And in the beginning there were scones.
My Pop an early riser, lit the coal range for the day. The kitchen warmed up. Then we kids got up.
Some hours later and moaning because of the indecent hour my Nana got up. Nana was a party girl. Stayed up late.
Nana was the scone maker.
Cup of tea, toast and bit by bit Nana lit up, started chatting, became nice to know.
Today, visitors. Cups of tea, best behaviour. And scones.
These days we follow, step by step, with scientific precision, the recipe in our Edmunds Cook book. (reprinted 2012)
My Nana however was quite chatty when making scones – a pinch of this, coupla cups of that, oooh I’ll add a bit more water . . .
And whup! into the coal range. In later years I found that the gauge on the door, when working, gave the temperature, not, as my Pop said, an indicator of how good we kids were the day before.
Nana’s chatter would continue, there was the best table cloth, polished cutlery, napkins, chatter, sugar bowl, chatter and
“Oooh! The scones!”
Some days just a bit over, other just right. The scones were always perfect. Because Nana made them.
In later years my sister asked Nana – scone maker supreme – if she could have the recipe.
Nana stopped, looked blank – what recipe? Scones happened. Like riding a bike. Maybe in the beginning . . .
We kids knew there were privileges in having scones at Nana’s place. The butter could be laid on just a bit more thickly. Our parents would look the other way.
At home the was a Proper Spread of Butter. Not that we could not afford a wee excess. It was Good Manners. When pressed my Mum would say, “Well, uhm, too much will make you ill, and, uhm, that’s all there is to it. So.”
David in Pen and Pics 
