Today was a culinary disappointment. Not that culinary disappointments are unusual for me. I suck at everything except putting rhyming words at the end of a phrase. My husband, though, is amazing at everything; he is the modern Renaissance man. He can cook, decorate, write, draw, sew, sing, browse and grocery shop. Not only that, but “menstuff” too: renovate, landscape, program, play hard-core computer games, and, most important to men, yell and grunt loudly during football games. And intellectually, he has a mensa IQ, a Psych degree, a master’s in business but is a SQL DBA, self learned. But like all men, he bowed to a moment of my short-lived cuteness and here we are 20 years later. He makes the scones, not I. I am just allowed to eat them, and make the berry butter. Otherwise, I have been found wanting as I don’t have the patience. But unfortunately for the ladies at my church’s Christmas tea this weekend, I was volunteered to create this ancient tea accompaniment, and I did not feel that my husband should be forced to make 30 scones but not eat any. And neither did he when I tentatively raised the issue.
So I tried. I never knew that a kitchen could look so white outside of demolition after I was done. Flour everywhere: hair, face, shirt, cabinets, floor, counters. I was sliding in flour. And I had several major emergency events requiring both Brent and my 10 year old’s assistance, generally due to hands too concrete with dough to open the oven. It didn’t help to see the smirky grins either. By the time I was done, I was thinking evil thoughts about the first creator of the scone, her family, the recipe, the Scottish clan and then Scotland in general. As I am part Scottish, I was not prejudiced, just momentarily insane.
Most famous chefs are men for good reason. Math and chemistry, hallmarks of culinary creation, are still dominated by men. Chefs create culinary art. Women still have, mostly, the thankless job of just cooking. And when one does neither, one should just say no when volunteered.
It’s amazing how a series of irritating events can cloud the entire day, especially when they are not disasterous to the family, or will not matter in one week. That is what I kept thinking. But failure, no matter how small, is hard for the poorly self-confident. Just one more notch in my ladder that goes down, not up.
So how did they turn out? Definitely home-made looking. Slightly drunk, irregular, different sized, different colored. As I looked at my poor offering, a child’s play dough art, I felt a little ashamed. So I lowered my standards, after all, none were burned and I am hopeful that no one will die horribly from the taste or a food born illness. And next time? I will plead scone PTSD and suggest something simpler, like muffins.
Volunteered for a time-honored mission:
the creation of a scone!
This church sponsored condition
was for our holiday tea tradition.
And while scones are poor nutrition
with tea they reign alone.
I attempted my own rendition
(with nary a sigh or moan).
But I must make this admission:
my culinary husband won’t be de-throned
for I have no cooking ambition
outside of required meals at home.
And while this came to fruition
my kitchen looked like a combat zone
post- apocalyptic demolition!
And, sob, they look like a pumice stone.
So now I shall be better known
as a sad cook with poor skill acquisition
my non-existent reputation has flown
and the scone experiment will not bear repetition!