don't scorn my scones.

scones!
the mutha-effing scone zone, actually.
that's the place where breakfast gets fresh-to-death,
and the baked greatness comes barrel-A*ing into it's birthright.
neighbors,
that's a thing.
the scone zone.
butterish butts, and cream-style chee', and a bit of brown sugar...
with a scoople of vanilla yogurty soy stuff,
and buttermilked lemon-juiced white soy-style non-dairy delightfulness.
guys,
c'mon.
we gotta get in the ZONE.
tapioca starch keeps 'em soft,
and the added fats i attach keep 'em fluffy.
that's right.
i want my scones thick, but not heavy.
mmmmmmmm.
dried blueberries, and dried cranberries, and vanilla bean paste,
added in at the last instant, make the whole dang thing come together
in an orgiastic organic onslaught of expertism.
believe me.
no?
then believe your own eyes, man.
check the sconery-poppin'-triangle-type teleport:

y'see what i mean?
18 folded, flipped, and flattened forays into the floured fray,
for thirty-six wu-TANGy chambers of breakfast-style hottness,
represented by an equal number of flaky layers of buttery bangin' biscuit business.
huh?
oh.
...yeah,
thanks for noticing.
...and big crystal raw sugar sprankles, too.
i'm not going to tell you that your sh!t is weak
if you're having a bowl of cereal this morning,
but it's not the hot fire that i'm enjoying in my castle at sunrise.
there isn't much better than a cuppa tea, a gently toasted scone,
and tippity tap typing of true stories told truly.
...........
my life at home sure seems smaller than it used to be years ago;
but,
compared to the larger-than-(your)-life albie rock show
that starts at noon each day,
but manages to go to eleven the whole entire time,
i'd have to say this particular performance is a masterstroke masterpiece
of understated and professionally appreciated conspiratorial cookery,
and i for one am pleased to be enjoying a wedge of this wonderful treat
in my morning robe, in my morning spot, while the birds perch at my window,
jealous that the seeds i've tossed across the plinths of the patio
have not got jack-sh!t on the full-blast repast that i'm breaking my fast upon.
it's not a grandiose grandstand gala,
it's just a carefully crafted morning, full of only the wheat,
and none of the chaff...
indeed,
i'm definitely about that sort of definitive Folk Life
whenever i'm left to my own devices....
which just happens to be almost every minute i'm away from work.
i'm doing what i need to, and doing what i want to,
and soon enough,
they'll be particularly prepared places for me to do what i'd love to.
it takes time, and time ticks away, taking from itself and never repaying it's debt.
however,
i'm spanning that time, and reaching to the far ends of the hours,
so that while it all keeps really happening, the sequences forms a pattern
that pieces together a puzzle that paints a picture of an ever-more expert future.
eventually,
this little life will fill up all the available space,
and i'm betting that'll be a pretty big deal;
never quiet, never soft.....