Cinnamon Bun Twice

 

I'd heard from friend Rosie of an excellent bakery called "Gail's", and had wanted to visit it ever since. There would be, if I went, a Cinnamon Bun to die for. Rosie knew about this because one of her children lived near (or did she say above?) the London shop, and the aroma was almost impossible to ignore. 

Guess what? There is a Gail's in Oxford! 

You don't have to say 'Cinnamon Bun' twice to the SconeLady. I woke up, got dressed, and wandered around the streets of Oxford staring into my phone, in search. I wondered what a British cinnamon bun would be like. Would it resemble the fresh cinnamon rolls Americans bake each Christmas morning? Surely it couldn't compare to that! Well, I was about to find out because there was movement and chatter in front of that shop just ahead. I approached.

"May I help you?" murmured a server. I asked him for a Cinnamon Bun, and please could he "warm up the bun just a tiny bit?" 

He said, "Unfortunately I cannot do that, but they were made just this morning and I feel sure, Madam, that they wlll be fresh." Whenever I hear this disclaimer about "not warming the bun" in the shops of England, I realize that the servers have got it wrong. I am not thinking so much about fresh. I am thinking about warm.

                                                          

But he was right - the bun was fresh. As I sat enjoying it, a rather rude voice disturbed me from behind. An argument was building and growing louder, becoming such a long and scary harangue, back and forth, as the church bells mingled with the shouts, that I really thought I was going to have to run. The lady next to me did too. 

"What shall we do?" she asked, eyes wide.

But I didn't know, and then another man joined in and things became even more strident. Three loud yellers now, and nobody said anything to them, or tried to intervene, or called the authorities. If we were in the streets of LA, we might have expected gunfire. But the Brits don't get out guns, I think, so they have figured out knives instead. Either option is scary, so the lady and I grabbed up our things and looked for a hiding place. 

But suddenly it went quiet. The yellers had disappeared, and their chairs were empty. 

"Oh, thank God!" we said simultaneously. As we sat back down, I thought of a song the boys choir sang at Princess Diana's funeral long ago:

"Make me a channel of Your peace,

Where there is hatred let me bring Your love,

And where there is injury Your pardon, Lord,

And where there is doubt, true faith in You."

I can't think of anything to add to that. The boys in the choir said it all.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady