When I lived at 21st and O streets in D.C., I had a roommate from Washington state, H. H. was a lawyer who often woke up at 6 a.m. And every Monday, when I’d roll out of bed around 8, there would be freshly-baked scones on a baking sheet on the stove. The smells of freshly-baked dough and freshly-brewed coffee filled our two-bedroom apartment. H. was a morning person, so she would look up from her computer at the kitchen table when I walked in groggy, rubbing my eyes, and she’d greet me with a smile.
“You amaze me,” I’d say. I loved that that was the way we started our week.
I thought of H. this morning when I woke up at 6:45. Both of my boys were still sleeping. I threw on a fleece and slippers and came into the kitchen, the morning sun filling the room, and I put dollops of vanilla chai scones on a baking sheet and my espresso on the stove.
A. walked in about a half hour later. He looked at the stove with the scones, still soft, and then looked at the clean counters and in the sink. “You made these?” he said, obviously surprised there wasn’t flour and sugar and gunk everywhere. I laughed and nodded.
I never knew how easy it is to make scones. Perhaps I’ll create a new tradition — because they taste wonderful first thing in the morning.