Scones

It's 2015: I'm 17 and it's my senior year of high school. I am so excited to move half way across the country, I just don't know to which side yet.

    I had applied to several colleges for music, and it was finally time to go for my in person auditions. First up was my audition for USCalifornia. (Ironic because I had also applied to USCarolina due to in-state backup etc- which was very confusing for my guidance counselor and everyone else) This was my first time in California and my dad, having lived there for a period of time, was ready to show me LA. The first thing we noticed was that the GPS had a whole new shade of red for traffic. (Having grown up half in Atlanta, I found this particularly shocking) We drove through Beverly Hills (while we blasted the song obviously), ate fancy dinners, and saw the sun set over the Pacific. But the thing he was the most excited to show me was Venice Beach. He knew I would love how everyone didn't seem to have a care in the world and everywhere I looked I would see something interesting. I got to meet some strong dude-bros from Muscle Beach and see a real-life drum circle. 

    Then... we got hungry. 

NOW, this is the point of the story which took me forever to get to so... Hello! Welcome to the beginning of the point! 

    I was starving and unwilling to sit in any more traffic; so, we decided to find somewhere nearby. That's when we found it- the place that I know exactly how to get to despite never having been since- James' Beach. This place was perfect. I mean, we walked in and I immediately got to see a local extravagant toting around a little red wagon. He had this wagon for a very important reason... his pet pig. I definitely got a picture. 

    ANYWAYS- we sit at this pretty little table with a beautiful view of the pig. The menu looks good- especially to this exceptionally hungry 17 year old. The waitress brings over menus and waters. It's around 4 o'clock so the lunch rush has died down and the dinner rush has yet to begin. Everyone is relaxed and the restaurant is fairly empty. Then, with a nonchalant sweep, the waitress deposits a basket. At first glance, it seems unremarkable. A couple of metal tins and some lumps of lightly tanned thigh boosters. My eyes register that these are some kind of scone, but my ears perk up at the mention of homemade blackberry jam. 

    scone: n. a small unsweetened or lightly sweetened biscuit-like cake that is dry, bland, and tastes like eating cardboard covered in sand

    

    I don't like scones. They are the epitome of dry and I don't like dry things. Scones are the guy who shows up in jeans and a T-Shirt to a black-tie party and shrugs. But I love jam. Especially when fresh and homemade. So I bit the bullet and took a bite. 

    When I say this was the best pastry I have ever had in my life, I am not exaggerating. I devoured them. I think my dad got to eat one before I had gobbled down an entire basket. They were sweet, but not too sweet. Just a little bit of citrus and the perfect texture. They were moist and still warm from the oven. Before we even had our entrees delivered, I requested another basket. My dad jokes that he has never seen me do anything like this ever before or since. I ate so many that I'm surprised I didn't burst. I didn't even touch my entree. I couldn't control myself. I got to the point where I was so full that I begged my father to lick the remaining two scones so I wouldn't eat them... he did. 

   

And then I ate them. 

    I was desperate to keep these brilliant euphoric bites masquerading as scones in my life. I started hounding the waitress for the recipe. She said it was an in house secret; so, I tried to guess and make an ingredients list. Then, when I realized I had absolutely no baking skills, I started trying to figure out how I could get them shipped across the country. To my absolute horror, it seemed impossible. I was resigned to only fantasize about these scones. Years went by. I never forgot.

    Cut to now: five years and two moves later. I still have yet to have those blissful dough lumps again. They come up in casual conversation surprisingly often. (More like I'm really good at bringing them up) I meet many people from or who have been to LA and I always mention them. A poor few are unaware of the real-life ambrosia sitting seaside a mere 5 hour flight away (and probably 2 hours of sitting in traffic). My college buddy's new girlfriend happens to be from LA. I begin my tale. She knows of the scones. 

    "Oh yeah, my mom knows how to make those!" 

    My heart leapt out of my chest. After so long, have I truly manifested these delicious dream haunters from coast to coast and back into my life? Her mom lives in Nashville!? Would be happy to show me the recipe!? My dreams are realized and my hope for humanity is restored. I believe in miracles. 

    An exaggerated retelling? Maybe. But it delivers an important message. If there is something you want in your life badly enough, it will show up. By sheer force of will, I truly believe we can attract the impossible right to our front doors. I'm living proof. Not just with scones; but with college, jobs, and friends. I think the trick is to be open and look for opportunity wherever you go. Not only to find what it is you are looking for, but also to be an impossible key holder for someone else. That is how we create a community of mutualistic symbioticism. AKA we all get what we need and it benefits everyone. 

    So, long story short, be accessible and want deeply. Because when we're ready to give, we're often also open enough to receive.