Any good writer should be able to create a written masterpiece capable of transporting the reader into a wonderland of imagination, carrying the mind into realms of exquisite delight. The writing should be good enough to give the story wings, in other words.

Wings.

Not feet.

Serif fonts used as body text seem to be the written visual cousin to hoarding. Why should a font take up that extra space? Why should I allow some letters to clutter up the hallway and force me to meander around? Who needs the extra ink on the page? There is a local independant newspaper/magazine that I could take for free from a dispenser right outside the Post Office. It’s a publication that’s been around for several years. Usually I like free. Unfortunately, this paper uses a poor grade paper with a seriously smeary ink and…a serif font.

Yes, let’s put as much ink on the paper as we can, because it’s such a fun, charcoal-y ink. Pour it on, serifs.

Serious writers should avoid serif fonts so that the words are forced to do the serious work.

My words don’t need feet. They need to stay right where they are. If the work I give them — the work of carrying my story or opinion — is too much, the last thing I want to provide them with is an escape mechanism. It’s bad enough when readers walk away.

Sometimes I just like worksheets. They make me feel like I’m getting things done, whether I am or not. At the end of the day, I feel accomplishment.

“What did you do today?”

“Why, I finished these worksheets.”

Anyway, because I’m creatively blocked today, here on this blog, I’m re-purposing this worksheet, pulling it from my old blog and bringing onto this one. I’d fill it out myself but I know how it ends.

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Get the worksheet. (PDF)

“They weren’t bad,” my friend said.

That means that they weren’t good, either. The bag of flour I use has a little emblem in the corner that says “125 years of baking success” and I can honestly say I haven’t contributed to much of it.

I decided to try again. We made scones at the shop all the time, except that wasn’t one of my usual tasks and I can’t seem to remember important details like…the recipe. I just never really made them. Brownies yes, scones, no.

How hard can it be, I thought. I knew the kind of ingredients. It was just a matter of finding the right amount.

I dumped two cups of flour in the mixing bowl. Next was the baking soda. Last time I’d used a tablespoon but that left a chemical-leaven-salt taste in my mouth, so I used only a teaspoon of soda and I skipped the salt. I decided to put in three tablespoons of sugar because I have a sweet tooth.

Next up was the butter, and I was unsure about this. My last attempt seemed to lack the moist and flaky dough I wanted. Perhaps that was the dough rebelling against the baking soda, but just to be sure, I went with a scientific “one stick outta do it.” The butter must be cold, mind you, and cut into small chunks. Cold butter means flaky dough. You want room temperature butter in things like cakes and cookies, but for a flaky crust or biscuit, you have to use cold butter.

Don't over-mix. You'll have a lot of dry ingredients in the bottom of the bowl.

I put the mixer on low and let it beat the butter and dry ingredients together so that it was a kind of powdery, pebbled mix. I took this opportunity to determine if my heavy cream was still OK to use, since it is about two weeks past the expiration date. Thinking back to the many times I saw my mother in the kitchen, sniffing a dairy product, wrinkling her nose and thinking for a few moments, and then dumping it in, I figured it wouldn’t matter. We bake with sour cream, after all, so I went with the idea that this batch of scones would be an adventure. In a bowl, I lightly beat two eggs and added a half cup of the questionable cream.

Since this was the liquids portion of the recipe, I wanted any flavorings to go in it. The next step involved as little mixing as possible, so it was a good idea to get all of the liquids mixed together themselves before adding them to the powdery mixture in the mixing bowl. I of course use vanilla, since we all know that heaven and happy dreams are made up of 93 percent vanilla. I also threw in some almond extract just because. I have no specific measurement. Just dump some in without getting carried away. If your family or guests are staggering around the room after eating your scones, you put in too much flavoring.

I added the liquids to the powders and mixed on low for about a count of five seconds or so, threw in my white and chocolate chips (you can use whatever you want, including fruit, cheese, bacon bits — I just had those to use up). Then I mixed it for another five seconds, give or take a few seconds. Basically, I mixed it until it was barely combined and there were still large amounts of seemingly rebellious powder at the bottom of the bowl. You don’t want to over-mix it; it makes for a tough scone if you do.

Cut your scones as big or small as you'd like. Do not cut your fingers.

The dough was very messy and crumbly in parts while sticky in others. I dumped it out onto my wooden cutting board and began gently hand-working it so that it would stick together.

If you’re like me, you’ll spill a significant amount on the floor and say words you shouldn’t. But again, don’t over work the dough. Just enough to keep its form is all you need to do. You’re not kneading bread. The dough is your friend, not your enemy.

I formed the dough into a rough circle, and cut it in triangle slices, like a pie. I also ate four chocolate chips that would not stay embedded in the dough. Each triangle slice went on a greased cookie sheet, and was sprinkled with a bit of sugar and then put in the oven at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes. That will vary — just watch so they don’t get over-done. The butter shouldn’t be glistening on the dough; if it is, give it a few more minutes. If your oven is like mine, they will go from raw to charcoal the moment you step away.

I made myself a requisite cup of tea to drink while I tried out this latest scone effort. The scones were pretty good, though not as good as they were at the shop. I will make them again to continue to use up all the old dairy products I find as I excavate my fridge. I did attempt to take a standard artsy-fartsy foodie photo of the scone, but was interrupted by a Christmas cookie that bombed my photograph. That gingerbread man is going to lose his legs if he does it again.

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Get a copy of the recipe. (PDF)

I’m part of a small group that actually is small. We meet at each other’s place on Wednesday nights, and in the past the host has made a meal. It’s possible that we’ve all used up our cooking repertoire, or we just want to simplify. Whatever the case, we decided to have a meeting with more of an appetizer/grazing feel before the Bible study. The email discussion went as follows:

Person 1: We’re going to meet at my place on Wednesday.  I just need to know if I’m making dinner? Or appetizers?  Or dessert?  Help!

Person 2: No need for a meal. Dessert or appetizers would be fine by me…

Person 3: Unfortunately, I can’t make it this Wednesday. But if my vote still counts I think a hearty meal would be nice.

Person 1: Thanks for your vote. But no, it doesn’t count.

Me: Beef Wellington.

Person 1: Sorry, folks…no beef wellington tomorrow. I’m thinking just snacky things. Would anyone be able to bring some chips and dip? Or veggies? That would be awesome.

Me: [Person 4], I would suggest you bring Fritos corn chips (scoops) with ranch dip. It’s what God would want.

Person 2: Yep i’ll bring some chips and salsa.

Person 4: Thank you Julie for informing me of God’s intentions. I have been waiting a long time for that. Although, I thought He’d have a little more to say than “bring Fritos.”

Me: I will bring some baked food item kind of snack. I don’t know what yet. God hasn’t revealed it. But I will bring it.

Initially, I was a little apprehensive. I was counting on Fritos and ranch dip, but it sounded like it would be salsa. I don’t actually like salsa. I wish people would just listen to God when he speaks. And then, that Beef Wellington.

I take the garbage out for the last time.

It’s 5:30 and dark out and everyone is next door at the Toasted Frog. The sidewalks are icy and we make several trips to her car and truck. Our shoes pick up salt and slush and I realize I won’t ever have to mop or sweep that floor again.

She is a little silent. There are mixed feelings for both of us — relief and sadness — and I look at the mural I painted and realize it will soon be gone, too. The brown tables. The empty cases.

A man comes to the door and tries to get in. We keep working, but he is insistent, and the phone begins to ring. It is him, and so I go to the door.

We’re closed, I say.

But we want to have a wedding consultation, he insists.

It’s after hours anyway, but we are really closed. For good, I say. We are closed for good.

He leaves after a moment of confusion, and I go back to loading up boxes.

Another man comes to the door and she opens it this time and he sees me standing there and inquires after all the other employees but me, and I wonder why, after two years, he continues to refuse to acknowledge me. It’s too bad you’re closing, he says to her.

I think of my co-workers and feel sad. Elizabeth, and the funny moments with her. Kristin, who was quick to laugh at my stupid jokes. Courtney’s delicious Italian wedding soup. Nathan’s spotless sink. The jokes, the Disney  music and crazy dancing when no one was around. The dough pets and bagel fights and my imitation of a shrieking monkey. We had some fun sometimes.

She locks the door as the man walks away, and we return to packing and cleaning.

I think of the angry emails, the cruel comments, and the critiques people left online, and I wonder what place these last two years will have in my life once I put in some distance from them.

We are almost finished.

I think of the regular customers I grew to enjoy — Beverly, Connie, David, Peter, Emily, the Raspberry Scone guy, the Molasses Cookie Guy, the Roast Beef Provolone Guy, Mr. Coffee and Caramel Roll, and Quiche Grandma — so many, and so many more. I realize how I will miss those regulars who were so kind and so patient with three very tired and very broke workers who didn’t always come with their game face.

That’s the last of it, she says.

So for three years she has put every last bit of effort into this place and now we are done and I wonder how people will react. Will they understand, or will it be a matter of gift certificates not used and things we didn’t do right? Will we fade quietly away and let some of those difficult memories go? Were we people , or only people who made them food? No more making quiche, no more scones, no more messy brownies, no more cakes and cut hands from the cake knife slipping, no more dirty dishes. Thousands of cupcakes, cookies, bagels — done.

Yeah, I say, that’s it.

I think of how I was always worried that the cookies were burning, and how I might never make egg salad ever again. I tell myself that I’m done with baking. So much change, and all at once.

I take one last long look around. Goodbye, Patisserie. It was quite a ride, I think.

She flips off the light and we walk out for the last time.