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“Aaaand she’d wave her magic wand around in the air and shout out what she called Celtic charms…”
    I finish for them. “…So the boys would get caught and get a kiss and a quid, and all they had to do was run around a little.” I nod in respect. “Not bad.”
    “Everybody was happy,” Erin says, pouting. “Everyone but the bloody priest. Probably just jealous he wasn’t getting any.”
    Her mother smacks her leg. “Erin Ignatia Margaret O’Neill! The cheek!”
    I nod, respect for my friend reaching new levels. “Well, that explains it.”
    “Explains what, dear?” asks Aunty Ger.
    “How she’s so successful with the pub.” I take in the attentive expressions around me. “She brought it up from nothing and turned it into a great commercial success. It’s the most popular Irish bar in the city.”
    “Can we talk about something else?” Erin says, a little too loudly. It cuts off my train of thought.
    “How about we talk about the match-making tradition?” says Uncle Miley. “Ye girls’ll be gettin’ to Lisdoonvarna just in time, eh? Gonna look up old Henry O’Henry, are ye?”
    I frown. “Who’s Henry O’Henry?”
    “He’s a matchmaker,” explains Erin, “who comes from a long line of matchmakers.”
    “Seriously?” I look around at everyone, trying to figure out if I’m being mocked somehow. Maybe this is part of Erin’s past too.
    “Oh, yeah,” says Aunty Ger, levering herself up off the couch to go over to the appetizers. “You can look it up on The Google if ye like.” She pops one of those round balls in her mouth.
    I stare in fascination as she chews. Is it crunching? Is that a crunch I hear? Do eyeballs crunch?
    “It’s not Theeee Google, Aunty Ger,” says Erin. “It’s just Goooogle.”
    “Well it’s a silly name, whichever it is, isn’t it?” She swallows her mouthful. “Mmm, delicious toad testicles, Una. You’ve outdone yourself.” She winks at me as she grabs another from the bowl.
    “Toad eyeballs, Aunty Ger. Eyeballs. Not testicles.” Erin drops her chin to her chest. “Why, oh why, did I decide to fly into Dublin?” She looks up at the ceiling. “God? Are you there? It’s me. Erin.”
    “So, what’s the deal with this matchmaker guy?” I ask. “Is it like a real business?”
    “Oh, absolutely it is,” says Erin’s father. “Founded on hundreds of years of tradition.”
    Erin takes over the explanation. “Years ago, after the harvest, farmers would come into town looking for a bride. They’re too busy at other times of the year or locked in with the weather to manage it. So the matchmakers would have a book of willing gals and a book of willing lads and put them together.”
    “And that worked?” This is fascinating to me. I’m on the edge of my seat. Ireland is so different from home.
    “Of course,” says Uncle Miley. “Why wouldn’t it?”
    I shrug. “I don’t know. It just seems … too difficult to do with just a couple books of names.”
    Erin takes over again. “The matchmaker knows everyone. He talks to them. Gets into their lives, their heads. He can see, because he has a special talent, who’s a good match for who. They’ve put together hundreds of families.”
    “Check it on the Internet,” says Aunty Ger. “The Google can tell you everything you want to know about the whole process.”
    Erin rolls her eyes again.
    “And what’s that got to do with the festival?” I ask. Erin told me we would be arriving in town during a matchmaking festival, but I had no idea what she was really talking about. I’m not sure I understand now either.
    “Well, ye know, it got all commercial like these things tend to do in this modern age,” says Uncle Miley.
    Erin’s dad is grumbling about something, but I can’t tell what it is with his accent.
    Erin sighs loudly and gives him a glare.
    Uncle Miley explains further. “And now, yeah, the farmers they come, but so do all the other single lads and lasses and they all have a