*a woman sconed.

I had tea with the queen! There were crumpets and scones and tiny finger sandwiches garnished with radish flowers and fairy dust! I was thin-lipped and polite and almost abrasively charming!

That was the idea, anyway. I decided to make scones because they're simple and drily delicious (that's where the tea comes in handy). And because Ina made them, and I'm trying to land a man like Jeffrey. He's all academic and adoring. I think I could get into that.

HOWSOEVER. This endeavor would require a trip to my most dreaded of all emporia: Wal Mart (shudder). I think they require you to surrender your frontal lobe at the automatic doors. I always go in there with vigor and purpose and squared shoulders and come out shaken, with chewing gum and dog bones and a sense that I dropped my dignity near the Sam's Cola.

Here are some things I saw at Wal Mart on an average sunny Sunday in February: a stricken man speed-walking in search of what I must assume was his lady companion, as his cart contained only moist towelettes and feminine hygiene products; a woman and her teenage son who glared pointedly at me, I think because they were convinced I was responsible for the melancholy looking sausage pizzas; an albino child riding shotgun on her grandmother's power chair; and some tremendous examples of modern-day haberdashery (write this down: sequined butterflies are the new black).

By that point I was so terrified that I fled with my kitchen trash bags—did you know? I already had some at home. FRONTAL LOBE, I tell you—and milk. And then something amazing happened. The surly cashier gave my disheveled appearance a cursory, exasperated once-over (she was expecting, what, Fergie?) and, as I went to swipe my plastic, I read the following on the digital read-out:

"Was your cashier pleasant to you today?"

She was not! She was dismissive and sighing, despite my being her first customer of the day! She drummed her fingernails to communicate her impatience with me! There was not room for all of that, so I hit the NO button and felt the empowerment flow. I had to give it back when the gatekeepers at the exit chastised me for not having my receipt at! the! ready!, but it was worth the short-lived thrill.



That's all you need! Flour, yellow cornmeal, milk, baking soda, dried thyme (I was fresh out of fresh), the sage left over from Parsnipgate '08, salt, pepper, onion (in place of scallions, which all went into the Super Bowl Pity Party), and, sneaking out stage left, funny cheese.



That is FUNNY CHEESE. I'll tell you what you can do with your "mild" cheddar, your "sharp" cheddar, your "supremely extra wicked sharp" cheddar. All must bow to the Seriously Sharp Cheddar. Thank you, Cabot, for brightening an otherwise otherwordly trip to the dairy case (where a woman smirked at me, conspiratorially, "They never have it, do they?" I have no idea who she was or what she was talking about. I agreed, discomfitedly, that they never, ever do.).

Everything gets mixed up in one bowl, and that's it! Dropped in tablespoonfuls onto a parchment-lined sheet, and then into the oven, in batches (snickerdoodle lesson learned), at 400 for 20 minutes.



They come out all golden brown and melty. Especially if you use more cheese than called for. I got a little wrapped up in the satisfaction of grating, and I am not one to waste some SERIOUSLY sharp goodness.



I may have eaten two in addition to dinner. And two again for breakfast this morning. Unless that's gross. In which case I stood on the sidewalk and passed them out to the needy.