Irish Potatoes

“Oh, Mom,” my teenage son said. “What are those things you used to make on St. Patrick’s Day?”

“Irish soda bread?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The little ball things with cinnamon? Those things? Are they Irish soda bread?”

I blew out a sigh.

“Irish potato candy,” I replied.

“Yeah! That’s it! Can you make that again this year? You haven’t made those things in so long!”

It is with good reason I haven’t made those things in so long.

There was a time – back when my kids were small – when I went all out on St. Patrick’s Day.

I made an Irish stew for dinner, with crusty soda bread for soaking up the drops and drizzles of gravy. Then I’d serve those Irish potato candies, handmade from my husband’s aunt’s recipe.

One year, when my kids were still gap-toothed grade schoolers, I made Irish potato candy for my daughter’s classroom.

My kids made sure to taste-test them.

Whether they thought I might ruin the snack or poison it, I’ll never know.

Either way, they were kind of brave, right?

I was given the thumbs-up to take the confections to school. So I packed them up in a plastic container, tucked the kids in the car, and off we went.

It was as we pulled into school that my son vomited in the back seat.

It – it had to be my Irish potato candy, right?

Even if it wasn’t, the candy was tainted in my mind. All the food in my house – especially the homemade food – festered with the virus now spewing from my son.

That thirty grade-schoolers might end their day by vomiting on their teacher because of my candy – no.

I couldn’t do it.

So I emailed the teacher my regrets and took my still-vomiting son home.

Traumatized by this experience, the following year I was sure to make my Irish potato candy in an environment so sterile, surgeons were lining up outside, their patients ready to go.

The kids, excited to bring the treats to school and share them with their classmates, again sampled my handiwork.

They gave their seal of approval and trundled off to bed as I packed up the candies for delivery to school in the morning.

As we pulled into school that day, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were as white as the condensed milk forming the base of my Irish potato candy – I was that fearful of a redux of the previous year’s gastric, um, event.

That was when my son vomited again.

And I just sat there.

In tumult. In disbelief.

And also in a bravely fought battle to keep my breakfast down.

Was it possible I made infected Irish potato candy two years in a row? Was it even probable? Or was this simply a coincidence?

Did I risk serving my candy, knowing the school nurse might send little ones on the same terrible trip home I was about to make?

To refuse to serve the Irish potatoes seemed excessive. But serving them felt criminal.

Paralyzed by indecision, I sat there, my daughter wailing about the smell, my son asking why he had thrown up two St. Patrick’s Days in a row, regurgitated Irish potato candy congealing in the crevices of his booster seat.

Nothing and nobody made it into school that day. I skipped the Irish stew and soda bread.

Later years received the same treatment.

When I see that aunt’s Irish potato recipe in my recipe book, I recoil with memories of the back-to-back years St. Patrick’s Day went sideways.

But when my son asked for the Irish potato candy, I told him sure – I could make it again this year. No problem.

Don’t worry, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.

There will be plenty left over for you. I’ll make sure.

I promise.

Enjoy!