The afternoon or night before, I make the scone dough and store it in the refrigerator. Late yesterday afternoon, I made four kinds: ginger, currant, cranberry-orange, and chocolate. Then I get up at 6 AM and bake, so that the scones are still warm when I take them to market.I have regular customers -- like Ann, who prefers Ginger; June, who mostly buys cranberry-orange; Tam, who bikes up to 40 miles a day and saves some carbs for me, who buys ginger and currant; and Bill and Susan, from New Orleans but owners of a summer house in Monteagle Assembly and whose younger daughter I taught at McGehee's, who always buy lots of any flavor. Some people don't buy scones, but always stop to chat, like Georgie and Lynne, who returned the terrific Fourth of July dog to the shelter. (Someone still needs to adopt him.) Sometimes I learn sad news at the market: today I heard that a colleague from The School of Letters has been diagnosed with a terminal disorder: corticobasal degeneration. Essentially, her brain is shutting down. Sometimes , we chat about a friend who is ill: Trink had a stroke earlier this week and is still in the hospital in Chattanooga. Sometimes we celebrate successes: Ann's daughter was here earlier and is out of her neck contraption from last year's surgery. In any case, the community is strong and supportive.
Scone sales don't amount to much more than the cost of supplies, but I enjoy having a reason to get up early on the weekend, and I enjoy chatting with the folks who come to the market. They used to call me "the scone lady," but now most know me by name. I guess I have become a member of the community.
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