That word confused me no end, as a kid. For the life of me, I couldn't pin it down.
On the one hand, you were always to have one, an elegant, loopy little note from your mother. After a bout of the stomach yucks, say, the excuse made the school absence all better.
On the other hand, you were never, ever to make one. If you'd lost your mitten or forgotten your homework or listened to the Kingston Trio on your little candy-striped record player instead of picking up toys off your floor like you'd been asked? Better by far to say mea culpa, than "Martians landed and STOLE my left glove (or) arithmetic (or) best intentions, honest!" It was all clear as mud, or as Harry the Dirty Dog: Was an excuse good with bad spots, or bad with good spots?
Eventually, in middle school, I learned about connotation, about the way words can shift like a starling's wing in the sun, ink-black one minute, oily-blue the next. This wouldn't do, as a child, when I wanted my vocabulary like my meals: plain, separate and perfectly simple. Now I love the iridescence of language, depend on it, even, to dig myself out of a hole, here and there.
See, now I can say I need an excuse to share Spring, to drool a little over the rip-roaring display out our door. And I don't think you'll hold it against me, trust you'll agree, that justifications can be good and beautiful things.
And then I can mosey on over to birthdays, and let slip that I need an excuse to maybe wish my friend, Annette, a happy one, today. And perhaps, if I line these two excuses up, all back-to-back and casual-like, you'll hardly notice I'm now in serious stinker territory. And if I clarify that I'm only iffy on the today bit, that I'm rock solid on the hoopla, then perhaps I can maintain a lick of dignity. Even if I don't deserve it. Because, by rights, I should have this date down.
You see, we've known each other awhile, Annette and I. Since college, actually. Twenty years. Half a lifetime. (Over, really, by a thousand days, give or take.) Plenty long enough to memorize a stinkin' date.
Also, I am really very good with details. I can rattle off last week's grocery bill ($57) and my childhood phone number (454-0549) and four other old friends' birth dates from memory. (February 6 and May 3 and July 5 and February 9; happy day, Paige, Kim, Joanne and Dania!) But Annette? Oy. April, for sure. Twenty-something, definitely. I'd be willing to bet it's between blackjack and two dozen, might even put money on the 23rd. Small change, anyway. But don't ask me to up the ante.
I could blame my poor showing on all sorts of causes: I've forgotten every date I learned in college; an overabundance of April birthdays in my life; its awkward proximity to yesterday's Earth Day; high fructose corn syrup. Anything, really, but the birthday girl herself. She's many things, this Annette, but forgettable's not one of them.
After all, she's the one who, after a surprise bout of early labor with our first, showed up on our doorstep with two huge bags of baby supplies we either didn't know we needed or hadn't yet tracked down. Nappies, onesies, a crib, stuff like that. She's the one who, two weeks before our second was born, arrived one Wednesday after work and assembled the big-brother-to-be's new dresser. And bed. Or, rather, beds (it was a bunk). From IKEA. (I think she made it home by midnight.)
She's the one who's kept the USPS in business this past year, with a steady stream of care packages addressed to us, truly. Nothing much, really, just big hilarious boxes of awesome for everyone, catapult spoons and bacon strip bandages and Night of the Living Dead Zombie Brain Jello Molds. She claims she wants the little people to remember her. When they're all eighty and senile and can't even recognize each other, I've no doubt my kids will remember Annette.
She's the one who's always inviting herself over on anniversaries and holidays, because she's "due a few rounds of thumb-wrestling with the kidlets. Oh and by the way, shoo-shoo, why don't you two grab some dinner and a movie?" She last pulled this stunt this past Valentine's Day. Did I mention she lives in Seattle? I have no excuse.
So this year, Annette, we actually did it! Remembered your birthday! It's around here, somewhere. Today, I think (possibly, tomorrow). It's a little hard to tell. See, we made you scones, and there's flour everywhere, and my calendar's all dusty, and... yeah, well, anyway. Scones. They're the ones you mentioned on your last visit, the ones I'd all but forgotten. Which would have been tragic, because you were right: they are fine. Barely sweet, littered with bitter chocolate, shot through with the goodness of ground toasted walnuts. Tender and flaky and crumbly as all get-out. Just the thing for dessert or breakfast or brunch or Fridays.
Did I mention we ate them all? Terrible shippers, scones. But, um, we brought flowers! And the recipe!! And, unlike some frou-frou layer cake, you don't have to wait a year to give these a go. Although, if you need an excuse to swing by sometime soon? I'll whip up a batch, to celebrate. A belated birthday party, we'll say. We might even manage to save you one.
Chocolate-Walnut Scones
Adapted from Pastries from the La Brea Bakery, by Nancy Silverton
yield: approximately 18 - 2" round scones
Chop your own chocolate for this one — really, it's everything here. The mix of bits you produce — 1/4" thick chunks and thin shards and a good heap of powder — give this scone much of its charm. An offset serrated knife (i.e. a bread knife) makes quick work of the job, and keeps fingers intact. I like the bulk blocks of Callebaut's, very nice and widely available. Three bars of Lindt or Ghiradelli bittersweet, available almost everywhere, will also do nicely.
None of my children like nuts, but they all like these scones. The nuts are ground to a fine meal, and disappear into the final product. They lend tremendous flavor, but no (offending) texture. Please note that a portion of the walnut-sugar mixture is removed for the topping.
I cut mine into triangles, and regretted it. Circles cook more evenly, here. Finally, you should know that unlike almost every other scone under the sun, these are fantastic the next day. If they last.
1 1/4 cups (5 ounces) walnuts
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 Tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking powder
pinch of salt
1 stick plus 2 Tablespoons (5 ounces) cold, salted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 cup (6 ounces) finely chopped bittersweet chocolate
1 cup heavy cream, plus extra for brushing top of scones
1/4 cup crème fraiche or sour cream or greek yogurt (2% or whole)
1 Tablespoon pure vanilla extract
Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 325°. Spread walnuts on rimmed baking sheet, and toast in preheated oven until golden and fragrant, around 6 minutes. Allow to cool.
Preheat oven to 400°.
Turn cooled walnuts and 1/4 cup sugar into a food processor with a steel blade, and pulse 10-15 times, until nuts are the texture of fine cornmeal. Remove 1/4 cup + 2 Tablespoons of walnut-sugar mixture, and set aside for topping finished scones. Add flour, remaining sugar, baking powder and salt to remaining walnut-sugar mixture in processor, and pulse to combine. Add cold, cut butter, and pulse on and off until mixture's the texture of pie crust, or rough meal.
Transfer mixture to a large, wide bowl, and make a well in the dry ingredients. In a large (2+ cup) measuring cup, measure cream, sour cream/yogurt, and vanilla. Whisk in measuring cup to combine. Pour liquids into the well. Using a silicone spatula or your hand, gently fold the dry ingredients into the wet, working from the outside of the bowl in, mixing just to combine.
Flour a clean work surface, and turn dough out onto floured board. Gently knead a few times, and gather dough into a ball. Pat dough into an even 3/4" thickness. With a 2" round cutter, cut dough into circles, as close together as possible. Gently gather scraps, press together and pat, and cut remaining dough.
Brush tops of scones with cream, and sprinkle with reserved walnut-sugar mixture. Bake for 18-22 minutes, until slightly firm to the touch and lightly browned on the edges.