Drop Scone Delight.

' Excuse me...do you have any drop scones on the menu today?' She enquired.
A miniature black poodle with a red bow tie lying cradled in her arms sniffs the sweet air with yawn of anticipation.

'Drop scones, why yes, in fact I have a freshly prepared mix ready to go, absolutely delicious , I can guarantee it '
Monique replies.
'...from an old recipe handed down three generations ...all the ingredients still in ounces would you believe...grams optional'. she adds laughing.

The assembled cakes and gateau's were aghast at the request.
'My word, an order for a drop scone...?'
Said the trendy cup cakes tut tutting in disdain as they looked down from their lofty tiers of crystal glass.
Why, they thought, would someone come into the shop, and order ...of all things...a plain, flat drop scone ?
Indeed, nodded the meringues as they cracked at the news they were not to be chosen.
Crepes creep with a sigh and a cry.
A tray of Swiss rolls, striving for attention roll from side to side to no avail.
Sliding to the front, a trio of overweight cherry cakes Mexican wave large juicy maraschino cherries on sticks as if in a Mariachi band.
An apple and cinnamon cake weeps with support from small slices of fruit loaf.
On a silver shelf large pink and white sponge pyramids shed slithers of their desiccated coconut in sympathy.
Sulking strawberry palmiers sit alongside fuming mille feuilles.
Whilst frangipane tartlets buff up their glaze...look at me... look at me, in attempts to outshine the others.
Brandy snaps, snap with irritation and ooze more cream.
Plates of walnut barquettes swell and push out their nuts.
Row upon row of cream horns huff and puff clouds of angelica icing sugar over the counter.
Milk chocolate crunches turn dark bitter and join forces with caramel sticks and a plump orange chocolate biscuit cake.
Five Viennese fingers stretch out in an effort to enhance their fragrant vanilla essence.
Clusters of tiny Japonais cakes attempt to raise their piped rosettes in unison.

Monique clicked the small griddle up another two degrees then gently lifts me up and to the top shelf.

'...6 drops of lemon essence, mix flour and salt...'

' Yes...yes... yes...I have been chosen'. I mutter to myself.
'I need to make the most of this moment...a long history of scone making is at stake here, I need to impress, texture, taste, everything, all the attention will be focused on me...I need to succeed ...'

'...4 oz SR flour, 1/4 teaspoon of salt, 1/2 oz marg...'

Large gateau's, three, four layers thick , apricot, coffee, black cherry and more, turn slowly in their chromed glass tower.
Small malicious marzipan squares link with mean macaroons and the dour date slices in a united front.
Other assorted cakes and delights from Scandinavia, Europe and the far East all surround me in a combined wish to see me fail to satisfy.
Sour cream seeps from all of them.
How can it be a flat drop scone be selected from such a dazzling display of exotic deluxe gateau's they wonder.

I know of course...I'm hot...I taste nice...I'm...'

'...2 oz sugar, 1 egg, 4 tablespoons of milk...'

I see her for the first time as she leans in gazing into my scone mix licking her lips with anticipation.
She is quite stunning , tar black hair held in check with a red ribbon.
Molten turquoise eyes set in a beautiful face carved from ivory.
I feel the heat rising within my mix as she smiles with desire.
Monique beats me lightly with her tiny silver whisk as she drops in the final secret ingredients.

'...rub in the margarine, mix in the sugar, add beaten egg...'

She knows how to treat me.
She knows exactly what the customer wants.
Of all the delicacies in the shop she covets me above them all.
I am her special drop scone mix to devour behind closed doors.
The small ladle holds the precise measure of my mixture,
the heats stuns me briefly as I'm poured over the hot griddle.
Monique quickly flips me over, squeezing me gently with the spatula, my colour and thickness to the exact specification.
Swiftly I'm raised to a fragile bone china dish and buttered ready to be served.
My black haired beauty takes me gently with both hands, guiding me slowly to her waiting mouth.
Her tongue caresses me, teeth nibble as she draws me in deeper and deeper.
Then...I slip from her fingers and... fall.
As I spiral to the floor, a miniature black poodle with a red bow tie, sits at her feet...tail wagging in anticipation.

'...makes 12 scones, bake two or three at a time...
...for special occasions however, one should suffice...'