Simmy and Deborah both sprang for a loaf of Irish bread, um, with style? Deborah was also going to put green food colouring in their beer... she's such a celebrator.
It was just past 5:30 and the jalapeno potatoes were cooking in the oven. Jalapenos are green!
Simmy opened the bag of bread to get a taste of Ireland.
"What does it smell like?" Sam asked from his spot in the living room where he was reading the newspaper.
Simmy glanced around the corner and shivered a bit, thinking... oy, if you add some dark paneling on the walls, Sam will look like he's ensconced in an Irish pub with all that beard growth.
Thoughts aside, what came out of her mouth was, "It smells like potatoes. I think they've managed to slip some into the bread."
Sam laughed, "Ah yes, they like their potatoes."
There was something significant happening that day but Simmy didn't know what it was until she read the obituaries a couple of days later.
A feisty, no nonsense, petite Irish woman that Simmy had served coffee to for many years, when she had worked in a cafe, had chosen,...
yes, chosen, to die that day.
Over eighty years old, she had been a productive busy person who hadn't spared you a smile unless she deemed you worthy of one.
Simmy chuckled, remembering how she had tried hard to win over that customer. Her brusque exterior hadn't bothered Simmy and she had a good memory of this daunting tasker.
In particular, Simmy remembered the one time she had succeeded in coaxing a smile from this little Irish whirlwind.
One smile!
It was enough! It helped her recognize the beautiful photo in the obituaries.
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