The Time with the Raspberry Scone

I would like to preface this post with two things: first, I am sorry I haven't updated in two months. I have no excuse. Second, for years now I have been planning on writing a series of essay's on the various roommates I've had over the past eight years. By my calculations I've had 15, most of whom I've lived with more than once, at various points, in various houses and even in various cities. This is about one of them. I hope she still talks to me after I publish it.

In the three years I lived in New York City, I had four different roommates. All of them moved out and away from me so what exactly that means, I don't know. I still talk to all of them though, so I like to think it is like one of those super happy divorces you hear about where the couple still loves one other and like to hang out but they just realized they couldn't live together.

So while in New York, I worked for a firm in Chelsea, in a building that was between 10th Ave & the West Side Highway. For those of you unfamiliar with what that means, it means it's far from ANY subway. And since it's far from the subway, it means you have to walk. And since you have to walk and you're in New York City, it means you're inevitably going to past at least three Starbucks. And since you're passing all these Starbucks, you're eventually going to go into one of them. And since you're already going into all these Starbucks, you might as well start developing what can only be described as an unhealthy addiction to their raspberry scones.

I loved their raspberry scones. At work, I was known as Raspberry Scone Katie. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration but I did eat them a lot. Every morning I would walk into work (15 minutes late since I had to stop at Starbucks) with my coffee (iced if the weather was above 60-degrees, hot if it was below) and my delicious, perfect scone wrapped in a waxy, brown Starbucks pastry bag. I would set down my breakfast, turn on my computer and eat my scone. First, I would unwrap the delicious treat- the crinkle of the paper sending shivers of delight up my spine- then I would place the scone on top of the paper. As I watched the emails in my Inbox load, I would take that first bite of scone, take a sip of coffee, chew and repeat. I would spend approximately 25 minutes doing this, thus wasting a total of 40 minutes every morning on this weirdo ritual while everyone around me listened.


This routine went uninterrupted until a terrible day in Spring 2008 when it all came crashing down.






















The Starbucks on 23rd and 8th Ave is notoriously friendly. Once, while sitting at a bar in the East Village, I had a conversation with a total stranger about how super nice this Starbucks crew was. Every customer was greeted with a "Hey, buddy! What's going on?" or "Hey pretty lady, you're looking stellar! Do you want your usual 1/2 caff, skinny mocha?" This is a rarity in New York, especially in Chelsea. This crew would smile as the customer walked in, flirt, laugh at the customers jokes and compliment them if they noticed that the person had changed their hair or had on a flattering color. That is, every customer except me. They hated me. I would walk in and their smiles would fade. They would roll their eyes at one another. Their annoyance at my mere presence was palpable. I never figured out why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I hated my job and therefore was always miserable, never smiled and would run in to use the bathrooms all the time without buying anything. Who knows?

My third NY roommate (settled neatly in between my roommate who got married and my roommate who got me drunk all the time) was a very nice co-worker of mine. She was German and sweet. Every morning we would get our NY Posts and ride the subway into Manhattan together. It was the stuff 1980's working girl movies are based on (except we never wore sneakers on our commute- only heels. Our lower backs will thank us later.) As we exited the subway, we would say our goodbyes (despite the fact that we worked in the same company, in the same department and our desks were three feet apart, she inevitably got to work 10 minutes before me, every single day.) But every morning, my roommate would head into work and I would head over to see my frenemies at the 23rd St Starbucks.

That is, until that fateful day. It was a normal day. We got our newspapers, I ignored her on the whole train ride and when we turned to say our goodbyes, I was shocked when she said,

"I want to come with you to Starbucks."

"Really? Are you sure?" I asked. "They can be kind of mean in there."

"I go in there all the time. They're great. And I want to try one of these raspberry scones you're always eating."

And so we went, a happy German girl and a skeptical American girl walked into the Starbucks. I held the door and allowed her to walk in first. I felt a bit like a tour guide allowing someone to join me on a sightseeing expedition through my weirdo morning ritual. “Well, first we’re going to get scones, then we’re going to call my mom and both cry about how much we hate our jobs! Then we’re going to run into the bathroom in office before anyone sees us and make sure our make-up isn’t running!”

Immediately upon entering the store the baristas greeted my roommate, "Hey there! What's up? You look pretty today!" She thanked them nicely, order a café au lait and then added, “And I’ll take a raspberry scone!” They smiled at her, took her money, handed her a scone and passed her the coffee. Then it was my turn.

“Hey fellas!” I said animatedly. “What’s going on?” (Disclaimer: In my head I made that shooting gun motion with my hands. But I don’t think this actually happened.)
“Hi,” the guy responded. Unsmilingly.
“Ok, um, I’ll have a iced coffee (it was warm that day!) and a raspberry scone.”
“Sure. Oh except she got the last raspberry scone.” The barista gestured towards my roommate who was standing there, oblivious, and holding her breakfast which included my crinkly, brown paper wrapped raspberry scone.

“You got the last raspberry scone.” I stammered.

She laughed. “How funny.”

She then took the scone out of the wrapper and took a big bite.

“It’s delicious!” she smiled.

In that moment I said something so horrifying I thought about not adding it into this story. But in order to tell all sides, I’ll put it in. After my roommate told me it was delicious, I turned to her and said,

“I hope you choke on that scone.”

She laughed. She laughed cause she was nice and sweet and in her mind no one that you share a home with, a commute with, your meals with, office space with and a friendship with would ever turn to you and say, “I hope you choke on that scone” and actually mean it.

I didn’t really mean it of course. Well, I hope I didn’t really mean it.

I’ve since given up raspberry scones. Once NYC instituted the law that all chain food stores had to display the calorie count of their food items, I quit cold turkey. But I do still go to Starbucks and when I am there I hear the crinkle of the Starbucks paper wrapper, it still sends shivers of delight up my spine.