Blueberry Scones and Runner’s Blues

August 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

People are hard to listen to sometimes. Who wants to hear about what I dreamed last night? Only if my rêves include you should I divulge details about my surreal synapses. I sometimes feel like the same rules should apply to complaints. If I know you haven’t yet done your taxes and I haven’t touched mine either—then it’s fine to go out for coffee and gripe about paperwork.

If I really think this, I ought to quit whining about my right calf, which has been a ball of twisted, teased muscles for about 3 weeks. I have no idea what’s wrong. As an runner, it’s difficult to be spending these beautiful August days off my legs. I used to smile and wave to my fellow runners on the road, now I see them plugging along when I ride my bike or walk to where I need to go, and it’s a shame: I shoot them a look of bitter jealousy.

At the moment, I am icing my faulty limb and watching my arch-less pied wince and tense in response to the ice packs. (Wait–is it supposed to do this? It looks weird.) I brought home a blueberry scone from work today at the Bikery, and so think I’ll just munch away my leg stress with this: In the words of my friend Libby: “Whaaaaaaaat.”

So here I am, knuckle-deep in blueberry juice, crumbs falling all over my lap: a real mess. And because I’ve got my leg elevated, I just look like Apathy Personified.

But really–when I’m eating scones, I’m far from apathetic. It’s hard to bake a good scone! Sometimes they just come out of the oven like globs of hardtack, and other times they’re just too soft, like a limp handshake (Oh man, do I hate those!). I remember when I worked at the Gathering Garden Café in Lake Elmo (no longer in business, unfortunately), the gal who opened the shop was using her family’s recipe for scones. They were beautiful. We referred to them as Lori’s Secret Scones. My mom would ask me to bring home scone specimens that she could study: efforts to whittle Lori’s recipe loose from the perfect spongy interior and crunchy exterior. My mom almost had that recipe too—she will taste something, slowly savor it, look around the room, then look at you—dead in the eye—and say the ingredient.

“Ginger.”

“Nutmeg.”

“Anise.”

I just hope mom uses her tasting powers for Good and never Evil. I pop more crumbles of this perfect blueberry scone in my mouth. The ice pack falls off my sad little leg. I redistribute the weight and watch the weird tensing and I finish my scone and feel a little better. Not totally, but as you might have inferred by now (Or I’ve told you directly. Or you knew immediately due to the name of this blog)—eating baked stuff makes me a happy gal. Can’t complain…well, I could if you asked me to.

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