“This is my grandmother’s recipe that has been in the family for generations,” the text message relayed itself to me upon my screen. “You may use it for making your scones, it never fails and very easy, darling, just follow it and you can’t go wrong.”
“Okay thanks sweety.” My reply to the screen conversation in these days of isolation. “I will bring some over for you try later on when I have my visit.”
“Well that will be good, but I can’t have one because it has flour in.”
“Oh yeah, well I will tell you just how great they are.”
I set about honouring this ancient Queensland recipe, no doubt handed down through generations of family, steeped with historical richness. My whole livelihood hinged on this momentous occasion. A test of character, my very pride at stake, my ability to achieve, for this recipe is no ordinary one. It’s to do with making pumpkin scones. Like some kind of initiation into being a Queensland person, get it wrong and that Premier Woman, tough as nails, is likely to boot me out of the State.
I set about the task, making pumpkin scones.
All was going according to the simple step-by-step instructions on the handwritten recipe. I was flying with confidence, cruising. I had successfully turned the oven on and the tray was greased. How easy is this, I thought.
Little problems began presenting themselves, but with flair and imagination, I flattened the curve of distress, and chose to ignore the alleged way of doing things – after all, it’s an old recipe. Why is it necessary to sift flour anyway, these days it becomes sieved as it goes into the bag, surely! And that argument about self-raising flour and plain flour that I have forever tormented my mind with, raised its ugly head again. I choose to keep it simple and go plain, simply because I have more of it.
It wasn’t until I came to the mixing stage that I remembered reading about how the pumpkin should be cooked first. One little oversight, but I reasoned the pumpkin would cook in the oven anyway, so it wasn’t something I was ready to stress about.
Eventually the scones made their way into and out of the oven in required time. Something about them didn’t look right. They were different than the ones I’ve had at Nerada Tea. I could not allow this to prevent my visit to see her, time had already devoured the afternoon. Maybe she makes them like this and it’s normal. How am I meant to know about pumpkin scones anyway? It’s a Queenslander thing and if my being here hinges on pumpkin scone success well….. I let the thoughts drift out the car window as I neared her driveway. It was night-time by now, in time for tea, I smiled.
The issue of flat, rock hard scones was not really discussed. She seemed sullen or even displeased, maybe she was upset to a degree. She took one of the scones outside.
I saw the blade of her knife as it glinted in the moonlight. With masterful skill, she stropped the blade back and forward across the scone, sheaves of sparks exploded into the outside darkness.
On her re-entrance, her smile eased concerns for my personal health and safety for failing her recipe.
“Darling, that is the best stropping stone I’ve ever had, thank you.”
“Okay thanks sweety.” My reply to the screen conversation in these days of isolation. “I will bring some over for you try later on when I have my visit.”
“Well that will be good, but I can’t have one because it has flour in.”
“Oh yeah, well I will tell you just how great they are.”
I set about honouring this ancient Queensland recipe, no doubt handed down through generations of family, steeped with historical richness. My whole livelihood hinged on this momentous occasion. A test of character, my very pride at stake, my ability to achieve, for this recipe is no ordinary one. It’s to do with making pumpkin scones. Like some kind of initiation into being a Queensland person, get it wrong and that Premier Woman, tough as nails, is likely to boot me out of the State.
I set about the task, making pumpkin scones.
All was going according to the simple step-by-step instructions on the handwritten recipe. I was flying with confidence, cruising. I had successfully turned the oven on and the tray was greased. How easy is this, I thought.
Little problems began presenting themselves, but with flair and imagination, I flattened the curve of distress, and chose to ignore the alleged way of doing things – after all, it’s an old recipe. Why is it necessary to sift flour anyway, these days it becomes sieved as it goes into the bag, surely! And that argument about self-raising flour and plain flour that I have forever tormented my mind with, raised its ugly head again. I choose to keep it simple and go plain, simply because I have more of it.
It wasn’t until I came to the mixing stage that I remembered reading about how the pumpkin should be cooked first. One little oversight, but I reasoned the pumpkin would cook in the oven anyway, so it wasn’t something I was ready to stress about.
Eventually the scones made their way into and out of the oven in required time. Something about them didn’t look right. They were different than the ones I’ve had at Nerada Tea. I could not allow this to prevent my visit to see her, time had already devoured the afternoon. Maybe she makes them like this and it’s normal. How am I meant to know about pumpkin scones anyway? It’s a Queenslander thing and if my being here hinges on pumpkin scone success well….. I let the thoughts drift out the car window as I neared her driveway. It was night-time by now, in time for tea, I smiled.
The issue of flat, rock hard scones was not really discussed. She seemed sullen or even displeased, maybe she was upset to a degree. She took one of the scones outside.
I saw the blade of her knife as it glinted in the moonlight. With masterful skill, she stropped the blade back and forward across the scone, sheaves of sparks exploded into the outside darkness.
On her re-entrance, her smile eased concerns for my personal health and safety for failing her recipe.
“Darling, that is the best stropping stone I’ve ever had, thank you.”