Caution: Disturbing Images Follow

The plural of crocus is "crocuses" OR "croci."  I prefer "croci." 

"Look!  Look at all the croci!" I yelled to the kids.  They whipped their heads around.

"Crocodile?" asked Daniel. 

We were pleased as punch to spot the little purple flowers peeking through dead leaves and shredded napkins.  (I've really got to clear out my flower beds.)

Another sign of spring: 'tis St. Patty's Day- and Caleb's elaborate leprechaun trap failed him yet again. The leprechaun left a note, took a bite out of a couple of jellybeans, and stole all the money Caleb had left out to lure him into the trap.  Caleb was, surprisingly, pleased as punch.

(He doesn't know this, but the leprechaun deposited the dollar coins right back into Caleb's bank.  Leprechauns are not as pernicious as folklore would have you believe.)

Our St. Patty's Day celebration is extended this year.  Tomorrow, John is going to make corned beef and cabbage and participate in the Protestant St. Patrick's Day moratorium on promises made during Lent.  I.e., he will drink a Guinness or two.  I think he made this moratorium up.  To which I say, for shame. 

I hate corned beef and cabbage.  I think that if you cook a meat that is red and it stays red, it should be treated as rancid.  Ick.  And cabbage?  Only acceptable in coleslaw, and then only if presented with minimal mayonnaise, not that soupy atrocity they serve at most diners. 

Have you driven by a field of cabbage during harvest season?  Have you smelled the foul stench? 

However, being a most obliging wife, I did pick up the brisket and cabbage at the supermarket.  I didn't get potatoes because I had some at home. 

This evening, John went to retrieve the potatoes from my insulated vegetable drawer.  He made a horrible face and demanded I come look.

Oh my gosh I've never seen anything more terrifying in my life I thought we were doomed it was awful.

My potatoes had grown extraordinary tentatacles that ripped through their bag threatening our very existence on this earth.  

It was a science experiment gone most awry. 

There was screaming and flapping of arms. 

And then I was made to go to the supermarket to get more of this awful tuberous vegetable.  Which seemed unjust.

And tonight as I sit here, thoroughly traumatized, where is the husband?

Off at a couch burning.  Which is how they celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland.  (Well- the Protestants, anyway.  The Catholics have a moratorium on couch burnings during Lent.)

Happy St. Patrick's Day. 

(The following pictures are not for children or people with heart conditions.)