Saturday, January 22, 2011


Sam does like his morning breakfast pastries. Plenty of toddlers may suggest "cookies" for breakfast. My son knows that cookies are for after dinner and that croissants are for breakfast. I suppose I could make my own - there is plenty of frozen puff pastry for the working lasses who want to make puffy pastries, but don't have the four hours to roll their own dough. I just like going to cafes so much that I steer clear of going down that slippery slope of making croissants and pains au chocolate myself.
But scones! a lady can get behind those.

I had my doubts about these scones. I mentioned previously that I don't know what is wrong with the cafes around here, selling things called "scones" that are blobby, cloying messes. I make lovely, flaky beauties sans frosting, sans chocolate chips, sans all that gross "filling." Do scones have filling? NO. So I got a nifty new cookbook for Xmas, a child-focused cookbook. It has a scone recipe that calls for cream, not butter! I decided that, even if they were not true scones, Sam might like them, and that's who I was making them for anyway.

They were delicious! Even with cream instead of butter, they had the "correct" texture. Well, maybe they weren't as flaky as they could have been, but they were not blobby. I put sprinkles on for Sam. You can't really tell, but the scones are in the shapes of hearts, moons, and houses.

I put a heart in Sam's lunch and it came back uneaten! What? I tried again the next day with the same result. Ingrate. This was the kid who tried to grab the freshly baked ones right off the tray.

So I start eating them as after-work snacks. Well, of course, Sam spots mine with butter and jam and wants a bite ... and another ... and he eats the whole thing. Fine. Scones for dinner.

Josh and I tried family dinner one Sunday. The kid just doesn't eat. I think he eats at school - all his lunch and snacks, then fasts at home. He also fasts on the weekends. This is my curse. I can't stand picky eaters, and I've got one. I continually tell myself (pray?) that he will grow out of it - that three is a magical year when we will have family dinners and Sam will adroitly use utensils and actually eat all those vegetables that he merely names now.

To dream ....

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