Back in the’80s, us Irish-Americans used to feel pretty cool when our rural Irish cousins would come to visit us in New York, overwhelmed by our skyscrapers, blue jeans, and shockingly white butter. Fast forward a few decades, one massive economic trade pact, and three terms of Bush economic policies, and now we’re the quaint, poor ones, and Ireland is one of the richest countries in the world.
Among the turnabouts, they now have really nice cars, loads of political corruption, and my roof-thatcher uncle has become some sort of real estate baron. So now when we go visit, instead of sending the kids to go camp out in the backyard, they have an entire extra house for us. Pretty sweet! So two summers ago, when my brother, his wife, my cousin, her boyfriend, and my other cousin (oh, there’s a lot of cousins) went to Dunmore for yet another cousin’s wedding, we got our own house to ourselves, right in the middle of town, within stumbling distance of Dunmore’s many high-quality pubs.
And yes, I say all this to talk about butter.
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