When my children were quite small I belonged to several groups at our church. I eagerly signed up because both groups were offering babysitting which left me free to sit at the refined table of my peers taking in a bible study or making a craft and enjoying a lovely hot beverage. Usually these crafts were elementary compared to what I was churning out at home but I didn’t care. That wasn’t the point. I do remember one morning painting was involved and absentmindedly (which was how I did a lot of things back then) I was dipping my paint brush in someone’s coffee thinking it was water. When I saw her reach for it to take a sip I bellowed ‘don’t drink that’ to the surprise and shock of everyone at the table nearly spilling the cup a ruining everyone’s works of art. AH, but I digress…. One of these groups was called MOPS which was an acronym for Mothers of Preschoolers. I cleverly joined the executive of this group so I wouldn’t have to be on the babysitting team (although I think we did eventually hire younger and older women without children to do the babysitting). Being on the executive meant organizing our gatherings and socials. I usually thrived on being involved. I needed an outlet for the creative ideas which were oozing our of every pore of my body. We had decided to have a brunch for the moms (made by the moms), sort of a potluck kind of deal. We wanted it to be something none of us were too familiar with in this season of our lives…elegant. A deviation from eating the rest of the kids cheerios off the floor or drinking the rest of their Sunny Delight (Yikes – edible oil product) out of a sticky Batman sippy cup as you ran out the door half dressed with a curler still in your hair. I’m sure the menu probably included fruit salad, quiche, cheeses/grapes…that sort of thing. I suggested we have scones, complete with devonshire cream and lovely homemade jam. And where, pray tell, were we getting the homemade jam? I volunteered to raid my mother’s pantry. We laid out the menu to the moms and then asked for volunteers for each item. I am sure the scone volunteers thought they were getting away easy. I passed out the exact recipe I wanted them to use for the scones (I didn’t want any of these rock hard white hockey pucks showing up). I was a bit bossy and arrogant when I think of it now. I also instructed them to bake the scones the morning of the brunch. Get up early and make them fresh and bring them warm. The way they looked at me you’d have thought I had antennae sticking out of my head and one eye in the middle of my face. What? True British scones had to be fresh and melt in your mouth. Off you go, I shooed them away.
Well the morning of the brunch arrived and I set the alarm early to make my scones. As I gathered the ingredients together I realized I there was not a speck or crumb of baking powder in the pantry. Not even an empty box. Hello? Scones are the sophisticated cousin of baking powder biscuits. I couldn’t possibly make scones without baking powder. The stores weren’t open yet and besides, by the time I got a 2 year old and a 6 year old ready to go to the store, not to mention myself, well…just not happening. If you are/were a mom, you know what I mean. I urgently called up my dear friend who lived in close proximity in the neighborhood. I timidly asked if she had any baking powder I could use for the scones. She was also involved in the brunch and she just howled when she learned of my predicament. The high and mighty scone organizer didn’t think to check her supply of baking powder the night before? Sadly, I did not. When she finished laughing, my friend agreed to send her 9 year son over on his bike with the much coveted baking powder. When he arrived, I threw open the door to give him a hug and PONGO, our brainless Dalmatian bolted through the space and tore into the park across the street. He was always looking for ways to escape. I most certainly did not have time for this. I asked my delivery boy to stay in the house with the kids while I ran over to the park in my pajamas and cajoled our family pet to come home. He was not falling for it. I ran back to the house to get the leash and some dog treats. If I wanted to get the leash on him, first I was going to have to catch him. I am sure the neighbors were enjoying their breakfast entertainment immensely. Finally I managed to wrestle the unruly spotted canine to the ground by the collar and stuffed him full of treats. I latched the leash to his collar and stood up straight and said ‘heel’. He had no idea what I was talking about – he wasn’t trained. Although, he must have understood some connotation of word ‘heel’ as he dug his own heels (do dogs have heels?) into the ground and decided he wasn’t going anywhere. I was pulling on the leash with all my strength and his paws were digging up dirt trenches in the grass as I tried to inch him toward the edge of the park. I don’t know how I finally got him back in the yard because he was far too huge to actually pick up. He was probably loving this game. He’d never had so much fun in his life – which was getting shorter by the moment I might add. I spent many wasted hours chasing that dog around the neighborhood, looking for him, not looking for him, hoping he was lost forever. I remember one time when he was nowhere to be found, I finally resigned myself to ‘not finding him’ and was starting to imagine my glorious life without the dumber half of dumb and dumber and the phone rang. It was the SPCA “somebody found your dog and brought him to the shelter, would you like to come and pick him up and pay $100 for the shots we had to give him in order to let him mingle with the rest of the dogs?” NO – I would not. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how somebody caught that crazy animal and was able to stuff him into a car. Jeesh.
Where was I? Oh yes…the brunch. Somehow I eventually managed to get my scones baked, the kids ready and dash off for the brunch. I was a bit late but, by God, my scones were fresh. In fact they were still warm. There was still steam rising from the basket of buttery biscuits laced with dried cranberries and white chocolate when I entered the church. While I was arranging my scones on the brunch table, I overheard a couple of moms giggling and whispering amongst themselves. They were just close enough or loud enough for me to realize that they were mocking me. They had pulled the wool over my eyes. They had made their scones the night before and waited until morning to bake them while they were getting ready. Why didn’t I think of that?
SCONES
2 cups flour
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 Tablespoon baking powder (for the love of 1 TBSP of baking powder)
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1/2 Teaspoon baking Soda
1/2 Cup of butter
1/2 Cup sour creme
1/4 Cup milk
Dried Cranberries and white chocolate chunks – to taste.
Combine flour, sugar, BP, salt and BS. Cut butter in finely (with hands). Combine sour creme and milk in another dish then make a well in the dry mixture and pour in the sour creme and milk. Stir with a fork and eventually use your hands to make a soft, slightly sticky dough. Gather in a ball and on a lightly floured surface pat the ball flat (1/2 thick). Cut out circles with a glass cup. Use any size you prefer. Place on a baking sheet (I now use parchment paper) and brush tops with milk and sprinkle sugar. Bake at 350% for 15-20 minutes. Don’t let them get brown. Brown edges only.
TIP: Make them in the evening and bake them the morning of your event
The Red Plaid Apron 