While others were drinking green beer, making lamb stew, or boiling the pervasive corned beef and cabbage this week, I ignored all things Irish. My family was never one to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. As Italian Catholics, St. Patrick's Day was a minor religious holiday in my childhood house, and my proud Italian father couldn't comprehend how the nation turned it into a festive drinking day celebrating the Irish. This was particularly telling as he was never one to turn down a pint of beer, celebratory or not.

Half the time I forgot to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. Not surprising from the girl who brought meatball sandwiches for lunch, but a drag nonetheless as this meant I got pinched all day (a tradition, I am happy to say, that has been abandoned, at least at my daughters' elementary school). My family just didn't celebrate the day. We ate a normal dinner -- something like pasta with broccoli rabe followed by stuffed peppers. No corned beef for us. My mom just didn't cook Irish.

Ironically, my dad died on St. Patrick's Day two years ago. And then the day before the holiday this week, my maternal grandmother passed away. Now, what the nation celebrates as an excuse to drink beer and "get their Irish on" has become a time of reflection for me.

My father and grandmother were different in many ways, but one thing they could always agree on was food. Both were lifelong advocates of the southern Italian table. While my father never lifted a finger in the kitchen (he was a Sicilian male of the old school), he could correctly identify the vast range of regional dishes prepared, including what ingredients were used, and if they were fresh or not. My grandmother, on the other hand, was the quintessential Italian cook. Each day she prepared a Neopolitan dish that had been passed down from generation to generation. She got up around 4:00 a.m. each day, made a pot of coffee, and started cooking. Unfortunately, we were separated by 3,000 miles for most of my life (she in Long Island and me in California), so I didn't get to hang out with her in the kitchen as much as I would have liked. I have very fond memories of when we were together, however: her busy at the stove, talking with a New York accent sprinkled with Italian, and making the most heavenly dishes.

It was hard to get a recipe out of my grandmother. She was completely disconnected from the idea that food is often made using a list of ingredients with directions. Instead of actual recipes, I would receive a list of instructions that were more subjective than definite. She loved to write recipes (or at least her version of what a recipe is) down on note cards, which were full of comments like "add some milk" or "pinch the dough until it's right." It would drive me nuts when I would ask "how much milk?" and she responded "enough," as if that said it all. But when I was in the midst of making a dish, I found that "enough" was often a better direction than an exact measurement. She and my mom (who hands down recipes just like her mother) taught me to trust my instincts in the kitchen and that the look and feel of a mixture is what's important. My grandmother's recipes helped me learn more about technique, color, feel, and texture than any cookbook ever could.

So in honor of my father and grandmother, I made Italian gravy this week. I still can't tell you how my family makes this dish, although I will tell you how I made the bragiole.

Bragiole

Makes: 6 bragiole

Ingredients:
6 pieces of thinly cut beef (either 1/4-inch bottom round slices or flank steak work well)
2 hard-boiled eggs chopped
Minced parsley and garlic (enough to sprinkle on the meat)
Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper

Preparation:
1. Tenderize the meat so the pieces are nice and thin.
2. Season each piece with salt and pepper and then top with the egg and parsley.
3. Add a little garlic to each piece (not too much, but enough to flavor) and top with some freshly grated cheese.
4. Roll each piece of meat up and place a toothpick in each one so it stays closed.
5. Brown in olive oil and then cook in your gravy.
6. Simmer for at least an hour and serve.

It's true: these are some ugly-looking potatoes. Back in December, though, they were sleek, alluring even, a pound or two of organic fingerlings that came as part of a mystery box of roots, tubers, and greens from Mariquita Farms. Somehow, though, they got muscled to the back of the pantry by the 20 pounds of russets bought for holiday latke-making at the same time. By the time I could even think about eating potatoes again, my taters had only baby-making in mind.

These were potatoes hellbent on reproduction. Snaky white shoots were twining out of the eyes, and the shriveled potato meat was just a backpack of snacks for the next generation of tubers-to-be.

Now, I love my city-mandated green-waste bin. But could I really let such determination end up in a compost pile in Vacaville?

During my six months as an apprentice at the Farm & Garden Program at UC Santa Cruz, I had planted dozens of fancy seed potatoes that looked a lot like these. They had produced prodigiously, feeding 50 hungry farmers nearly every day, along with the customers at a 120-member CSA and a twice-weekly farmstand.

Would a handful of sprouters grow just as well in a bucket in Bernal Heights? After all, if Love Apple Farm's potato buckets were good enough for David Kinch, wouldn't a plastic pot do just fine for me? (Cynthia Sandberg must know her stuff; her tiny Love Apple Farm is a kitchen garden whose kitchen just happens to be Kinch's restaurant Manresa.)

And what better time to plant than right around St. Patrick's Day? It's easy to remember, after all, and the closeness to the spring equinox in our climate pretty much ensures frost-free nights from now on. A beautifully informative essay on the role of potatoes in rural Irish life can be found in John Thorne's Pot on the Fire; at the end of the chapter he has recipes for both champ and colcannon, two easy dishes of greens (which could be foraged) and potatoes (homegrown), both of which make delicious vegetarian alternatives to the typical corned beef & cabbage.

For champ, peeled potatoes are boiled, drained, and pummeled to smoothness. While the potatoes are boiling, tender spring greens--nettles, spinach, turnip or radish tops--are gently simmered in milk. The greens (and the milk) are tipped into the potatoes and vigorously stirred together. A bowlful with a pat of butter makes a meal.

Colcannon uses slightly tougher greens, like kale and cabbage, and the mixture is stiffer, made firm enough to pat into a flat, thick pancake in a skillet and fry in butter until both sides are crisped up and lightly browned. (You can find boxty, an equally filling Irish potato cake, on the menu at The Liberties at 22nd and Guerrero Sts in the Mission, even if they do California it up with roasted red peppers and feta cheese.)

No plans for a champ-cam trained on the potato bucket yet; after all, most of the action during the next few months will be happening underground. But until then, you can browse the greens reappearing from the earth and dream of harvesting your very own patio potatoes.

With a Mayor whose life appears to need the same kind of control his gel exerts over his hair, and killer frogs stalking Golden Gate Park, spring has fully come to San Francisco.

To honor St. Patty's Day, I had to write about my newest out-of-body experience: Guinness Floats.

I know there's a lot of you out there who -- for better or for hate -- have already suckled at the vanilla-y, stout-y, creamy, heavenly goodness that has recently enraptured my small household. However, for those three of you who haven't and have always been curious, please seize this holiday opportunity to satisfy yourselves. All it takes is a pint of Haagen-Dazs Vanilla Bean -- definitely go whole bean hog on this one, you'll thank me later -- and a six-pack of fully widgeted Guinness cans.

Plop one, two, three, okay, FIVE scoops of ice cream in a pint glass and carefully pour the Guinness over the mound of decadent sensuality. With whorls and dips and swirls, the bitter bite of the Guinness surrounds, melds with, and accentuates the heady vanilla. I know it sounds weird, but it works and it's beyond fantastic.

Are we all on the same page? Ice cream and beer is a taste only drunk angels could have imagined? Okay. Now, let's check in with a brand new beer from Hawaii's Kona Brewing Company that is so brilliant, it should be illegal. Well, hello, Pipeline Porter, what's your story? What's that? You say you're made with 100% KONA COFFEE?! Seriously? Coffee and beer -- another brilliant combination. On its own, Pipeline is smooth, rich, smokey, and definitely filled to the rim with coffee. It's so wonderfully strange, and I can't remember the last time I was so completely taken with a beer that I started thinking in terms of multiple cases. Oh, wait, I can.

Here it becomes time to apply what we learned earlier with ice cream and beer. My brilliant, BRILLIANT husband is the one who pointed out that if we can reach near nirvana with Guinness and ice cream, how far can we go if we match Pipeline Porter with ice cream? So far that I don't think we've yet returned to Earth.

Guinness or Pipeline -- it's up to you, but you'll be sorry if you don't try one of them.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!