Wednesday morning I stumbled out of bed, threw on my hand-me-down silk kimono, and shuffled into the kitchen. Put the kettle on high heat over a gas burner. Ground up coffee beans, turning the handle on the top of the little machine round and round until all of the beans were broken up. Set up our plastic coffee maker with a cone filter, poured in the grounds, poured over the water. Acrid sweet chocolate smell and steam looping up and off. Placed the coffee maker over my mug, and listened to the coffee hit ceramic.

Opened up the cabinet, stuffed and stacked flour, baking soda, baking powder, sugar, chocolate, pistachios into my arms and leaned back to keep from crashing and burning as I walked to set it all on the counter.

There are cereal days, eggs and asparagus days, days for smoothies and days for oatmeal. But some days I wake up with a need for pastry. And since I can't exactly pop over to the nearest gluten free donut shop (ha, in my dreams) I needs must make that pastry from scratch. So, half awake, I shake a bit of this and pinch of that together, mix in coconut oil and whatever tasty bits and bobs I'm craving slash have in the house, and cross my fingers that my scone dreams will come together the way I planned.

A green truck grumbles up into our driveway, and Logan's dad -- in his worn black coveralls -- swings out into the yard, pulling a heavy tool box out of the back. I lick scone batter off of my hands and run out to say hello. He greets me warmly, we hug, and he pops the hood of our very sad, very dead, piece of sh*t car (it's spray painted black... the worst). I look discerningly at the engine as if I know what I'm looking at -- I don't -- pat Tim on the back and head back inside to finish up my pastry project.

30 minutes later: jumping down the front steps with a hot cup of tea and a scone wrapped in brown parchment paper for Tim. "Aw, thank you darlin'! You didn't make these for me, did you?" He gets a rye look in his eyes and wipes grease off of his hands with a well worn, blue-gray kitchen towel. "Oh nooooo I just felt like making scones!" I say back, fixing my insanely messy top knot, laughing back.

I half made them to satisfy a craving. And I half made them because Tim refuses payment of any sort for helping us when we need his car/house/life fixin' skills. So, they're secretly thank you scones.

Heading back inside, I break a scone in half and dip it in coffee, watch bees on the other side of the window frantically gathering nectar from the quickly fading cherry blossoms.