After I have dispatched my kid at Preschool, my weekday mornings are mine.  ALL MINE.

I am free to do whatever I want — do laundry, wash dishes, vacuum the whole house in a slinky black dress, organize my husband’s dvd collection categorically and in alphabetical order, or run around naked in the back garden while I pull out weeds from the planter box.  Obviously, I have no plans on performing that last bit. I’m just saying the option is there, not that I will actually do it. I hate pulling out weeds.

There are days though, that I get in my car, drive the short distance to Lyall Bay, and cheat on my husband.  

There, I said it.  But before you decide that I am some homewrecking hoe, I’m not talking about adultery here.  My foray into infidelity is tied to the iniquity of gluttony, not the skanky.

When my son does not want to finish his apple, I eat half.  When he half-gobbles his frittata, I end up with part of it.  When we dine out, my husband and I split our meals and eat half of each dish.  When we order cheese scones at Spruce Goose cafe, my portion is exactly half.  

But you know what?  Sometimes I don’t want half!  Sometimes I want a whole goddamn cheese scone all to myself!

Have you sampled the cheese scones from Spruce Goose?  There is no way anyone would want to share such masterfully crafted baked goodies.  The staff at the cafe has perfected the art of perfectly toasting a scone, pardon the alliteration.  A huge hunk of bread, cut in half, grilled into a golden crisp, and larded generously with butter. The first bite generates a thrill down your spine, as you dig your teeth in that top crust, then further sinking into that cheesy-flaky crumb, with every morsel dissolving in all its velvety savouriness inside your mouth.  The epitome of comfort food, overlapping with indulgence. Believe me when I say I have tried other scones, but so far this is unsurpassed.

I don’t think I’ve even seen the menu at Spruce Goose.  Such is my undying devotion to their cheese scones.  The only other thing I order from there is a flat white.  My gob requires some sort of task reallocation for reasons involving the words — wet floor and safety hazard.  Drooling on the premises isn’t exactly hygienic, while waiting for my bread addiction to be served.

And somehow, I associate coffee with Me Time.  With its huge glass windows looking out into the ocean, the beachfront cafe certainly fosters this selfish, but much needed comfort.  The soundscape of waves crashing into the shore in a repeated, random pattern inclines one to contemplate about life and its complexities.  But to be honest, I usually sit there and ruminate on the probability of whether bananas are going to be cheaper at Countdown or Pak ‘n Save on a Thursday.  I also brood over the many ways I could end up murdering my newly acquired basil herb.   I go through so many of them. Gardening is not my strongest point, being a sarcastic old hag is.  No, really, I absolutely suck. My efforts in raising plants can only be defined as the horticultural version of Patrick Bateman’s killing sprees in American Psycho.

But I digress (which I tend to do frequently).

It’s entirely possible that one day,  I will request something else from the menu at Spruce Goose.  Maybe a leafy salad to offset all the carbs I’ve been devouring lately.  Scratch that, I shouldn’t tell lies. I would, in point of fact, definitely go for an Eggs Benedict with a side of streaky bacon.  But for now, I am contented to pursue an intimate relationship with their cheese-laden bread. Changeless and consistently satisfying.  A cheating wife’s guilty pleasure.

And before anyone screams shameless hussy or begin lecturing about the wickedness of non-conjugal cheese scone consumption, know this:  I always bring home take-aways. Always.

Not doing so is grounds for divorce.

Look at that sexy, sexy hunk of bread.  

Cnr Moa Point Rd & Cochrane St,
Lyall Bay, Wellington City

phone: (04) 387-2277