As Americans, we seem to have several opinions on what a “scone” is, versus an American biscuit or the scone’s British counterpart. And, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. Because no scone I make here is going to rival the memory of the one I ate in that random country garden in the southwest of England, slathered with jam and accompanied by a hot cup of tea en route to some Arthurian ruin I was longing to explore in the middle of July when I was 18. Or the comfy aroma of waking up at Ruark’s family’s house on holidays of one his dad was making to start the day.  Or even the first gluten-free one I made for myself, when I realized how relatively easy and incredibly versatile they are for the seasons or my moods.

Nothing rivals the sweetness of a good memory. But there’s always room for new ones. Continue reading →