I started daydreaming about scones sometime around Monday afternoon.
Orange and Dark Chocolate Buttermilk Scones, to be exact.
I pictured the dough spread out on the counter. I imagined pulling them out of the oven, all warm and soft and delicious. I remembered how they taste…. with butter and strawberry jam. Oh. My. Goodness. The idea crawled into my brain and set up house. I mean, there was a bed and a kitchen and bath towels and everything!
I had to make scones. It was necessary.
Thursday morning would be Scone Morning, so that they would still be semi-fresh when I took them to the scrapbooking party that afternoon. I made sure I had all the ingredients. I bought oranges. I secured a citrus zester from my mother, who has fancy things like that.
Thursday morning I woke up fifteen minutes early so that I would be sure to have the time to make my scones.
I got ready for work, put on an apron, and started mixing, measuring, seperating, and zesting.
Twenty minutes or so later, I had my dough made and rolled out. I had used every single chocolate chip in my pantry. I mean, it required every last one. (I failed to check on those when I did my ingredient inventory…somehow, in my mind, I had an endless supply). I cut the scones and got ready to put them on a pan… when I realized that I had also forgotten to check on parchment paper, which you are supposed to bake them on.
I surveyed the contents of my ziplock/cling wrap/aluminum foil drawer (you know which one I’m talking about!). I had wax paper. That’s basically the same thing as parchment paper, right?
I spread the wax paper out on my pans, loaded them down with scones, and put them in my 425 degree oven.
Two minutes later, something started to smell funny. One minute after that, smoke started ROLLING out of the oven. I realized the living room was already hazy. I threw the oven door open and a huge cloud blew into my face.
“I really hope the smoke alarm doesn’t-”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
I threw the pans of scones onto the counter, grabbed a potholder and ran to the smoke alarm, which is situated right outside our bedroom door. I waved the potholder in front of it, trying to clear the smoke and get it to stop beeping. It finally did. I paused, listening for signs that my sleeping husband might be stirring… nothing.
I returned to the scones and looked them over. They were fine. There was nothing obvious that would create so much smoke. The only thing I had done different than any other time was use wax paper. I checked the box for an oven-related warning of some sort, but there was none.
Just as I concluded that the oven simply does not like wax paper, and the wax paper-making-people were failures at printing warnings, the smoke alarm went off again.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
This time, Jonathan made a sleepy appearance in the bedroom doorway.
“What is that sound?” he asked. Then he saw me, frantically waving a potholder around.
“Oh,” he said. Then he sat down on the couch.
I racked my brain for something else to put the scones on. Scones are a little temperamental, and I was pretty sure there was a reason just spraying the pan with Pam wouldn’t work (greasy scones = gross).
Ovens like aluminum foil. I tried to think of a reason that using it would be a bad idea, but none came to mind.
So, I put aluminum foil on another pan, moved my scones, put them back in the oven, turned on a fan, opened windows, and prayed.
Ten minutes later, Jonathan asked me, “is something burning?”
I gave him the strongest duh look I could muster.
“I mean still burning!” he defended himself. “It smells funny in here.”
I opened the oven and found that some unidentifiable blob of something was in the bottom of it, smoking and smoldering like a tiny little brown volcano. Apparently a piece of one of my precious scones had tried to jump ship when the smoky inferno started… and had not faired so well. It went, quite literally,
out of the frying pan into the fire out of the cookie sheet into the oven.
The good news is… the scones are good. So good. Little bundles of amazingness. And our home is still standing. And I am now aware that if our house ever really does burst into flames in the middle of the night, I am fully responsible for making sure everyone gets out… because Jonathan will probably still be asleep.