Tea Time

I love tea. I love scones. I adore scones with my tea. Although I will allow that lands of milk and honey do sound appealing, I would take an overgrown empty lot as long as I have luscious buttery clotted cream on a warm fruited biscuit slathered in exquisite strawberry preserves or tangy marmalade. In fact, I have decided if heaven doesn't have clotted cream, I am buying a ticket south.

Our first day out in England seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge in this most delicious of repasts. I had arisen at o'dark thirty in order to catch the train, and had breakfasted at 6:00 am. By ten thirty or so, I was a bit peckish. That is English for needing sustenance y'all. Anyhoo,  I decided my daughter and I could share a lovely leisurely snack of tea and scones. The quaint and quirky story-book cafe we chose had an extensive range of options for our tea. There was only one problem.  I was not "supposed" to have tea at 10:30. Apparently this is a rule.

I, of course, was completely unaware of my faux pas, and the menu did not note a specific time for which tea was appropriate. Salivating at the mere thought of that glorious clotted cream, I did not notice the commotion I had caused with my order. The murmuring in the cafe steadily rose until when my tiered stand of deliciousness appeared at my table, I could feel the electricity of the building excitement. At first in my naivete about English customs and practices, I thought I was hearing murmurs of approval and admiration. I was sadly mistaken.

It seems I had committed a serious crime against the very custom I wanted to savor. It was entirely too early  in the day for tea and scones. Apparently tea when served with pastries or sandwiches is an afternoon treat. It was not yet noon. Could I have looked more decidedly un-English? And did I mention our table was situated right in the middle of the restaurant?

Can I just say that the pleasure of enjoying a perfectly brewed pot of aromatic Darjeeling whilst nibbling on freshly baked scones is somewhat diminished when one fears they will be dragged to the center of town to face whatever judgement is deemed appropriate when one is caught breaking a centuries old tradition. I kid you not, the lady next to us using a decibel level not unfamiliar to those in a world cup final situation, discussed at length my crime with her dining companion. Others were more discreet opting to use horrified facial expressions and tongue clucking to demonstrate their complete and utter disapproval.

I decided my only way out of this "situation" was to blame it on the Texans. It seems that most folks in England know just a handful of  places in the United States; New York, Washington DC, Miami Beach,  Hollywood, Disneyworld and Texas.  Since my own forefathers and foremothers would be turning in their graves  appalled at my behaviour,  I could not let my true genealogy be known. I sound southern. Therefore, for one day and one day only, I became a Texan. I exclaimed about how big that 'ole biscuit was. I announced my scone was special enough to be served with the Holy Grail of Texan cuisine -the steak. I y'alled and howdied my way through that debacle of a tea time. And it worked.

I since have learned to order my tea in the hours beyond noon when I choose to indulge in my now absolute need for scones. If the clock does not read an acceptable time whilst out and about, I resign myself to tea and, well..tea.  Except when at home. If I want scones and tea at nine in the morning or eleven o'clock at night, I indulge. Slathered with that luscious Cornish clotted cream, there really isn't anything better.