St. Patrick Meets St. Joseph
A Neighborhood in Two Colors
Ah, March in my old neighborhood—where team green (the Irish) and team red (the Italians) waged their annual battle for holiday supremacy. One day, we were drowning in shamrocks and corned beef. The next? Drowning in homemade pasta and zeppoles.
I assumed this was normal. Didn’t everyone switch cultural identities depending on which saint was being celebrated that day?
Turns out—no. But growing up in a dominantly Irish-Italian neighborhood in Providence, RI, that was just life.
My Irish Grandmother… and Her Italian Husband
My mother’s side was 100% Irish. My grandmother? Straight from Ireland. Proud of it. Decorated her house with framed certificates of her Irishness—things that read:
☘️ "There are only two kinds of people: The Irish and those who wish they were."
☘️ "If you're lucky enough to be Irish, you're lucky enough."
But here’s where things got interesting.
She married an Italian.
And oh, did she claim to dislike Italians.
This was an ongoing bit in our family. My grandmother would roll her eyes about “those Italians” while living with one, eating his food, and benefiting from his incredible homemade gravy (pasta sauce, for you non-Italians).
My step-grandfather would waltz in from the garden with fresh garlic, roll meatballs by hand, and fill the house with the kind of rich, simmering, tomato-basil scent that made your soul happy.
Meanwhile, my grandmother would stand by the pot, pretending not to inhale deeply while sneaking bread into the sauce “just to test it.”
Did she ever say she liked it? Of course not. That would be surrender. But the empty bowl at the end of the meal told the real story.
A Tale of Two Saints
☘️ St. Patrick’s Day (Green Days) – The house exploded with shamrocks, Irish blessings, and my uncles loudly (and badly) belting out Danny Boy after a few too many drinks.
🍅 St. Joseph’s Day (Red Days) – Suddenly, the green disappeared, and we were drowning in zeppoles, red shirts, and my step-grandfather’s victory lap—his holiday, his food, his day to shine.
I watched it all unfold, a front-row seat to this deeply unserious rivalry, where the biggest insult was refusing to acknowledge the superiority of the other’s holiday.
And honestly? I loved every second of it.
Where the Cats Come In
These days, I don’t have feuding relatives filling my kitchen. Instead, I have Petey and Nelly, my two feline freeloaders.
Petey has adopted my green socks as chew toys in honor of St. Patrick’s. Meanwhile, Nelly exclusively claims my red tablecloth as her throne on St. Joseph’s.
It’s the same chaos, just with fur and whiskers.
What Else I’ve Been Writing This Week
📖 The Irish Art of Storytelling: Why Every Anecdote Needs a Side Plot
The Irish storytelling gene is real. If you ask me a simple question—like, “What did you do today?”—I could just answer.
But where’s the fun in that?
Somehow, before I even get to the point, you’ll learn about the weather, what I was drinking, and a completely unrelated side character who adds “necessary context.”
I broke down this very Irish habit in this week’s essay. If you also struggle with getting to the point, you might be genetically incapable of telling a short story, too.
💪 Cardio, Chaos, and Crippling Regret: My Attempt at Fitness
You know that moment when you realize you’ve made a mistake—but it’s too late to back out?
That was me, five minutes into a workout class.
At first, things were fine. The instructor was smiling, the music was upbeat, and I thought, I can do this. I am strong. I am capable.
And then, without warning—things escalated. We went from gentle movements to aggressive, airborne cardio in seconds.
I looked less like a person working out and more like someone trying to escape a bee attack.
If you enjoy watching other people suffer (in a fun way), my fitness disaster is ready for your amusement.
Pause & Reflect
What’s your March looking like?
Are you navigating your own family culture clash? Trying (and failing) to be a gym person? Accidentally telling long-winded stories when no one asked for details?
However chaotic your month is shaping up, I say: embrace it. The best stories always come from the mess.
Until Next Time…
May your corned beef be tender, your gravy be rich, and your workout choices be less regrettable than mine.
Here’s to celebrating life in all its colorful, ridiculous, unpredictable glory.
☘️ Sláinte and Saluti,
Tesie
P.S. If you’ve got a story about mismatched marriages, hilarious holiday traditions, or a truly embarrassing workout fail, hit reply. I’m always here for a good laugh (and an unnecessarily long story). 😆🍀🍝