News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
News and Opinion from Sisters, Oregon
They will shrivel and dry up and separate from their juices; their hair will come in grey and unruly, their appearance altering wholly from the hours of their prime.
Hopefully a mood of ruthless eradicating energy will develop in the hearts of one of the householders with sufficient frequency that the denizens of the family fridge don't seep out in the night and take over.
What will they find, these noble undertakers of relegation and purge?
They will open long-closed containers of mottled, fur-bearing, beans. They will hold at arm's length ropey tangles of last week's pasta, strangely now viscous, pungent.
They may pause with fleeting dread before unveiling a long neglected sourdough starter whose lid bulges with gaseous portents.
Inside they may discover that it now lives its own life, no longer your servant. They will see that it has breath but no pulse as it takes a gentle, mirroring gasp before the lid descends and it returns to its work.
Ideally we tackle this chore on a regular basis, before permitting things to progress to the point where the olfactory summoning seems to have gained a voice whenever the doors are opened, a rich and resonant tone, undeniable as Circe's.
Expurgation of the refrigerator requires not only fortitude and a strong stomach, but a certain moral finesse. Balancing prudence and respect, appreciation of plenty, with the reality of scum on the soup and ooze on slick mushrooms, our domestic altruist will end up, despite our best efforts, facing the direst puddles of muck.
The family pig, the compost heap, a willing dog in some cases, provide us a bit of salvation and the rest must simply go.
Whether your mentor is activated by a commendable, fixed schedule, ribald nose music from the vegetable drawer, or perhaps you have captured a teenaged person in want of improved escape techniques--this individual deserves a reward.
While you are chopping all those limp but still functional vegetables into the kettle for tonight's soup broth, mix up some afternoon Scones for this gallant soul, make a pot of good tea and sit down for a bit.
Talk about the most elevated subjects, the source of life, chaos and order, old times, old secrets, worlds without end.
And if you did it all by yourself, sweeten up that tea and just gaze out the window. It's good for you.
In a large bowl or food processor with metal blades, combine 1 3/4 C. unsifted flour, 1/4 C. wheat germ, 3 tsp. baking powder, 4-6 Tbsp. sugar, and 1/2 tsp. salt.
Cut in 4 tbsp. butter until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in 2 eggs EXCEPT! keep out about 1 Tbsp. for the topping.
Add 1/3 C. whole milk. If you want to switch the sugar for honey, do it here and reduce the milk by about 3 Tbsp. The English use heavy cream for the milk and really live it up like this every day.
This should produce a stiff dough. Turn it out onto a lightly floured board and knead it lightly until the dough sticks together on its own.
Now divide it into two equal parts and roll each into a circle about 6 inches in diameter and about 1 inch thick.
With a knife or sharp kitchen shears, cut each circle into quarters, making nice even wedges. Arrange these on an ungreased baking sheet about an inch apart.
Brush the tops of the scones with the reserved egg white and sprinkle the tops with about 2 tsp. sugar.
Bake in a hot oven, 400 degrees, for about 15 minutes.
Scones rise in a most pleasing biscuity way. They want butter and some of those prodigal jams.
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