In Which Jeremy Bakes

Jeremy is on a huge scone making kick right now.

He goes through these phases-- for a while it was sourdough, and we had a different kind every week.  Sourdough bread.  Sourdough rolls.  Sourdough bagels.  He kept the starter in a crock the fridge, and after Jer left for Afghanistan I faithfully measured out little portions of flour and water and "fed" it every week until he got blown up.  That's when it got shoved to the back of the fridge behind all my delivery pizza boxes and promptly forgotten about until it was time to move out of the apartment, at which point I had to pry the lid open with a knife in order to be able to wash the crock out.  I'm not sure what kind of bread the starter would have made at that point, but it probably would have glowed eerily in the dark and, if we ate it, either bestowed super powers upon us or killed us.

So that was the end of the sourdough phase, and now that Jer's able to be in the kitchen again we're on to scones.  Last week it was buttermilk, and today it was oatmeal, and I have no doubt that next week will be some other kind.  Not that I'm complaining, mind you; I'm always up for scones, especially when they are fresh out of the oven, drizzled with honey and butter and I get to eat them with a nice cup of hot tea.  This isn't exactly a hardship.  There's also no danger that the scones will come to life and attempt to murder me in my bed the way the sourdough starter might have had I given it another week or two to evolve legs.  No, the scones pose a more insidious threat. 

The problem is that now, whenever I want them, there are scones sitting in the kitchen singing a little siren song to me that's impossible to resist.  I believe that the last batch Jer made involved an entire stick of butter, so this is not exactly a good thing.  And he doesn't make any old wimpy bite-size scones, either.  These things are the size of my hand, and it's really hard to eat just one.  My guess is that I could very easily get my entire daily recommended caloric intake after about fifteen minutes of hanging out near Jer's cooling racks.  And he's shown no sign of slowing production down any time soon.

I don't have a work to take them into, which means that I have to find other, more creative ways to get them out of the house before I keel over from scone-induced heart failure.  I'll just have to start inviting friends over to help me eat the scones, until Jeremy's attention turns to some other, less artery-clogging bread product.  Until the scone-eating masses descend, I'll must continue to force myself to eat more ridiculously good scones, heavy on the honey and melted butter.  If I wash them down with tea I'll just be able to manage.

My life is so hard.

~Jess