In the scone zone

The pile of hot scones by Carla Ortiz's right elbow keeps growing. So does the line outside the scone booth, which soon will stretch 100 deep.

She smears the insides of one scone with butter, gingerly. Her sister, Janelle Cooke, carefully adds jam with her knife.

Across the stainless steel table, Myra Getchell zooms through her pile of triangular biscuits, knife flying. It's her ninth year preparing the Puyallup Fair's signature treat inside the glass walls of the fair's main scone booth.

It's the sisters' first day — their first hour — and it shows.

"This is nothing compared to when things get going," Getchell says with an air of authority. Then, her eyes soften, and she passes along a tried-and-true technique to the newcomers getting the hang of butter-and-jam duty on the line: "It's just like feeding a baby."

Scones: Light, fragrant and only a dollar in a little paper pouch or $11 for a baker's dozen. They're the first stop for many fairgoers, who carry them home by the sack if they haven't already inhaled them.

Battles have erupted over the last paper bag of scones at the end of the night. They go home to family and co-workers, to be eaten right away or stockpiled in their freezers as a daily treat until the next time the fair rolls around.

Part of their appeal, like so much at the fair, is how much they've remained the same since their debut in 1915. And a big part of what keeps them the same is generations of scone workers, who reunite at the Western Washington Fair each September to mix dough and make dough for vacations, Christmas presents, a daughter's upcoming wedding, you name it, chitchatting all the while as their hands knead, cut, carry, slash, stuff and bag.

Ruth Wilcher began making scones at the fair 26 years ago, back in the days when the government still urged us to use margarine rather than butter for healthier hearts.

"You'll see the same people. They'll stand in line for hours for a scone. I think it's tradition. They're good when hot, and you can't turn 'em down," she says, taking a breather in a booth.

At 81, she commands respect and garners affection from fellow scone makers. Her children and grandchildren also work in the booths that dot the fairgrounds. Relationships, with co-workers and customers alike, daughter Laurie Wilcher says, are important to her.

She's far from alone. More than half of the 200-plus workers at the fair's 10 booths return each year, says Mike Maher, head of Conifer Specialties, the company behind the scones. It's fun, workers say. They like meeting new people. It provides a first job or keeps them busy in retirement.

There's Doris Bach, 25 years. Ken Zugner, more than 20 years. Sue Williams, 23 years. Leona Elder, 22 years.

"It's like having a family reunion each September," Elder says, as the scent of fresh scones begins wafting from the giant oven in the fair's original scone booth, tucked beneath the grandstand.

There, water is added to scone mix in a giant mixer. The resulting ball of dough goes into a machine that spits out smaller balls that workers knead into patties. Those are cut into quarters with a divider. They go onto trays and into the waiting oven. Out they come 12 to 14 minutes later, where workers flip them bottoms up, split them and slip in honey butter and jam. More hands put them into the paper pouches, where they get passed into the hands of waiting customers like Brad Williams of Seattle, who has made a beeline for the scone booth for ... 50 years, he thinks.

By the fair's 17th and final day, Maher estimates the team will make nearly 1 million scones, crafted from 50 tons of flour, 30 tons of berries and 10 tons of butter.

Surprises happen. There was the time the oven stopped working, prompting other booths to boost production for reinforcements. Sometimes errant trays catch the oven's edge as it rotates, sending hot scones flying. Pre-whipped butter made its debut this year, after the passing of a lone worker who whipped butter long into the night for years. Someone else tried whipping the butter last year, but it never was the same, workers say.

That first bite every year at the fair with her family is what lured Carla Ortiz to don an apron and beat the crowds to the fair at 8 a.m. this opening day. Four hours later, she was still going strong, ensconced in the rhythm of the booth.

"I always thought it'd be fun," Ortiz said. "I love scones. Everybody loves scones."

Karen Gaudette: 206-515-5618

or kgaudette@seattletimes.com