I suddenly had an uncontrollable hankering for the scones of my childhood -- the deep-fried dough ones, not the tea biscuit ones - that they used to serve us for lunch at Edgemont Elementary, with honey butter in tiny paper cups. I went online and found them, and they're even called Utah Scones. So of course I had to make them immediately. It brought back fond memories of Mr. Conk unfolding the tables and benches out of the walls of the lunchroom, the hair-netted lunch ladies, the satisfying click of the hole-punch punching my orange lunch ticket.
My sons stood at my elbow at the stove and ate the scones as fast as I could produce them out of the oil. They tried different combinations -- honey and butter, cinnamon and sugar and honey, maple syrup and powdered sugar. And demanded to know why I hadn't made these for them before. I've been holding out on them. Their childhoods were not complete and they were now questioning the entire way they were brought up, sconeless. Son Number One apologized for whatever it was he did as a child that kept me from making these for him before.
Son Number Two is a spiritual seeker, and Son Number One turned to him and said, "You've found it, what you've been searching for all your life. You can stop looking for the ultimate heavenly experience. It's scones. Who knew?" And Son Number Two announced he could now die fulfilled and happy.
It's nice when something I cook finally turns out right!