When we first moved to Houston from Dallas, one of our new neighbors greeted us with a homemade gift. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” she said. “I made you some Irish soda bread—it’s my favorite!” She then handed over a foil-wrapped package, still warm from the oven. It was a fine welcome.
After expressing gratitude, my mom and I took the bread into the kitchen. As I’d never heard of Irish soda bread, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. My first surprise was that it wasn’t green, as at that young age green was my only association with Ireland since wearing it on St. Patrick’s Day kept you from being pinched. But no, this bread instead was light brown with a craggy crust. If anything it reminded me of an oversized biscuit.
I pulled off a small piece and took a bite—it was soft and flaky with a hint of sweetness. It was so flavorful and tender I ate it unadorned, though a pat of cold butter would not have been unwelcome. It was very good—so good in fact that my mom had to warn me to stop eating it lest I ruin my appetite for dinner. Since I had never had Irish soda bread in Dallas, I wondered if it was a popular bread in Houston. The conclusion was that it wasn’t particular to Houston, just to our friendly neighbor (and Ireland, of course). But no matter its provenance, it was still a treat.
Over the next few days, we ate slices from the loaf. Even after it had cooled, it was still tender and sweet. I loved that bread and when we finally reached the end of the loaf I was very disappointed. Now here’s the thing. My hope had been that we would get the Irish soda bread recipe from our new neighbor and we’d continue baking it ourselves at home. But for some reason that never happened, and then those neighbors moved away, taking their recipe with them.
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