As a reluctant and often times struggling home-baker, I have an unfounded, persistent, borderline sickening obsession with making biscuits and scones. Nobody in the family eats them but me really (it isn’t saying much when you scan through all members in the family). I have to endure the look of lostness and concealed disappointment in Jason’s eyes every time he comes home to the smell of butter and sugar, and yet I put myself through it often (yes everything is about me). They aren’t the most foolproof things to bake either, evidently from the ghost of dead doughs past that still lingers in the apartment. So I don’t know, I guess they just feel so much more earnest than cookies and cakes, a warmer and friendlier thing to break over a conversation or a cup of tea… very British isn’t it. I wish I could enjoy them over a cuppa, sat in a nice café in the scone’s hometown of the UK. Perhaps enjoying the classiness of an afternoon tea for two bristol way or somewhere. But here’s the twist…
The truth is until a few days ago, I had not been able to tell them apart in the kitchen!
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