SconesHere is the way of the scones, the third time.
Arise too early, far too early, for no real reason to speak of. Stumble to the kitchen. Consult the notes in the cookbook; the notes say the oven goes to 400F. Set the oven to that, so that the rock can get comfortable in the heat. In between the cup of tea and the bowl of something, get out the large glass bowl and the sifter. Measure into the sifter 1 3/4 cups flour, 2 1/4 tsp. baking powder, a smatter of salt and a bit of cinnamon. Sift. (Have some tea). Into the medium liquid measuring cup, crack two eggs. Reserve a teaspoon or two of egg in a shot glass. To the eggs in the measuring cup, add 1/3 cup heavy cream, a splash of milk, 1 1/2 tbsp. honey (more or less) and a tipple each of almond and vanilla extracts. Mix this all up. (Have some tea). Slice a 1/4 cup of butter as thin as one can into the flour, then cut the butter into the flour with a pair of butter knives. Listen thoughtfully to the radio. (Have some tea). When the butter is nicely in, dump in the liquid and mix quickly and sparsely as one can. Add more milk, because it always seems to need some. Turn the shaggy mass out onto the floured board, pat it down to be flat and square, then cut into triangles with the dough blade. Glaze the triangles with the reserved egg, or not, and sprinkle with sugar, or not. Load the triangles up onto the peel and scoot them onto the rock in the oven. Wait 12 minutes, checking at 10. Get them off the rock fast, and let them cool on racks. Eat one with clotted cream as soon as possible.
Scones.
I am out of cream now, and I need to turn sights to other things. Bagels deserve another investigation, as do english muffins. It is very much becoming time to start making pasta again. Eventually, the cream will return to the refrigerator, glumly seeking my attention on the top shelf.
Dinner is fallback comfort food: a New England recipe for grilled cheese, along side a steaming cup of cream of tomato soup. The soup is laced heavy with pepper, and goes down hot.
DispatchJuliet is feeling better, but is not yet well. She has asked me to cover one of the porch benches with blankets. The bench is quite deep, and there are enough throws and quilts to make the hard woods of the seat pillowy. I have saved the other half of the blankets for Juliet to wrap around her. It is a chilly evening, but I find myself comfortable with a light jacket and a cup of hot almond milk.
In the dim across the valley, something has happened at Artur Montrevasso's house. We cannot see to well, but in the drive are several vehicles with strobing lights, red and blue and white. We do not know how many there are, or why they are there. We can hear no noises of engines, and none of them are moving. The lights reach out across the valley to lick the tops of trees.
We watch for a while. It is quiet, and we say nothing to break it. We see nothing change, and we wait.
A SettlementI think I am lost in the woods.
I did not mean to be. Marco understands these hills very well, and sometimes his directions are vague when he sends us here or there to fetch him this or that. I am further down through the trees than we usually go. Marco has casually mentioned a set of cisterns in these hills, and I have learned that it is often those things which pass quietly that turn out to be of most interest.
The path back began to give me trouble when the hill curved away in a direction I did not expect, either on the crude map on my napkin or in the steps I had took before. The sky had become cloudy, and the sun has stayed hid, and while I recognize the hills, I do not know which is which.
The sky is growing dim, but it is not unfriendly out here. It is cool, but there is no wind. I have a good coat and good boots, and a blanket, too. The picnic that was packed for me was over large, and there is plenty left. I have managed to keep a hold of my hat.
These hills have felt the feet of travellers for centuries, tens of centuries, more. The hollow at the foot of this tree may not have seen others through the night, but I would like to think that it has. I imagine I can start a fire if I have need, but I do not.
It is very quiet.
Walking PiBecause today is the day that it is, they have put Pi down on the sidewalk around the place where I work. They have done this in chalk, long looping lines of it, a trail of numbers that is at least six thousand digits long. In places, the numbers grow large and artful, and in others they are cramped and squeezed. In many places the numbers are annotated, or illuminated, or both. I have found the beginning; I should walk it to the end.
What this place needs is a labyrinth.
Consumer Product Notes From A Life ReleasedMy kitchen timer needs a button for fifteen minute increments.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.