The "Land of St. Patrick", that green jewel sparkling in the Irish Sea, has had its share of "Troubles", a word that even today can start shillelaghs swinging and bottles flying amongst the emotionally wounded citizens of the "Auld Sod", whose kin battled for Crown or Cross.

One such "Trouble" which the verdant land suffered was the great potato famine of the 19th century. A trouble that caused untold hardships for the common folk, but was, in a strangely Irish way, responsible for the discovery of one of the most outstanding culinary delights ever exported for alien consumption.

The spud shortage was debated in Parliament, discussed by royalty, and ignored by the few who could afford something other than the favorite staple. It wasn't until a group of concerned citizens, gathered about a table in the local pub, hit upon the most likely solution. Adopting the title, "Give Aid to Stomachs", they sought the support of the hungry as they began their quest for something more than food for thought.

At about the same time, another meeting was being held by a rival organization called "Potatoes Are Indeed Necessary for Sustenance". They, too, felt the need for a recipe for success in the battle of the bulge. The Irish, being always agreeable to compromise, saw the need to join forces and combined their titles to form the acronym "GAS PAINS", but were more often referred to as the "BURPS", or Brothers United to Resist Ptomaine".

The fledgling union immediately experienced problems in selecting a leader. So great was the difficulty, (it's hard to find one Irishman better qualified than another), that it was determined they would resort to the "Irish Solution". They would call upon the essence of the Emerald Isle, the very soul of Ireland, "The Little People". A delegation was chosen, known as the Chosen People, headed by Ronald MacDonald, to seek the aid and advice of the gnomes that inhabited the woodlands.

After receiving final instructions, the band sped rapidly to the copse outside their village where they were met by a burly fellow dressed in a strange uniform of blue with brass buttons on the coat. He halted them with a raised hand and asked in rough tones if they thought they were going to a fire. After explaining that, without a potato to cook, there wasn't a blaze in Ireland worth going to, they told the Blue Coat of their mission and its urgency. The hand, which was still raised, came slowly down, with palm upturned, reminiscent to that of a fortune teller prior to the plea of crossing a palm with silver.

Being a superstitious lot, the emissaries conferred and came up with 30 pieces of precious metal to donate to a fund to keep keep the copse lawn in order. Impressed with their ability to discern his interest in the green, the Blue Coat promptly told them where to go. He said they should seek the biggest, most scholarly leprechaun in the forest, and would find the answer to the famine. Then, without another word, their blue coated benefactor, whose name they later found to be Judas, jumped aboard his waiting mule and headed for the Mount of Olives, where he opened a branch office.

Many days of fruitless searching followed, until finally they came to an old lemon tree, and underneath, snoring loudly, was one of the smallest creatures they had ever seen. "Are you one of the Wee Folk?" came the shout from the now reduced ranks. The hardships and cold they had bravely endured had turned them into the "Frozen Chosen Few". "Oui, Oui" came the unhurried reply, as the little person reached lazily for a French fry near at hand. "To be sure, Mes Amis, I am one of the weeest of the wee, Mohammed Alfie by name. I float like a bee and sting like a butterfly, but, fear not, that is the way of we wee people."

Alfie regaled the travelers with tales of his exploits, punctuated with the refrain of "I'm the greatest!" for what seemed an eternity. The delegation decided they had, indeed, found their quarry, but after querying the fairie further, Alfie admitted there was one, who, while not as great as himself, was doubtlessly the person they sought. Howard was his name, he had been found as a n infant floating down the Shannon on two stone tablets and had since gained a great reputation as an omnipotent oracle. He could be found at the mouth of the river that spawned him, frequently wading in the curative ripples. His feet in the mouth would become his trademark and set him apart from others less supernatural than he.

"He tells it like it is!" shouted Alfie to the pilgrims as they eagerly progressed toward the lair of the mighty Howard, who would later become famous as "The dirty little Howard who shot Mr. Coward", after he gunned down a noted playwright while gutter crawling in New York. Despite the directions having been given to them in Stengelese, a language understood only by those familiar with Gaelic or who, on a regular basis, sip the magic potion of the Guiness or Milwaukee Brewers, the pilgrims plodded on. Suitably fortified by the enlightening potables, a notable necessity for such a tiring trek, the adventurers wended their wandering way, a sobering experience to be sure, toward the pinnacle of pixiedom, the fairies aerie, Howard's haven.

The signs at the base of a dying O'Bannion tree reputed to be Howard's home, assured the searchers that they had at least reached their appointed goal. There was no mistaking the Howard, John's Son, sign, decorated with the family crest, a melting ice cream cone. Another sign proclaimed that this was the home of the Biggest Scholarly Leprechaun in the land...there was no mistaking it...BIG.SCHLEP could mean nothing else.

Emerging from his abode, Howard didn't even inquire as to the question that had led the searchers to him..he could not only tell it like it was, he knew what it was. His voice rang out with the authority that only a man of his physical and intellectual stature could command. "Digging for potatoes will not get to the root of the problem. You must not be cowed by the threat of starvation. You must not act like cattle and be herded into oblivion. Steer clear of dependence on other nations for food". With a final admonition to "Seek and ye shall find", Howard's discourse seemed to be at an end.

A puzzled look appeared on the faces of the assembly. "Seek what? Find what?" they asked each other. Finally, McDonald, their leader and spokesperson shouted, "I've got it!" and started to sing an eerie chant about two beef patties...but got no further when he was silenced by a withering glance from Howard. "I'll tell it like it is", he proclaimed, "what this country needs is a new national dish!"

The group held a hurried conference and decided to fan out around the globe in an attempt to find this new food that was destined to become the salvation of those on the other side of the copse, knowing how important it was to remain on the right side of the copse in order to make any scheme work.

Patrick O'Brien was sent to Italy, to sample the famous recipes of that country to see if the Irish could adapt to Italian cuisine. After sampling pizza, spaghetti with and without meatballs, and endless varieties of pasta, he decided that the most likely item to succeed was A'Fazool. But, alas, Pat's A'Fazool never caught on in Ireland.

Others looked to the sea. Several thought that perhaps the tasty Gefelta fish would provide an answer. But that species soon became aware of the plan to decimate its numbers, and retreated to the relative safety of the Sea of Galilee where the native tribes treat the Gefelta fish as a national treasure. Tripe from Poland, crumpets from England and scones from Scotland also met with resistance. Even the suggestion from France to "Let them eat cake" was rejected.

It was a sad crew, indeed, that headed home toward the copse, finally stopping at Lady Chatterly's country estate for the night, one day's journey from home and failure. As was befitting their station, they were permitted to stay in the stable, after promising the groundskeeper there would be no horsing around. But, Irishmen, being Irishmen, they couldn't resist the opportunity for some fun. They danced jigs and reels, listened to the skirling of the pipes, and indulged in the last of their spirits. And in the morning, when the groundskeeper began his appointed rounds, he found the revelers gone, and with them, three hansom cabs and teams of fine horses to pull them.

Mid day, as the occupants of the cabs rolled along, they discovered they were rapidly becoming afflicted with a fearful itch, a rash that bedeviled them more than the devil himself. The cabs, infested with fleas and lice from the stables, had become a penance for their misdeeds.

At the top of one of the tallest mountains in Ireland, forever shrouded in smoke from the peat fires of the villages below, the itching inhabitants of the cabs were forced to abandon their ill gotten means of transportation, and leaping into a cold lake nearby, washed the vermin from their much bitten bodies. As they stood on the top of Old Smokey, all covered with soap, gazing at the valley below where the deer and the antelope played among herds of cattle, the meaning of Howard's words became clear.

Racing down from their lofty perch like a band of avenging angels, they forced the herds of cattle into a dead end canyon. There they marveled at the size and number of their prey. The cornered cattle could feed the whole of Ireland.

There was great jubilation in Erin in the days and months that followed. People from Cork, from Donnegal, and County Down, all came to thank the Lord and praise Howard.

A foreign correspondent from the Superior Telegram just happened to be in Dublin while this history-making event took place, and was sent to the scene for an on the spot interview. The feted fellows responsible for the episode, happily related the tale to the Wisconsin writer, who made note of the seemingly fortuitous actions of the fleas and lice in the stolen hansom cabs, which set about the chain of events that caused the cows to be cornered to feed the masses. Unfortunately for him, but perhaps more of a blessing for the gourmands of the world, the reporter then proceeded to fortify himself with copious quantities of the freely flowing products of Johnny Jameson before he eventually filed his story.

The headline that the Superior Telegram carried the next day, read by the world, stated in bold, black type: "CORNERED BEEF AND CAB ITCH SAVE IRELAND". And to this day, the national dish of Ireland is known as Cornered Beef and Cabitch.

At least, that's the consensus of the crowd whiling away a wintry day at Prevost's.