A couple of weeks ago, I found myself sulking outside of a local bakery. This isn’t a gluten-free bakery, but they do make a fantastic gluten-free scone. I arrived too late in the day, and as usual, they were completely sold out. However, my wheat-eating husband bought himself some ridiculous looking apple-stuffed, almond-stuffed, hopes and dreams-stuffed croissant. I was irrationally upset about this situation. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I watched bits of pastry flake off onto his shirt, and tiny bits of apple adhere to his adorable mouth corners. All I wanted was a scone. I briefly considered not eating breakfast at all. How could I? I had been dreaming of that scone for… well, at least the last thirty minutes. I could taste the flaky bits of berry filled dough in my mind. No other breakfast would measure up. I was on a scone only hunger strike. I was quickly becoming an insane person. This happens when hunger sets in. I’m still myself, but the drama is cranked up to eleven, and the tears start to nag at my ducts, begging to be released. It’s as if I’ve melded my physical person with the frenetic emotional instability of Buster Bluth, and the overly emotive face of Oscar The Grouch. If you’re wondering, my husband really loves when this happens (he doesn’t).  May I remind you that all of this is happening OVER A SCONE. Ugh.  […]