Stuck on a glacier for several weeks, this scone concludes a month long period of abstinence from my beloved pastries. Given such conditioning, one would presume that I am primed to enjoy whatever combination of fruit, dough, and sugar I can get my hands on. Yet, I am sad to report that this assumption is incorrect. Poor execution shines through despite all that was on this scone’s side. I am like the man, wandering the desert, starving and thirsty, who turns his nose up at what poor creation he stumbles upon in the fever dream oasis of his mind.
At first, the smell of the scone is overwhelming. I can clearly see it is undercooked, but that does not lessen its appeal. Of some concern is the mysterious orange item on its side. Yet, this merely adds intrigue. The sparse powdered sugar even suggests something out of the norm.
However, this hastily crafted refuse manages to disappoint on all fronts. There is simply no crunch. I cannot detect an ounce of sugar. The fruit is fine, but nothing special. The scone tastes as undercooked as its marble white dough would suggest. Indeed, one wonders if it were baked at all. I can taste the separate composite ingredients, and I do not mean that the fruit stands out. Simply, it is as though several items were tossed into a bowl, mushed together, and served down my idiotic gullet.
While the scone is of fine size, this provides me with nothing but more of it to loathe. I am drawn to the crisp seeds within the blackberries because they are the only element fully realized within this poor creation. Of course, that is the doing of the blackberries, not the scone’s inept bakers.
In my animalistic rush to consume this monstrosity, I stain my hands with blackberry juice. It runs down my hands like blood. I wash and wash, but the stain will not go. I’m cursed to forever walk this earth carrying memories sullied by this utter disappointment.