Back in the day, I. managed to find himself a job at one of the more popular cafes in St Andrews (after which, both we and our friends became significantly pickier about the items we would and would not eat from their kitchen). Part of his job was to arrive early in the morning to make two batches of scones (in bulk), that would emerge from the ovens, fresh and warm, by the time the cafe opened. (I still think my scone recipe from my postgraduate year was better, but most of my peers disagree). At any rate, today he performed a small-scale reprise of this once-significant task, and surprised me with fresh scones, strawberry jam, and a tub of clotted cream for breakfast.
For the uninitiated, clotted cream tastes a little like whipping cream (but better)but and the consistency of butter. Traditionally it comes from the milk of a certain breed of cows from a certain county of England, but I believe these rules are often bent. I am not sure that any more amazing food exists, and, although we eat it pretty sparsely (you know, for health reasons) it is one of the things I miss most when we are in America. I. considered himself to have survived romantically when he passed clotted cream on the list of things I like. At any rate, our breakfast was magnificent:
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