Frances parked the stroller inside the front parlor of our Elizabethan teashop, then we slowly edged my parents and Kate over to a table. Frances and I had tea, Kate had formula. Lew and Jesse had coffee and toast and cheese and Dundee cake, a rich fruit concoction strewn with slivered almonds. As the name implies, this sweet cake originated in Scotland and, with luck, is impregnated with that golden highland beverage. Frances ordered scones, which arrived with strawberry jam and a pot of thick, bright yellow, velvety clotted cream.
“No, no, darling, you don’t put butter on ‘em!” Lew snickered, but in good humor.
“What do you mean? How’re you supposed to eat them?”
I cut a scone in two for her, applied a layer of jam to one half and topped it off with a dollop of clotted cream.
“There you go! No butter!” I said. “Bon appetit!”
We all watched with approving smiles as Frances started to eat and enjoy her first perfectly layered scone.
“Oh, it’s so good – taste?” She did not have to ask twice.
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