Cutting A Scone In Half

Cutting a scone in half is no easy task. A scone’s crumble capacity makes dividing it evenly particularly difficult. And you’re still debating whether or not you should consume any of it, let alone half, but the thing is, you’ve already ordered it along with your tall decaf Americano, paid for your order, and walked away with that mouth-watering scone in a brown paper pastry bag. Now you must find a way to cope with your ambivalence, and, more importantly, accurately count the calories you are about to consume.

Why did you choose this? Is it subconscious self-sabotage? This is not acceptable, part of your mind says: All this sugar, for breakfast. Your whole day will be sabotaged once you meddle with your blood sugar. That long walk you took mere hours ago will have been in vain. You need balance. And here is this scone, a seemingly benign baked triangular object, now threatening your very existence.

How could this be?

Why do you have to be so damn serious all the time?

Look around. People are noshing lemon pound cake, over-sized wild berry muffins and chocolate chip cookies, brownies. They bite and chew and talk and sip and they don’t think twice. But you, you hold this crinkly bag in your fist—the feel of it, the idea of it, the image of its contents gripping your lungs. Breathe, you think. For God’s sake, it’s a scone.

Clarification: It’s a mini-scone, one-third the size of a regular scone, and you’re plotting to dissect it. That’s nice. At least Starbucks now lists calorie content on all items. Yours is 140. Half is an awkward, but manageable, 70.

Bon appétit. Can you eat, enjoy, sans guilt? Any other way would be an oxymoron.