Maybe I can bake.

Of course you can bake, said Leah dismissively.  And scones are easy, I’ll come and help you.

Leah is a new friend, so of course she doesn’t know about when I ruined lemon drizzle cake by adding double the milk, or when my brownies puffed up like a souffle and hit the top burner in the oven, oozing out over the sides into caked on burnt goo that I spent hours scrubbing out of my mother’s over.

If you say so, I said.

So the arrangements were made – and yesterday we gathered the ingredients and the equipments to make scones and she stood before me and said ‘OK, put two cups of flour in a bowl.’

Which I did.  I pour two cups of flour, more or less, into my bowl.

OK, she said, patiently.  Lets do that over again.  THIS is how you measure flour.  And then laughed and laughed and laughed because until that point she didn’t really believe me when I said I couldn’t bake and I didn’t know what on earth I could be doing wrong and it turns out that I can’t even measure properly.

Our second hurdle came when, butter and flour in one bowl, milk and eggs in another she instructed me to mix the dough until it all came together into a ball.

It won’t come together! I said, mild panic in my voice.  Let me add more flour.  Its too wet.  I can’t mix it into a ball.

Keep going, she said calmly. It will be fine.

I’m panicking.  I said.

But it was fine – just as she said. And maybe, potentially, in the next 4-6 months I could bake something unsupervised.  But not yet.

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