This Irish treat can mean big trouble for a Leprechaun.
Brooke Doyle rose before dawn this St Patrick’s Day morning to bake a loaf of Soda Bread, an Irish treat, for Ethan O’Rafferty, who would later call to escort her to the day’s festivities. She favored his courting and hoped to impress him with this gift. Extra care went into this loaf, including the “X” cut across the top to ward off fairies. The task accomplished, she set the bread on the kitchen table to cool and went about her morning chores, allowing time to primp before the young man’s arrival. The aroma filled the room and floated out through the open window to the leprechaun village under the bush at the far end of the garden.
“Smell that?” asked Happy Meadowbush, standing beside Passiflora Lightningvale, at the village edge. “That’s Soda Bread, my favorite, and Miss Doyle’s is the best. I must have some.”
“You can’t steal that,” Passiflora replied, “it is too big to carry.”
“I’ll take just a wee piece,” said Happy.
“Then the loaf will be unfit to present to her beau,” objected Lightningvale.
Meadowbush would not be deterred. He headed for the open window, through the vegetable patch, lush with the green of sprouting plants, across the grass, and up the wall to the window sill, where he paused to inspect the kitchen. The bread sat on the wooden table surrounded by old chairs. No Brooke and no Leprechaun Trap in sight, just a tea kettle heating on the stove.
Happy dashed to the table, awash in the smell of the freshly baked loaf, cut out just one bite — then another, another, the tea kettle screamed, maybe one more.
I wonder if she has time to bake another loaf, thought Happy, as the green Shamrock shaped fly swatter hurtled down on him.
Word Count: 297