Vanilla Bean Scones

After 15 months away, I’m finally back in Minneapolis. In fact, I’ve settled not even two blocks from where I used to live. It’s familiar territory, to be sure. But there’s a lot going on in my life that wasn’t there before—enough, in fact, that I almost feel I’m starting fresh in a new city. I’m living with three women my age who all lead interesting lives and cook really good food. I’m getting on the bus every morning with a thermos of hot chocolate (I’m like a French child, I know) and a book in hand. I’m taking ballet when I can, writing when I can.

I like this life.

I wouldn’t be me, though, if I weren’t grappling with some degree of inner conflict. It’s nothing new, really. Part of me wants stability, comfort, a reliable paycheck and income that will allow me to live alone, or buy myself a grownup-size mattress, or, I don't know, go for some boozey brunch every now and then. I'd like to be able to say, “Hey, should we open another bottle of wine?” to an empty room on a Tuesday night. I'd like that to be an option.

And I think I could’ve had all that by now, and the reason I don’t is because of that opposing force in me that’s always wondering what’s going on over there, what would that be like. A meandering life driven by daydreams and whims doesn’t much allow for Sunday brunch and bottles of red wine that came from somewhere other than my mom’s house, but what it lacks in passing luxuries it makes up for with the feeling that I’m really squeezing the juice out of life, pulp and all.

That dissonance won’t be going away anytime soon. But right now I’m thankful that I have some freedom to explore options. I’m thankful that the first thing I see when I wake up is the winter sunrise over uptown rooftops. And I’m thankful that I can drive north for a weekend at home, split open a few vanilla beans, and mix up these incredibly light and flaky vanilla bean scones.

The recipe makes enough for a crowd, but I freeze the leftovers and take them to the office over the next several weeks. I grab a coffee on the way, settle in at my desk, and eventually unwrap the first scone as a reward for putting in a solid 15 minutes of work.

Treats like this are, for me, a way to assert ownership of my life. Those small moments when I turn away from the screen to sip the coffee, munch the scone–they belong to me completely. If you think this sounds a little too abstract and sentimental, I suggest you try it. Take a few scone moments. Take enough of them, and the day starts to feel like your own, no matter where you are.

Cinnamon Sugar Pull-Apart Bread

I've been doing a lot of business talk. And cupcake talk, and vetting cupcakes for the business talk. It's exciting stuff, indeed. But we must continue to practice that part of baking dearest to us: the one that leads not to publicity, or profit, or a bakery, or even a blog post - but to comfort, and catharsis, and aesthetics; to uninhibited indulgence; to a warm oven and the smell of melting brown sugar and chocolate on a rainy evening; and in this case, to the unmistakable current of caramelizing cinnamon and sugar, slowly filling our fall morning.

This is why we bake.

So let's regroup with some bread.

After some basic sweet dough preparation, this process gets fun. The dough is rolled thin and coated generously with butter, cinnamon, and sugar. Then it's sliced into strips that are stacked and sectioned. Those sections are placed in a bread pan to rise.

Each individual slice does its own thing in the oven. Some recede into the pan, others tower over the runts; some lose themselves in the loaf and become indistinguishable from the rest; and yet others push hard to set themselves apart from the group. I'd imagine putting a pan of these little dough squares in the oven is much like sending your kids off to school. You've done your best to shape them, and now you've got to let them grow. As their parent, of course, you love them all the same, and will eat them indiscriminately.

Warning: it's hard to quit with these things. Every slice is different from the last and appetizing in its own unique way. Your mental workings go something like this:

"Okay, last piece."

[Eats slice]

"Oh, look at this one! Okay, last piece."

This could easily go on until the loaf is gone, so watch it. I managed to freeze a third of the loaf, and it reheats beautifully. But really, if you eat it all and you feel warm and full and happy, then well done to you.

After all, that's why we bake.