The Drink Of The Weekend: The Hawaiian Irish

As part of our mission here at Why Daddy Drinks to revel in the humorous lunacy that is fatherhood, and to promote the drinking of quality beverages, we bring you our weekly segment highlighting something that should be in your glass. This is The Drink Of The Weekend.

The Hawaiian Irish. Mahalo, and Slainte, to all of you.

The Hawaiian Irish. Mahalo, and Slainte, to all of you.

I love writing about the hijinks that my daughters get into—and every day, there is something insane and/or hilarious that one of them does that makes me wish I had my notepad [how old fashioned] handy to take down everything, or every cry/wail/scream that comes out of their mouths.

However, there’s just not enough time in the day to do that. What with work, coming home to repair what damage the Crumlettes, as I call them, did in the morning, then getting the house in order and working on dinner, I rarely have an hour a day to sit down and watch one of the many TV shows saved on my DVR, much less craft an essay a day on something like why my three-year-old decided to strip off her pajamas because “I want to be naked,” then pulled everything back on less than three minutes later for no discernible reason.

Let’s face it: Kids are insane.

It’s much easier, at times, just to tell about what I drank over the weekend. And with how my week is shaping up, that’s what I’m going to do right now.

Hawaii and Ireland are about as far apart from each other as they could possibly be. And both places hold a lot of imagination for people, including myself. I have been to Hawaii twice in the last three years. In fact, my older daughter, Maddo, has been to Hawaii the exact same amount of times in less than her four year of life, and my younger daughter, Little Sis, who just turned three, has been there only one fewer time than I have in my 45 years of living and traveling around this world. If I could make a living running a shaved iced stand, I would be on my way to Oakland Airport and that non-stop flight to Kauai right now.

Ireland, however, is a place I still have never visited. It used to be that something like 136% of all Americans could trace some of their ancestry to the Emerald Isle. I don’t know if that’s the same these days, as immigration patterns have changed and the Irish realized it cost them less to drink at home than in South Boston. But, still, the image of a verdant Ireland remains strong with many here in the States, even though that vision gets blurry with every pint and every chorus of “Brown Eyed Girl

[You may thank me for that earworm, now.]

First pitch. An $11 Smithwick's in hand.

First pitch. An $11 Smithwick’s in hand.

I looked at the stats for my Why Daddy Drinks Facebook page, and to my surprise, I found that the most-popular place for my screeds on fatherhood and a good drink happens to be…Dublin. I have no idea why that is. I’m not a huge U2 fan, and I never finished James Joyce’s “Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man” in my high school English class. Although I did manage to bluff my way to an A- on the exam that Mr. Taylor gave at the end of the book. [R.I.P., Mr. T.]. I do think The Pogues “Fairytale Of New York” is the greatest Christmas song of the last 30 years, however, and when I took a recent day off to go to an afternoon ballgame between My Beloved Seattle Mariners and the Oakland A’s the first $11 beer I had was Ireland’s Smithwick’s red ale. So I guess I have some connection to Dublin.

Or, maybe, they really do drink that much over there. No offense. Next pint’s on me.

This weekend I went to my beer fridge in the garage and decided it was time to mix up one of own creations. Everyone’s heard of the term “Black Irish”, right? Well, welcome to the Hawaiian Irish.

Take a pint glass and fill it halfway with Kona Brewing Co. Fire Rock Pale Ale, then crack open a Guinness and pour that over the curved side of a spoon until the glass is full. Yes, it’s based on the Black and Tan, I know. But you aren’t going to imagine a leprechaun doing a hula dance drinking one of those. In fact, after a few Hawaiian Irishes, you might get up and do that dance yourself to the tune of “Danny Boy”.

Mahalo…and Slainte!

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