Scone By Scone - Tales from an Innkeeper's Life

Once there was a girl, hips quite thin,

Who stayed for a time at an Inn.

The breakfasts were vast,

And alas, soon her ass.

Twas a shame, but she’d go there again.

“A pubic hair in the bathtub, or anywhere else, for that matter, is an absolute deal breaker.”

This was maybe the eighth year of our innkeeping career and my spiel at the first staff meeting flowed as freely as the hot water from the tea machine. I’d grown to love the shock on their faces when they heard what kind of hair I was most concerned about. Attached to their meeting agendas was a photo of “The Dreaded Guest.” She had hair down to her ankles. But now they were really shocked.

“We also don’t want our guests worrying about a cobweb hanging down from the ceiling or a dust bunny they found under their bed or whose underwear they found in their drawer – better to be concerned about where they’re going for dinner!

“Finally, before you leave the room, you look around and ask yourself, ‘Would I pay almost $200 a night to stay here?’” Everyone always gasps a little when they hear how much it costs to stay at Anne Hathaway’s. I always hear someone say, “I could never afford that!”

And I think they’re always surprised when I tell them the truth about us -- we can’t and don’t spend that amount of money on lodging either.

When I’m done with my presentation, I go around the room and ask each person to share with the others what they do for fun. “Having fun is an important part of working here,” I say. “You’ll find the guests interesting and they’ll be interested in you. Not all days are going to be full of fun, but we do encourage it.”

Lindsay, a tall, tan and handsome young man who looked like he just came off the beach with his surf board spoke up first. “I just like to laugh,” he said, smiling. That made us all laugh.

“I’m really into environmental stuff so working here is cool because the Runkels are too,” Vieve, back for her third year said.

This was our first year with a manager. Alissa had been part of the crew for four years and had assumed more and more responsibility, including this year’s staff recruiting. “Hey, guys. I’m the one to come to when you have a problem and I’ll come to you when I have a problem with you. We talk a lot around here. ‘Keeps the issue-level down. What I do for fun is garden and brew gluten-free beer.” Everyone clapped, and with that, another season was underway.

No matter how hard we work to bring together a top crew, early spring finds me watching warily as each morning’s routine gets underway. This particular day had a rough start. The weather was so chilly and threatening that we couldn’t eat outside. There were so many people for breakfast, we had to add another table to Granny’s table that seats fifteen. The very long tablecloth we usually use for this configuration was nowhere to be found and the few big ones someone pulled out of the closet that’s supposed to look like department store stacks had more wrinkles than my face, Eleanor Roosevelt and Grandma Moses’ put together.

Erin and Lindsay had never worked breakfast before, so didn’t know the drill at all. And it was David’s day off, which meant I was doing nearly all the cooking. Alissa’s assignments were doing the fruit plates, cooking the meat, squeezing the orange juice and training our new staff. We both kept getting interrupted. Nearly every guest who came into the dining room as we feverishly put together the tables wanted something different.

“Decaf coffee? We’ll have it out in five minutes. Sure.”

“You’d like almond milk with your tea, that’s no problem.” Alissa disappeared to get it.

“Oh yes, we do have lemons for your tea. So sorry we forgot this morning. Yes, I know it’s your last morning. Did you enjoy Romeo and Juliet last night?” I ask, shoving the fifth and final leaf into place and whispering to the returning Alissa that now we needed lemon.

While Alissa and Erin wrestled the extra table into place, I quickly wrote out the day’s menu on the ancient chalkboard we use to tantalize guests with what’s coming for breakfast

Aunt Til’s is a mainstay, but sometimes a little tricky. You want it to wiggle, “but not too much,” my mother’s sister had instructed us. For this big a pan this getting the wiggle level correct was going to be a bit of a challenge. I worried as I wrote while Aunt Til baked away at 350 degrees. Maybe I should have chosen something easier!

I was also worried in my capacity as Social Director. This big group we’d had for the last few days hadn’t really bonded yet. The evidence of this was long silences, stilted conversations and dog tales (the default topic always). It included a foursome of retired professors who come every year; a family looking at Southern Oregon University for their daughter; a slightly well-known clarinetist here to play for the Symphony (for which we provide free accommodations as a way of contributing); four women who love to come to Ashland to shop and see whatever comedies are playing at the Festival; a British couple who’d been with us all week and constantly provided not always positive comparisons of Ashland with the “real” theatre in London and the real Anne Hathaway’s; and a Zumba instructor and her husband from Humboldt County, California. The latter had just arrived.

“Can you think of a good garnish for Aunt Til?” I asked Alissa from my scone perch.

“I’ll find one,” she said.

As I beat the dough down, Zumba popped into my mind. I’d only vaguely heard of Zumba once while waiting in line at an airport. The woman ahead of me was practicing new moves with her Ipod playing full blast. But when our current guest Marla made her reservation, I learned more. She said she’s done all sorts of things in her life, but now that she’s into Zumba, that’s all she does.

“Google it,” she said.

I did. Here’s what it said:

Are you ready to party yourself into shape? That’s exactly what the Zumba® program is all about. It’s an exhilarating, effective, easy-to-follow, Latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance that’s moving millions of people toward joy and health.

Hmm. Then I remembered Marla’s last name – Joy! No wonder Zumba was right for her. Remembering this, I couldn’t imagine how our current guests would react to hearing about Marla’s job. This particular morning promised to be daunting because of the weather – other mornings people were eager to get out for a good spring walk so they didn’t linger long over breakfast.

Finished with the menu, I returned to the kitchen to check on Aunt Til and the scones, each cooking in a different oven. Alissa stayed behind to show Lindsay and Erin how to set the table. I took the scones out and turned Aunt Til up a bit – she was still runny, nowhere near a wiggle.

“We’re going to need a centerpiece, Miss Deedie. This table is entirely too plain and bare,” Alissa said as returned from the dining room. “Do we have some flowers to pick?”

“We don’t have any, but I noticed that empty house down the street has some beautiful roses. I’ll go get them if you put the scones and jam out for the guests, start the meat and keep an eye on Til. Are our ‘newbies’ doing okay?”

“Really well. They even know which side the fork goes on. Go ahead. We’re in good shape.”

I took the clippers and ran down the street to the house that competes with us for short-term stays, a VRBO1. Because they undercut us in price, don’t pay any taxes, or bother to get the permits we have to, I’ve decided that borrowing a few roses occasionally when it’s not occupied is okay. Besides, the bumper rose crop was the perfect color for the day’s table. I tiptoed to reach the really full blooms and carefully placed them in my basket. Once done, I jogged back up the street and into rear of the kitchen. As only a former florist’s employee could, I had those roses arranged in a crystal vase my mother got for a wedding present within minutes. Despite all the morning’s challenges, things were turning out well. Why had I worried so?

Placing the rose arrangement in the middle of the table, I encountered the Brits. “Now which rose is that? I don’t remember seeing it in your garden,” Bea inquired.

“Oh, I don’t know the name of it, sorry. It’s actually one of my neighbor’s,” I tell her, feeling a tad guilty.

“And can you tell us more about Aunt Til?” her husband asks, peering at the menu blackboard.

“The food or the...