Carol’s Column

When a scone means failure or success

IT WAS a grave situation.

We all sat around the diningroom table to discuss it.

My husband removed his spectacles from his aquiline nose and rubbed his eyeballs wearily. He placed his head in his hand.

At last he spoke. Quietly, with dignity: "Well, once again we have to choose. What do you think Barry?"

Unfortunately, Barry, our oldest unmarried son was unable to answer due to the fact that he couldn't hear the question in the first place.

His ears being incarcerated in a yellow ear-radio through which blared much loud music.

So Ralph, son-number-two, answered for him.

"I think we should buy," he said glancing quickly at me.

I tried not to let my feelings show.

But Nicky, always sensitive to my moods, as only daughters can be, was tactful.

"Quiet all of you — can't you see you're going to make Mummy cry."

"OK," said my spouse replacing his spectacles. "That settles it. Let's take a vote."

Slowly they raised their hands, one by one.

I looked around. Four for, and two abstentions.

I'd abstained as I felt it unfair to vote as I was directly concerned with this issue.

Barry abstained because he was still switched into Exile and hadn't heard a word.

"Right," said the head of the family. "The motion is carried. Your mother will bake for the school gala. We won't buy a cake."

I smiled, and deep down inside, somewhere between my liver and my kidneys, I felt fulfilled. My family — after all these years — had faith in me. I wouldn't let them down.

Rochi Boss had been charming when she'd phoned: "Carol, I'm asking all the swimming mothers to bake for the interschools. Greenside's supplying the eats."

"Oh, it's a pleasure," I'd said airily, getting that tight feeling.

"What would you like to bake?" she'd asked gently.

"A chocolate cake?" I replied tentatively, having made one successfully seven years previously. What a joy that had been when it had baked and risen to an imposing height.

I heard Rochi's voice. "No, Mrs Betty-in-charge-of-catering would like something savoury."

"Something savoury?" I said.

The desperation in my voice must have registered. "Keep it simple," she said. "How about cheese scones?"

"Great," I enthused. "I'll bake cheese scones."

I put the phone down with a heavy heart.

What had I let myself in for?

This is where you separate The Mothers from The Failures.

Real Mothers are the ones like my cousin Ethne, who at the flick of her fingertips can rustle up a superb angel cake, a chocolate delight, a savoury onion-and-herb tartlet.

Unlike my children, never have her offspring, Frank and Maurisse, had to suffer the indignity of taking flopped cakes, squashed biscuits or crumbled tarts to school.

No, I belonged to the latter group. The Failures. But this time, I would bake cheese scones that would make my little family unit proud.

Which is why, last Wednesday, I was in the kitchen at 5am baking savoury cheese scones.

I beat, mixed and measured. Greased and floured the tins, and placed them into the oven and said a little prayer.

"Oh Great Big Director of cheese scones in the sky — please make them rise," I murmured quietly. The tension was indescribable.

Sweat poured down my face and images flitted through my mind.

Memories of cakes over the years loomed large and menacing.

The chocolate cake that had collapsed in the centre. The one I'd filled with tissues and iced in pink and green and given to a school fete.

The loaf of bread I'd covered with vanilla flavouring and sprinkled with cherries and offered to the brownies.

Peaked, flat, burnt, raw, cakes with holes — one after the other, they were an endless procession of disasters.

And then the oven bell trilled causing me to almost pass out in fright.

I opened the door. And there they were, savoury cheese scones in all their golden glory.

I couldn't believe it — they'd worked.

I couldn't contain my joy. I rushed upstairs and shook my sleeping spouse.

"They worked, they worked!" I shrieked in ecstasy.

He grunted, rolled over, opened a bloodshot eye and shuddered.

"Oh what a horrible sight," he groaned and shut his eye. Such is the joy of a happy marriage.

Undaunted, I shot downstairs, tripping on my candlewick dressing-gown cord and landing in a dog plop.

But nothing could spoil my day.

Gaily, I lined a tin with a lace-paper doiley and tenderly placed my cheese scones within where they nestled enticingly.

They smelt delicious. They looked mouth-watering.

Oh, what triumph.

Later, I handed them carefully to Barry to take to school.

For the first time in my life, I felt like a real, home-grown, professional Mother.

It was a good feeling.

Barry rode off to school, the tin under his arm.

I couldn't wait for the kids to come home from school.

They were euphoric. "Greenside won the interschools!" they yelled as they shot through the door.

"And my scones, my savoury scones?"

Barry looked blank.

"My scones, did everyone eat them? Were they a social success."

There was silence. Then Barry looked me in the eye.

"Ma, sit down," he said. "Let me pour you a brandy, I have some bad news." My heart dropped to my knees. I wasn't a Mother. I was a Failure.

"You see, it was like this," he paused. "I was riding down Denbigh Road when I had to swerve. And, like a flash of lightning, the tin flew out of my hands, the lid opened and the scones . . ."

"The scones, what happened to the scones?" I could have cried.

"Ma, relax, don't get over-excited. Ah, yes, the scones. Well, like flying saucers they sped through the air and landed on the pavement."

"So, you picked them up?"

"Unfortunately, just as I was about to do so, four dogs appeared like magic and before I could get off my bike — they'd eaten them up."

"Every crumb?" I asked softly.

"Every crumb," he replied ruefully. "But look at it this way, you're not a Failure, your scones were a great success. They were devoured to the last crumb."

Then he added: "Just think how happy you've made those four dogs."

Just think.

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