My blueberry scones bring the boys to the yard. Damn right. Actually, they only bring the girlfriend to the kitchen to sleepily look at me with no small degree of bemusement. It’s late and I’m baking. Baking blueberry scones. They weren’t actually that good in the end. I think the blueberries don’t add enough sweetness, so they are a bit dull unless you slap a great deal of jam on them. Which I did, whilst cursing myself for watching Meet Joe Black at one in the morning.
There is something slightly suspicious about cooking in the wee hours. It somehow feels slightly subversive, dangerous or criminal, as if cooking late at night was something only somebody up to no good would do. You’d imagine people coming in from a contract killing, ludicrously labyrinthine confidence trick or mafia turf war and cooking something soothing, grabbing a beer, unholstering a gun and then kicking up in front of a shit Brad Pitt film. Normal people don’t do it, they’ve finished in the kitchen hours ago and are tucked up in bed. Of course, I was up to none of those things, I only had the compulsion to cook some scones after a pretty average day at work, but there is something to be said for it.
Baking is quite the soothing activity, it requires careful weighing and the like, but then you get to make a bit of a mess, sprinkle flour over everything and get your hands into some soft squidgy cake mix and feel smug. Late night radio is also the perfect background noise to baking. Laughing at the nut jobs on LBC talk radio at or Jazz FM providing a beat poet vibe to your mixing. It’s a great thing to do before bed as the smell of your sweet tasty efforts linger as you climb into bed and you know you can legitimately eat cake for breakfast.
Maybe I can start a trend, unite the nation on a Friday night. Don’t drink and do pills, mix and make cakes. Club nights with Victoria sponges and muffins. I think this might have legs. I think I probably need some sleep.