Scones of Sovereignty

One could say that food operates with a monopolistic reign-we as a society have given it complete power over our relations with other nations, other people, and most particularly ourselves. 

This morning, I woke with a jolt and a headache. Sniffing loudly and groaning, I levered myself into a sitting position and glanced around the room. My roommate and her friend, snoring softly in the bed parallel to my own; the floor, littered with remnants of a Valentine's Day pick-me up gone rogue. Empty popcorn bowl, five jars of Indian spices, forgotten mugs, half-empy chardonnay bottles that SOMEBODY forgot to put in the fridge. Last night's clothing and, inexplicably, an iron. All this caused me to collapse once more with squeals of protest from the bedsprings. 

I thought about the day ahead, mentally rehearsing it down to the minute. Get up, inject coffee directly into bloodstream, write a paper without tearing out body-hair, go to work, summon secret energy resources for rehearsal, squeeze in a reading, go to roommate's performance, feign enthusiasm for after-party, sneak back to room and bury nose in homework. 

As I felt the anxiety of all these obligations creep stealthily up my throat like weasels on the hunt, I knew I had to do something to soothe my unease. Trancelike, I found myself grabbing a mug and returning to the room minutes later with a steaming cupful of hot coffee and soy milk. Once again, as if I was carrying out the orders of some higher power, I watched my hand pull out the bottom drawer of the desk. Hand stretched out in front of me, I watched it reaching for a Ziploc bag of day-old, whole wheat, lemon poppy seed scones. I nodded in agreement with the great ruler who was manipulating me and popped open a homemade jar of apple rosemary jelly. 

 

Whole wheat, *vegan* lemon poppy seed scones with lemon glaze. Homemade apple jelly with rosemary (pictured but unclear is the title my canning class gave this batch, "Flawless"-accurate).

Suddenly, I could feel the tension and anxiety sliding back down my throat, the marauding weasels having thought better of their attack. I proceeded to dip the crumbly, perfectly moist pastry into my coffee, wielding a jelly covered knife in the other hand. The brightness of the lemon and sugar was matched perfectly with the bland crunchiness of poppy seed and crumbles of pastry; the surface sweetness of the glaze and jelly paired seamlessly with the depth of whole wheat flour and rosemary. Textures and tastes exploded with the subtlety of a pyrotechnics show under water. 

I didn't know where the higher power had been directing me, but its course was true. The scones had eased (nearly) all my worries, and I could breathe easy. As I reflected on the authority of food, I felt the knots relax in my shoulders and the crazy glint diminish from my eyes.

Until I noticed the small mountain of popcorn kernels on the white shag carpet.