Bake and cook, duh.

Well, if the upper half is tolerable.

The very first thing I ever learnt to bake was scones in Ireland.

I’m not sure if it was one of those “pivotal high school moments”, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Most things, actually.

I chose Home Economics because I loved to cook from a young age. Cooking to me, is the equivalent to men building IKEA furniture. It’s my Lego. My place to be creative and experiment. Baking is more structured however you can get more creative in terms of design. I sucked at sewing though. The machine gave me anxiety even though I adore the craftsmanship of a good seamstress and designer. Let’s leave that to the pros.

Cooking, however, was my thing. I hated school so I thought it would be the easiest. It was.

I remember my home ec teacher was such a bitch. I was the kid who always sat at the front of class because I was a nerd like that. The teacher was known for being one of the more stricter less friendly ones. Ironically, those are the ones that I got along with the best long-term 😅

I remember the first day sitting in her class at the top. It was designed pretty cool like a class kitchen with ten countertops / work stations. One on each side of the room. A pair of students behind each set-up. It was like an introductory class and the teacher was explaining what the class would entail and how we had to do recipes once a week and write them in our books. Often you were judged on your individuals stuff, sometimes in pairs, and sometimes as an entire class if we’re doing something for the school.

It was at the end of that class and she was reading out ingredients for scones as we were going to make them the following week for our first class. I asked her to repeat something because the people behind me were chatting and I couldn’t hear. The teacher came closer leaning forward as if I was a small child, slowed her speech down, then started talking in a patronising and mocking tone “can you not understand me because you’re Chinese or something?”.

I remember just sitting there almost in shock. Up until that point I was used to racism because growing up in Ireland in “those days”, there wasn’t many people of colour. If you came for money, it was cultural and chic. If you were poor, you were looked at like an odd object. I grew up in a very small Irish rural town. I mainly only got really horrible remarks from the “rough” kids. Every boring racist insult you have heard, I have gotten.

It’s funny because looking back if I had confidence or I wasn’t so scared, I would probably say “look at your life, please”, or “why are you mad that I’m ugly?”. I wasn’t a fighter though, and they are rough and ready. I found out in my later years that a couple of them had committed suicide. I guess it’s true what they say about people who hurt others. Regardless, I’m glad those individuals are not hurting anymore, nor do they have the ability to spread it.

The damage for me rippled in the back of my head which was probably why it was so triggering to hear my older teacher talk to me in a similar way. I remember my classmates whispering “omg”, and coming up to me in the hallway after class to ask if I was okay. I went to the bathroom and broke down crying.

It induced such bad anxiety that I didn’t want to attend her class, but I did want to do home economics as one of my subjects. I wouldn’t have been able to transfer to another class because the class systems are designed for the level of students and their respective classes (I.E, honours math, honours French, ordinary Gaelic). I decided to tell the principal because I didn’t know what else to do. The principal called her in, I am there feeling like I did something wrong, she forcefully apologises, and we all move on.

The next week we had to make the scones. Apparently, I had made the best scones. I thought she was just being a little bit nicer considering what had happened the week prior, however, when I looked around the room, I couldn’t help but agree with her hahahaa

The week after that we had to cook, and the first dish was spaghetti Bolognese. I remember bringing in half the ingredients already prepared because I just took it from my family restaurant. Work smart and not hard, and all that. I got top score in my class for that one too. It was at the end of that month I knew that she was being nicer and warmer to me. Full of compliments. The other girls noticed her soft side towards me. I really have a thing for changing grumpy people, softer, don’t I? LOL.

I honestly couldn’t comprehend why cooking and baking was/is so difficult for people. For me, it’s as simple as taking the instructions and doing the thing. Or using common sense? So a few times I had to really compare and check the overall standard before I believed her, because the class wasn’t difficult for me yet I was her best student? Oh well, I’ll take it.

And that’s the memory I get every time I make scones in my older years now. To remember the recipe like I’m going to pass it onto my imaginary children. You wouldn’t dare see me at raisins 20 years ago, but maturing is realising that fruit in bakes is also delicious.

So far the last couple of months I have made regular Irish scones, big British ones with raisins (they’re pretty much the same scones), cheese and onion and cheddar, chive and candied jalapeños. I don’t eat 80% of the food I make, bake and cook but these are a staple and bring tiny joy to my day.

My love for food is also the association with it. The scents you can almost smell again. The memories attached to each bite. The chapter and environment you were in at the time. The emotions you felt. And in general, I’m proud of my scones because it took me a long time to perfect the perfect ratio of crisp, to buttery-ness, to flakiness, and volume. The good thing is you don’t have to put in a strenuous amount of elbow grease because I fear my heart would give out by the time they get into the oven. Yay, nerve damage.

The best time to eat a scone is in the evening with a hot cup of tea, and a jam from Fortnum and Mason. I normally just get their marmalade so I tried a standard supermarket jam, and let’s say I am just sticking with the butter for now. If you want to get boomer with it like I do, sometimes I like to enjoy my warm morning scone with a side of crushing international geopolitics and affairs, sprinkled with some local BS.

Chau for now,

Chloe

P.S – upon reflection I realise I also hate the triangle shape I tried. Note to self: stick to your classics.