Death by Savory Scone

My kryptonite is the breadbasket at a really good restaurant. Since we rarely have any bread in our actual house I usually can steer clear of eating white flour in the form of some baked product. But take me to a nice restaurant with other people who don’t have the same need for restraint that I have and I am in trouble.

If I were alone I know the answer is to politely ask the server to not bring me any bread, not to mention the existence of a biscuit and under no circumstances not to bring me the dessert menu. If I am just with Russ he might do that for me, which is a great sacrifice on his part since he loves bread and could afford to eat a piece.

The problem is when I go out to eat with other, non-family members. The bread comes to the table. Of course it does and I need to let other people enjoy it and still be able to sit there and carry on a pleasant conversation. But that is not what happens. Try as I might to sit on my hands and ignore the smell of the warm yeasty lump of pure white pleasure I eventually find my resolve too weak.

Tonight was no exception. Lemon poppy seed savory scones came to the table. Yes, they were really lemon poppy seed biscuits, but regardless of the name, they called to me. I did my best not to look at them. I ordered the soup and salad for dinner. I was drinking water. Before I knew it my hand was moving that scone from the breadboard to my plate. Practically in a trance I split it open along one of the many flaky fault lines that circumnavigated the circular bit of yumminess. I broke off a small piece and popped it in my mouth. Nirvana.

The combination of salt, flour and butter that were perfectly cut together to produce a tender biscuit that melted in my mouth ignited the happiness zone in my brain. Just as my hand was reaching to break off another morsel the red light siren warning system on the other side of my brain began a guilty blaring. I turned a blind eye to the guilt center and quickly finished off the entire scone.

I know that the scale tomorrow might not register that one little baked item as badly as I feel about it now. See, if I could only eat one once a month or so I think I would be fine, but one usually leads to more than one. I fled the restaurant and the other baked items. Tomorrow I will have to begin the detoxification process and pray I do not encounter another lump of white flour I am not able to walk away from. If you can’t reach me it might be because I am floating in the deprivation tank.