There is such a thing as a free lunch, but I was stupid enough to forget this.

On Saturday, I paid seven dollars and something for a cabbage and a handful of potatoes from Mr Okra, the itinerant fruit and veg salesman who drives his elaborately decorated truck up and down the streets of New Orleans six days a week, chanting a list of his wares through a PA system like a muezzin in a minaret: "I have oranges. I have bananas. I have mirlitons".

On Sunday, I stood on Judge Perez Drive and cowered as tens of thousands of cabbages, potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic bulbs, lemons, grapefruit, limes, apples, bananas, candy, moon pies and even bags of ice and sugar rained from the sky.

It's that time of year again: just as the Mardi Gras hangovers fade and we've started thinking about work again, along comes another excuse to unplug our laptops and party.

This time the pretext is St Patrick's Day, when everyone in New Orleans takes to the streets in a spontaneous outburst of celebration after suddenly discovering Hibernian genes lurking in their DNA. My mistake was not to realise that the party started nine days before the event itself.

The people on the parade floats throw not just beads and cuddly toys but the ingredients for corned beef and cabbage, fondly believed to be the dish that people in Ireland eat on St Paddy's, though it's about as Irish as bratwurst and sauerkraut. They also distribute whatever food they have gathering dust in their pantries.

As a result, for a few virtuous days each year, we abandon our habitual diet of fried chicken and beignets and begin consuming our five daily portions of fruit and vegetables as hospital emergency rooms fill with people hit by flying cabbages.

The parade on Sunday