This evening I made scones.
Scones are Sunday food. Sunday evening food, to be specific. My Sunday teatime memories of childhood always involve scones (or crumpets, or teacakes toasted on the fire, or soda bread, or Granny Spice cake, or very occasionally, drop-scones), and particularly, fighting with my sisters over the misshapen scone.
When you make scones you roll out the dough, cut out circles and lay them on a baking sheet, but at the end you’re left with a lump of dough that’s too small to be cut out. It’s rolled into a scone-like shape, and for some unknown reason, it was like a lump of scone-gold in our house. Everyone wanted it.
Well, tough luck O sisters of mine. Now I’m making scones in my own house, I get to eat the misshape, and all the other scones, every time.
No more sharing!
In summary: middle child.