Scone. Singular.

I made a scone last night.

That’s right. Just one.

I knew if I made the whole batch, well… I’d eat the whole batch.

Unfortunately, in my attempt to divide the recipe, I ran into tough mathematical equations like five divided by eight. Which, by the way, equals .625 and that would be how many tablespoons of butter?!

And I was too lazy to reach for a measuring spoon, so I kind of guestimated how many Craisins were in a ½ tablespoon. I probably should have used more. I wish I would have used more. They were delicious little bursts of flavor.

This is my one scone, pre-425 degrees. It went into the oven as a lump…

And came out as a lump.

(But prettier, right?)

Did I ever tell you that my mother used to call me “Stephalump” as a kid? No? There was probably good reason for that.

I love scones. I used to get them often from Starbucks (despite always tasting of blueberry muffins and in the same semi-stale state) until all my jiggly parts got together and formed an intervention. It was for the best. I love Starbucks, but I will never understand why they can’t figure out a better way to preserve freshness in their pastries.

After making and tasting my own, warm and fresh from the oven, I’m not sure I could eat another half-stale scone again. It was delicious and left me wanting to go back, do it right and make the entire batch.

The recipe (complete with much better photos) can be found here.

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