As Miss Marple aged, she appeared to become sharper, shrewder, quicker and the symbol of justice. Another character in one of the Miss Marple stories described her as "the most terrifying woman alive".
If Miss Marple is the nemesis of evil and wickedness, my own private nemesis is a completely different, inanimate object. My nemesis is a lifelong destroyer of my self-esteem, a challenge that I have set myself time and time again, in the vain hope that I become confident and assured instead of disheartened and miserable.
My own terrible secret is that I cannot make scones. I remember the first attempt. I would have been about 10. I was really keen to make afternoon tea scones for an old client of Dad's. With the dogged optimism of a child, I produced flattish rock scones. They would have served very well as door stops, or wedges or weapons to decapitate very small zombies. I actually can't remember if I tried them myself. Forty years later, my scones were still a source of great amusement for Mr. Wilbur Robbins.
I must admit that for a very long time afterwards, my psyche would shy away in horror at the mere thought of scones. I don't think I attempted them again for many many moons until I moved to Beverley. Then I searched for the fool proof recipe for scones and was introduced to the lemonade variety. My first lot presented in the usual disastrous manner of soggy, stale rock cakes. A second batch was more successful and my honour was saved for a particular morning tea.
Scones were banished from my mind for some years after that fluke. Then, with the passing of the unpleasant memories, I wondered if I was really was that woeful at scone making. Surely, I could overcome this jinx and triumph at the Holy Grail of perfect, plump, soft scones.
My wonderful friend, Stacey Dowding, Ringmaster and Major General at Greendale Community Centre in Armadale asked if she could make a return trip to the East End Gallery with her merry bunch of feisty seniors. She had brought about thirty intrepid oldies up last year. That had been an experience that was hard to forget. There was nothing frail or feeble about this group. If tea wasn't ready or there weren't enough cakes, they would let me know, fiercely, ferociously and with both barrels.
I have planned cupcakes. And scones. Packet mix. Ought to be foolproof. I made the cupcakes the night before. A winner, as ever. In the morning, rising later than I'd hoped, I messaged Stacey on Facebook as to how many old dears would be arriving for afternoon tea in Heavenly Beverley.
Sixty would be invading the East End Gallery around two o'clock.
Galvanised into action, I sprang into the kitchen. I read the instructions. I put the mixture in a medium sized bowl and added the milk. I already had the rolling pin out and the bench floured. I mixed until the blob started resembling dough. Then I deftly manhandled the dough onto the bench to knead and roll.
The dough wrapped itself around every one of my fingers and the two palms of my hands. I tried shaking the stuff off, peeling it off, using a flat knife to ease it off. All that happened was that further items and utensils were being covered in the stickiness too.
Eventually, I called Michael for help. He poured flour onto my hands and the bench, which cascaded over the edge of the bench.Bits of dough had been flung to all corners of the kitchen and the floor. I persevered with kneading and then decided to roll.
I asked Michael how high two centimetres should be, Half an inch, was his reply, Then I asked how high my rolled dough was at this point. About one centimetre. Bollocks. I flipped half the dough back onto itself to have another roll and reach the required height. The whole exercise was beginning to go horribly wrong.
Eventually, my weird mini frisbee scones were finally in the oven. I prayed to every deity I could think of for the allotted amount of baking time. The Moment of Truth.
I had outdone myself in this latest catastrophe. The discs that emerged from the oven were crumbly, tasteless and exceedingly tough critters. They wouldn't even have passed muster at communion.
Now I had a bench covered in flour glue, myself covered in flour and dough and Pip, grabbing titbits as they fell, covered in flour too. In fact, it appeared a white tsunami had swept through the entire kitchen. And I still had sixty seniors arriving in a few hours. And no scones.
I flew down to the local bakery and begged for scones. They didn't make scones. In a split second, I bought half the cakes in the shop. Then across the road to IGA to pick up another trusty cupcake packet.
My carrot cake muffins worked. As they always had. Cleaning the kitchen was a nightmare. I ended up scrubbing the kitchen using a scourer with my fingernails as attachments And doing my best Cinderella (before the ball) impression scrubbing the kitchen floor. But this had to be done. I knew I would not have the energy later.
Four buses roared into town at three o'clock. Stacey was her usual unflappable self. They came, they saw, they ate, they emptied the urn completely and another kettle as well. They gave donations for the afternoon tea. A few ladies bought cards and one of Mick Cotter's letter openers. Stacey, bless her cotton socks, bought two spiders to take home.
Just over an hour later, they left town in a shower of sparks. We were shattered. Poppy Jay had joined us just before the hoards had arrived. As I collapsed, Poppy and Michael tidied up. I had never been so grateful for their help. Poppy then convinced us to let her manage the Gallery for the next two days. We were too tired to argue and gratefully accepted her wonderful offer.
We retired to the top pub for dinner. I was over any more cooking or washing up or cleaning. A few vinos soothed my aching back and throbbing feet.
There are two distinct morals in this story -
- Stacey Dowding should become a National Treasure for her daily services to these amazing older Australians
- and I should never, ever attempt to produce scones in any way, shape or form again!
The Dream
The Image
The Unravelling
Subsequent distress
and how much dough I had all over me...
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