Angry Baked Goods

There are many things it's not a good idea to do angry: drive a car, phone a loved one, deal with members of the police, or dismember a nun. Though sometimes the nun and police thing kind of blend into one another.

Today I are mostly pissed off by something I'm going to keep secret* and how did I vent my rage? My FURY? My mild peevitude? I baked scones. Good God, can you not just feel the unfettered testosterone dripping off your computer screen? When the going gets tough, the tough turn to baked goods. And not for any sort of sexual release, that's just wrong.

Of course never having baked scones before they didn't quite turn out as I'd expected. I think, technically, they qualify as an offence against nature. I like to make stuff up as I cook. "Why don't we try following the recipe for once?" asks She Who Must Assist In The Kitchen, hopefully. "Nah," says Stuart, "it'll be fine. What could possibly go wrong?" And besides, following recipes is a bit like reading the instructions that come with flat-pack furniture. Sure, you CAN do that, and be a good little drone, and maybe your wardrobe will actually look like the picture on the front of the box -- rather than a toy fort put together by cack-handed baboons -- but where's the fun in that? Life's too short to count grommet screws.

Though I might, just, have to admit that I maybe went a bit too far this time. Half the scones are cheese, the other half are fruit. All look like they've just escaped from The Island of Dr. Moreau. They taste OK, but they have more than just a little hint of Quasimodo about them.

Therefore I think we can forget 'moodstones' and all the rest of that New-Age jumbo mumbo: Scones are a window into the soul. Want to know if someone's pissed off or not? Force them to bake a batch of scones. They're like little psychic sponges.

It's cheaper than therapy and you can eat the results.

*Thus making it seem a lot more interesting than it actually is**.
** And no: it's not got anything with Mr Wignall's post, though that whole "Stuart and John Rickards look like peas in a pod, rather like the crime writing world's answer to Johnny Depp and Keith Richards as Jack and Grant Sparrow" thing did give me the creeps. In that scenario bags I being the young swashbuckling one with all the groupies. John can be the one who smells of ralgex and crack cocaine.

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