Technically, I'm still on my quick break. For those of you not on the notify list, and for those of you who have just joined our program, I'm not on break for any dramatic reason. I'm just as busy as one person can be and if I didn't declare an official break, every time I sit down at this thing, I'd write another entry.

I like to fancy myself a writer, and one whose words you all cling to and wait for with bated breathes, but I am not nearly so egocentric as to actually believe any of that.

But, with Saint Patrick's Day just around the corner, and me being Irish and all, I thought I would briefly return to celebrate the holiday.

I won't bore you with the background of St. Patrick. His biography is all over the Internet, you can find him yourself. I will, however, regale you with some Irish-related facts so when you wear your stupid, "Everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day!" pin, you can at least seem as though you did some homework.

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For a people who when they first arrived in this country were told to work/sleep/eat elsewhere and go find a potato, it's remarkable how 100-plus years later most everyone celebrates the Irish-American's most beloved saint.

Seriously. Do you know of another ethnic background's patron saint who warrants as much hoopla as Pat? No one wears a "Everyone's Italian on St. Joseph's Day!" pin. I certainly don't -- and I'm Italian, too. Those whose Irish heritage has been an intregral part of their lives since they popped from the womb find it odd, I think, how people celebrate the day.

In Ireland, St. Patrick's Day is barely given a second thought. I wonder if it has something to do with Patrick actually being English and his first furlough into Ireland was as a prisoner ...

At any rate, when you're like me and grew up with all-things-Irish year round, St. Patrick's Day is kind of the validation for those few years you took step dancing classes and not ballet. I sucked at step dancing, but you can bet your bottom dollar that every year when I mention my having taken step dancing someone asks me if I can jig like Michael Flatley.

It's a day where some people -- especially if you live in Chicago -- look on you with envy for actually being Irish, as opposed to just being the kind of gal who can suck down beers. Even my personal trainer Monday morning stopped me in the middle of my set of lunges to ask me when I began to identify with being Irish.

My reply?

"I'm quite certain there wasn't a time I didn't."

"That is so cool."

With this in mind, understand that there are few Irish who take offense at the non-Irish of you who celebrate the day. I don't. I love it. We Irish are a friendly lot. We like to talk, we like to tell stories, and we like to drink. All of these things are much better when there is a gaggle of people with whom to share these activities.

But we do get annoyed when you do things like drink green beer, or tell us to drink green beer. When someone asks me if I'm going to drink "a lot of green beer," I tell them that no self-respective Irishman would ever let such a thing pass through his lips.

So that's Number One: Don't drink green beer. Drink Guinness. I understand it is not for everyone, but buck up. Raise at least one pint of the tar-colored beverage and know that you're truly drinking as if your blood was thick with ancient memories of the Ol' Sod.

The first time I ever got drunk -- 12-years-old and with my family after the Southside Irish Parade -- was on Guinness. It's alcohol content is high, and therefore is cheaper to get drunk off of. Keep that in mind.

When I first started drinking away from the watchful eye of my family, I picked up on something when it came time to toast for shots. Shot glasses raised, eyes met, everyone would invariably toast with, "Salud." Because at 19 I was more of a lemming than I may be now, I would repeat in kind. The first time I came home and drank with my parents and unleashed this toast on my father, he looked at me, aghast, and quickly corrected me.

"Erin, you're Irish. You toast with Slainte."

I'm quite sure I never made the same mistake again.

Point Number Two: This St. Patrick's Day, raise your glass and yell, "Slainte!" It's pronounced "Slahn-cha." Some pronounce the "cha" with a "ja" but either way is acceptable. I know you've all seen the Bennigan's commercial. You've heard it.

The Gaelic toast and pronunciation brings me to a personal pet-peeve: "Erin Go Bragh." Unless your name is also "Erin" you have no idea the prepubescent hell that is that phrase. First of all, "bragh" is pronounced "bra," and that always opened the door for statements such as the following:

"Erin, are you wearing a braaaaaa?"

"Erin, are you getting a braaaaaa?"

... and my personal favorite ...

"Erin, you don't need a braaaaa!"

Because I knew what it meant -- "Ireland Forever" -- and because my heritage meant so much to me even at that age, I never really cared much. With the exception of the few random years of youth when everyone wants to change their name -- I think I wanted to be Kristin or Elizabeth at some point -- I always liked my name. "Erin" means "Ireland" and I felt rather lucky to have such a moniker.

But it is the most common Gaelic phrase known to most non-Irish-Americans and is butchered in both pronunciation and spelling, and I feel the need to clarify for you. After coffee last night with Jessamyn and Candace, I walked by a self-professed Irish pub that had misspelled "bragh" in its main window.

The Irish are not known for their delicacies. Again, if you asked what it is the Irish do best, cooking is not listed. Crying, fighting, singing, drinking, storytelling and, if you're Bono, self-aggrandizing, yes. All of these things. Cooking? No.

But if you're a decent cook, you know how to prepare corned beef and cabbage so it's edible. Corned beef and cabbage really aren't Irish dishes. As I understand it, however, those who immigrated from Ireland to America would prepare this dish because it was cheap. So, when you're sinking your teeth into that nasty corned beef sandwich at some bar for $7.99, understand that the brisket that was used to make that sandwich cost about that much alone, and the barkeep is probably able to crank 15 other sandwiches out of it.

It's poor immigrant food, people. But if you're making it just because it's St. Patrick's Day, here are some tips:

1) Don't BOIL THE CABBAGE. If you want to eat mushy slop, by all means, go right ahead. But if you want cabbage that is rather tasty, steam it for about five minutes -- or at least until it's cooked, yet still firm. I also recommend frying up thick bacon, breaking it into little pieces, mixing that in with melted butter, and slathering the cabbage in it.

2) SLOW COOK THE BEEF. Corned beef is tough. Tough. Tough. Tough. The first time I cooked corned beef on my own, I thought an hour was good enough. It felt as though I was chewing on rope. It wasn't raw, but it tasted like shit. If you get a brisket, put it in a pan, fill the pan with water, a bay leaf, tons of sliced garlic, MSG, mustard seed and peppercorns. Cover it with a tight lid, or aluminum foil, stick it in the oven at about 200 to 225 degrees and let it stew for about seven to eight hours. The meat will fall apart.

3) By all means, boil the potatoes, but buy the little red ones, and not the baking kind. There is no real rule to this other than it's easier and they compliment the meal better.

Lastly, if you can get your hands on either brown bread or soda bread, as well as some honey butter, consider your meal complete.

Oh yeah, and drink. Drink a lot. Whiskey and Guinness. Accept no substitutes.

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I probably sound arrogant about all of this. I've just reread what I've written thus far, and I've probably turned all of you off to my heritage. I don't mean to, you know.

But as much as I identify myself with being a Midwesterner, a woman, a twentysomething, a writer, even a Catholic, I identify with being Irish more. Like I said, I grew up in my heritage, much in the same way many of you may have grown up in yours. The difference is that the whole country doesn't take an entire day to celebrate. I'm sorry for you -- write your Congressman.

I spent my youth going to family functions where we all listened to the sounds of Irish dirges and drinking songs. We learned -- or at least we tried to learn -- about the problems back in Ireland, complex as they are. I can't hear a tin flute and not remember my childhood. The stories. All of the laughter. All of the music.

As I've gotten older, I've carried much of that heritage into my own life. If you look at the upper-left hand graphic, you'll notice my old logo. If you look closely, it's a Gaelic symbol -- known as the "triskellion." Two years ago, I had that symbol tattooed to the small of my back. It's not original, mind you, in Irish circles, but the circle represents the continuation of the universe, and the three, interconnected swirls symbolize the search for peace between mind, body and soul.

I liked that -- for its Celtic nature, but also for what it stood for and what it meant for me at that time.

My Irish heritage means family and love for me -- I feel immediately "at home" whenever I walk into a bar and hear Tommy Makem sing. He's the godfather of modern Irish music, and years ago I had the pleasure of interviewing him. He's a legend.

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I will leave you with an Irish blessing:

Have a Happy and Safe St. Patrick's Day. Slainte.