Friday, 19 September 2014

My name is Stasia and I can't make scones.

It was my mum's birthday on Tuesday and we spent the day at the zoo. On Sunday I had asked if she wanted a birthday cake but she decided that she wanted scones instead, so we could take them with us to the zoo and have a birthday picnic. This was fine, I thought, I'd made scones once before when I was at uni and I remembered it being a pretty quick and easy thing to make.

So on Monday morning I put on my dotty apron and pulled Mary Berry's Baking Bible off the shelf, ready to go. This wasn't actually the recipe I had used the last time but I thought surely this will be even better than the scones I made last time. This is Mary Berry!

Cut to two hours later. I have cut out all of the scones twice because they kept shrinking on the baking tray, the kitchen is literally covered in flour, my hands are so stuck together with dough that I can't remember what it felt like to be able to move them freely, and I have already had a little cry. I finally get the scones in the oven and ten minutes later pull out these.


These are not scones. I don't know what they are but I think we can all agree that they are not scones. A friend of mine saw this picture and said they looked like 'scones cunningly disguised as eggs' and I have to agree with her. Apparently they taste okay but I personally am not in any hurry to try them.

Okay, so Mary Berry has let me down. It's alright, I can find the recipe I used last time. I'm at the end of my rope already but it's mum's birthday and she wants scones so scones there will be.

Except we don't have enough flour left for another batch of scones because I used it all on the aforementioned definitely-not-scones. I have another cry. Dad drives me to the supermarket to buy more flour.

The process for the next lot of scones is a lot more like I remember it from last time. It's quick, easy, not too messy, and at no point do I feel the need to have a cry.

Until, of course, I open the oven door to find these.


They look more like scones than they do eggs, yes, and are therefore a step up from the last batch. But as you can see they are also almost completely flat. However, I do not cry. I am already numb to the disappointment.

I throw away the second half of that batter. By this time it is almost four o'clock. I haven't finished making mum's actual birthday present, I haven't showered, and at seven I am going to see a film at our local cinema club with dad. But I'm in too far now.

I grab the hella old cookery book that mum insists contains the best recipes in the world. Just that morning in fact, after the egg-scones came out of the oven, she told me that this book, that she has had since she was in school, has the best scone recipe in it.

Okay, I think, I'll try it. At this point I have spent an entire day making scones with no actual scones to show for it. I have nothing to lose.


I finally give up. I am surrounded by not-scones. Three batches of three different recipes and all that's left are me in my dotty apron and around 30 things that are definitely not scones.

I leave the not-scones strewn across the kitchen and have a long bath.

Mum comes home from her meeting. She tries to assess what exactly I did wrong with all the scones. I do not want to talk about it.

Mum makes her own scones.


I vow never to make scones ever again.

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