10/07/2026
I’m not a breakfast person—black coffee provides my morning spark—but if you’ve followed our posts, you know blueberry scones are my crush. My references to Trader Joes discontinuing the treats—"What the!"—prompted friends and employees to flex their inner Martha Stewart—if not for glory, for approved time off—and it’s a good day for everyone when a foil-wrapped plate shows up at Suite 103. Among the better bakers, New Feet Pete’s mom, Laura McComb—her scone offers a perfect balance of sugar (not much), blueberries (lots) and color (your favorite ginger). So good!
Last week, while doom-scrolling overnight posts, I pulled the last of Laura’s recent oven work from the breadbox without looking and started munching. Expecting awesome, I was surprised to find this one had an earthy, tangy taste. Two bites in, I took a closer look at the pastry and discovered I had swallowed two mouthfuls of mold. I’ll admit I considered paring off the fetid section and finishing it—Laura’s scones are that good—but opted to rinse with coffee, toss the sporous remains and post a photo in the group chat.
What was intended as an entertaining text triggered a series of gagging emojis, and after the horror—Laura: “Is that one of my scones?”—subsided, pivoted to advice on proper pastry management, exasperation at my lack of breadbox basics but optimism that I might somehow learn from the experience. Maybe if inspected what I put in my mouth with the same attention as I gave to an FIP case, I might avoid such situations in the future?
While Mamas Stephanie Yeats Cymanski and Laura texted about me in the third person, I Googled “will I die from eating black mold?”, and when the results confirmed that I needed to honor the day’s schedule, I brushed my teeth, poured another cup of coffee and started my day. True to my roots, Google and Laura’s baking prowess, I again considered retrieving the past due pastry from the trash, salvaging what I could and finishing it…but didn’t.
The next day provided a welcome surprise when Mama Laura dropped off ten fresh scones in individual Ziploc bags with Post-it note instructions on how to freeze, thaw and consume in sequence, minimizing risk of mold. Since then, I’ve started each morning with more confidence, but it’s not lost on me that those that know me best believe I need step-by-step instruction to survive breakfast. “Just thaw them overnight. Do not touch the stove!”
While I’ve been taste-testing baked goods and working the Kirkland for Congress 2026 side hustle, our KF crew has been busy. We’ve made the transition to our new facility (our offices are still at the same location), moved over 100 animals, helped a scrum of pet parents with injured little ones, completed dozens more spay/neuters and onboarded several new FIP cases, litters, urinary blockages and requests. They don’t stop.
Unfortunately, we’ve had heartbreak. Almost four years ago, rescue friend Kat Rocha forwarded a post about a feral with half his face torn off. That might sound like an exaggeration, but in fact, Woody had a gaping wound on the side of his face where his eye and nose should've been. We have no idea what caused the trauma, but he survived it, appeared at a colony and spun the tender and Facebook into panic. "Bring him in."
Upon intake, we treated Woody’s face and fixed and vaccinated him (think positive) but we knew that he’d be a tough adoption given his gruesome wound, FIV+ status and sour temperament. Over time, he evolved from cage to roamer but never warmed to his captors. Dr. Murphy and I could handle him—Pro tip: approach the blind side—but our crew worked around him like you would a live rattlesnake coiled up the kitchen counter.
One of my odd rituals (there are a few) was to spend Christmas Eves with Woody. What started as holiday coverage in Garage 2, evolved into me spending extra time clearing Woody’s scabs, trimming his nails and brushing his coat with Christmas classic playing in my headphones. Woody’s response to attention was bared fangs, airplane ears and an occasional p**p, but he never bit me, and sometimes the best you can hope for is tolerance.
Recently, the crew noticed Woody wasn’t his usual pi**ed off self—“He lets me pet him even…”—and we took him in for a check-up. Upon exam, we discovered fluid on his lungs, labored breathing and other indicators of congestive heart disease, and made the hard decision to let Woody pass. I would love to say he’d become a lap cat—not even close—but Woody lived longer than he would’ve on the street, became an unlikely favorite for Dr. Murphy and me and taught us a lot about wound care and unrequited love.
Woody, and scones.
