scone zone.

cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, mace, and cloves.
uh-huh.
get used to it.
that's the seasonal blend.
mmhmmm.
and it's flippin' delicious, too.
for realsies.
sometimes,
if i'm feelin' like poop;
and i have much too much going on (which is always the case);
and maybe i also spill pvc cement all over the big sexy rug in my kitchen,
and ruin it and my brain, with gluey gross toxic fumes;
and i'm freezing cold indoors with an extra sweater on......
well,
then i gotta get expert over by my oven for a minute or two,
that's it.
creaming together all that pumpkin and cream chee' and butterish,
softened and smoothed out and squished up into lots of fluffy flour,
and tapioca, and spices, and baking powder, and soymilk, and vanilla,
and a punch of brown sugar is good therapy.
and folding, and turning, and folding and turning and folding and turning,
about thirty more times than i just mentioned makes the dough soooo dope, duders.
that's no joke.
also,
that means i'm making scones.
and that means the oven is cranking out about four hundred degrees of hottness,
and that means everything is getting better.
so when it comes time to cut 'em into wedges, and dust ';em with cinnamon,
all that is rough and harsh and contentious has been equalized,
and the raging stormswept quarrels inside my pounding head are quelled.
nice.
and also, there are scones.
which is even better than all that.
check the pumpkin-spice-type teleport:

oh yes, neighbors.
they're so lovely.
hmm?
oh, well, there are roasted salted pumpkin seeds in there, for variety,
and for extra activated flavor and texture.
what?
yep.
good eyes, kid...
those ARE maple-soaked raisins, too.
little moisteners to keep the dry crumb situation at bay.
that's smart. all the cinnamon-complementary things go together.
and yes, those are cinnamon brown sugar icing drizzles.
it has to go to eleven, or why are we even bothering?
right?
that's clearly what's up.
breakfast today is great.
warm treats, hot tea, hot glue gun, all of it.
there is always time for baking something great,
even when there isn't even time to catch your breath.
really.
i'm panting and racing,
but every labored hasty lungful tastes and smells like pure autumn radness.
i'll take my little triumphs where i can get 'em.
today is the day-
just like every other day;
never quiet, never soft.....