Last Night

Every so often, I find myself at the kitchen island, alone, after the good lighting has faded to black. Just me, wrist-deep in flour, under moonlight (and a handful of can lights). The children, tucked in tight (or one swaddled and the other twisted between her sheets with a bear three times her width obscuring her head) lie quiet. My husband, mid-flight, makes his way home. The dog sits curled in on herself like a startled woolly worm. All is still but my hands and the flour whirling against cubes of cold butter in the food processor.





Some of these nights remind me of the familiar: people and places past, memories locked in a cinnamon shaker. But some, like this night, nudge me forward, the piney scent of rosemary mingling with sticky strawberry jam in my kitchen for the first time. I am suddenly someone who makes scones. Good scones topped with lemon-infused icing.





The night moves slow, like the recipe. I put the house to bed, one room at a time, the taste of sweet flaky crumbs still on my tongue and a plate of scones left out with a post-it note for the one still to come.

*Here's the recipe for your own night time (or anytime) baking.