not forgotten you.

I searched for you even today in fact, at the McDonald’s at Yonge St. and Queen W. But to no avail.

Good thing too -- It’s freakin’ freezing today.