A guy walks into a bar..wait..that's a bakery


Let’s call him Andy, for starters. He’s a special educator, hates his job, saves his money and quits. He’s never been to Ireland, where his parents are from, so he finds a cheap flight and gets on the plane. The answer for his dead-end life, he thinks, is finding an Irish wife. Maybe he has read Thomas D’Arcy McGee’s poem, “The Irish Wife,” with the stanza:
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,
        
  My heaven by day, my stars by night;
And twin-like truth and fondness lie
  Within her swelling bosom white
My Irish wife has golden hair,
  Apollo’s harp had once such strings,
        
Apollo’s self might pause to hear
  Her bird-like carol when she sings.

Or maybe he knows the Irish are known for story-telling, a sense of humor and love of family. Their hearts are warm, their dispositions happy. Irish women make tasty Irish stews, corned beef and cabbage and soda bread. And an Irish woman can hold her whisky.

So, where does one find an Irish wife? A pub, of course. In Galway he searches out a nightclub and has himself a Guinness while he looks around. A redhead catches his eye. He asks her to dance. She’s not bad looking, a spark in her eye. When they take a break from the dance floor, he tries to make conversation, but she obviously isn’t entranced by the Yank. She does, however, give him a good tip. Make sure you go to Griffin’s Bakery. Their motto is “Half a loaf is better than being without bread.” The Irish gal has given him half a loaf, but he’s still hungry.

The next day he stumbles into Griffin’s and orders an apple turnover. The counter girl is fresh-face pretty, her brown hair cropped short under a silly baker's cap, her eyes not blue but a captivating hazel. When he asks how much for the turnover, she answers with a strange accent. Not Irish—he’s disappointed. He’s a Massachusetts boy, but this girl is no Yankee. He has to ask. Georgia, she says. Not Russian Georgia. Southern States Georgia.

What are the chances a New England boy will find himself face-to-face across an Irish bakery counter looking straight at a girl from Georgia? A girl named not Fiona or Colleen or Sinead..but Laura? Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions. It’s better to eat pastries.

And so he does. Every day. When he starts putting on weight, Laura takes pity on him and asks if he wants to hang out after work. He does.

Turns out, Laura escaped to Ireland for a five-month Celtic experience. Andy was crashing with Galway friends for a few months. Long enough to fall in love. And love takes this serious educator back to the States and down the east coast to Athens, Georgia. Three years ago he married that bakery lady, and now she’s his heaven by day, his stars at night. Four days ago Laura discovered that she’s pregnant. They are ecstatic. Last night they stayed in the treehouse. H and I are ecstatic.

I didn’t make apple turnovers for breakfast, but we’re serving blueberry muffins. And cheese omelets. And strawberries, melon and kiwi. All in the name of love.



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