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Every year on March 17, Irish-blooded humans everywhere experience a swell of nostalgia for our green-hilled motherland. Never mind if we’ve never set foot on said motherland—it’s more a state of mind than a matter of geography. Listen, it’s an Irish thing. If you don’t get it, don’t worry. You don’t need to understand St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day; you just need to fortify yourself with a plate of corned beef and cabbage. And while every pub with a paper shamrock on the wall serves a sloppy plate of the stuff on St. Paddy’s, we suggest you make this much-tastier version at home before joining the freckled masses. But first, let’s talk about corned beef. The meat your granny served after Sunday mass has nothing to do with the British corned beef of yore, which was named for the grain-sized salt crystals that cured it. According to <a href="http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/is-corned-beef-really-irish-2839144/?no-ist">Smithsonian</a> magazine, this nasty bit of business was never popular on the Emerald Isle. The Irish preferred their cabbage paired with bacon, which, if you’ve ever been to Ireland, makes perfect sense. Irish bacon is delicious.When they began immigrating to America, however, the Irish discovered the delights of the neighborhood Jewish deli—delights that included a corned beef wholly unlike the stuff at home. The meat lent much-needed flavor to the cheap veggies they survived on, providing bone-sticking comfort on cold nights in Boston or New York City or Philadelphia. Today, Irish Americans eat corned beef and cabbage to celebrate our homeland’s primary patron saint, to remember the scrappy ancestors who brought us here, and to soak up the copious amounts of green beer we plan on gulping in their honor. This leveled-up version of corned beef and cabbage begins at the butcher, where we pick up a hunk of pre-brined corned beef. We stick that sucker directly in a sous vide bath and let it cook gently for 24 hours. Meanwhile, we whip up some red cabbage, a vibrant carrot purée, and some crispy smashed potatoes. Served together in a big bowl, they make for a spicy, colorful combination of flavors and textures that’s both evocative of a beloved dish and also a massive improvement upon it. Nana may not have made it this way, but we have an inkling she’d approve. If the Irish didn’t embrace adaptation, after all, there wouldn’t be so dang many of us wreaking havoc down at the pub.