THE PERFECT SCONES, AND NOT FOR SALE

It started innocently enough: a free Saturday, a baking class, and a vague hope that I might finally find a recipe I could bake successfully—without turning the kitchen into a disaster zone.

If truth be told, I’m not exactly what you'd call a natural baker. One batch could’ve been used to repair potholes. Another collapsed in on itself like it had lost the will to live. But in that class, with flour in the air and a cheerful instructor who spoke of butter like it was sacred, something clicked.

I found the recipe.

It was simple, elegant, and forgiving—the dough came together with just the right amount of sass and softness. They baked beautifully: golden tops, fluffy insides, and a rise so perfect it could’ve had its own motivational poster.

And here's the thing: baking is basically science. Delicious, emotionally rewarding science. It’s all chemistry in disguise—flour and fat forming tender gluten bonds, baking powder setting off tiny edible explosions to create lift, sugar caramelizing into golden bliss. Every step matters. The ratios. The order. The temperature. You miss one tiny detail, and instead of a tray of scones, you’ve created either a batch of hockey pucks or an existential crisis.

Add too much baking powder? You’ve got bitterness with a side of regret. Undermix? It’s doughy confusion. Overmix? Congratulations, your scone is now a rock. It’s scientific precision.

But somehow, this time, it worked. The scones were perfect.

There’s something quietly miraculous about baking when it does work. Sure, there’s method and measurement—but there’s also instinct. You start to know when the butter is cold enough. When the dough is just right. When to stop mixing even though your inner perfectionist is screaming for one more stir. These things aren’t written in cookbooks. They come from flour-dusted trial, the occasional small fire, and the gentle guidance of those who’ve baked before us.

When you’re baking something that feels right, you know it. It feels like coming home.

Naturally, I shared. Friends swooned. “You should sell these!” they cried.

And that’s when I smiled, tilted my head politely, and said, “Absolutely not.”

Because these scones are not for sale. Not now, not ever. They are a labour of love, not a business model. I don’t bake to hustle—I bake to mentally escape. To inhale butter-laced joy and avoid my real responsibilities for an hour. To remind myself that it’s still possible to make something from scratch and feel proud of it.

Selling them would turn my kitchen sanctuary into a stress-fueled production line. There’d be packaging, marketing, spreadsheets, reviews, refund policies. The scones would need a logo. A hashtag. It would ruin everything.

So no, thank you. These scones are strictly off-market. I bake them for friends, for birthdays, for “accidental” tea parties, and for mornings when only carbs can save my soul. I bake them in my comfiest clothes, to the sound of a Netflix movie in the background, with zero pressure and maximum butter.

And that’s what makes them perfect. Not profit. Not packaging. Just love, laughter, and maybe a smug little smile when someone takes a bite and says, “Seriously, you have to sell these.”

Nice try. But no.

Now pass the clotted cream and jam—and maybe that pot of tea, too. There’s enough for seconds.