Quick: what's the first thing that comes to mind when someone says the word "scone"? Other than sawdust, I mean. Right: English tea. Or more specifically, the ritual of English afternoon tea. Erroneously called "high tea" here in the States (probably because of the formality that's associated with it), the meal is actually, technically, "low tea". Oh blast those infernal Brits and their fussy, high falutin' terms! Yet the words aren't intended to indicate the status of the meal, but the location where they're taken. "High" tea is taken at the "high", i.e. "main" table, the dining table. "Low" tea is taken, well, pretty much anywhere else.

The tradition can be traced back as far as the 1760's among the British gentry, where it was thought to be a kind of stop-gap meal between lunch and the "high" meal, which typically took place around eight. Yet it really didn't come into its own until the mid-1800's, the golden age of British rule in the far East, when the so-called "Orientalist" craze that swept the Commonwealth. British afternoon tea, some say, may be an Anglified version of the Japanese tea ceremony.

There are as many afternoon tea traditions as there are counties in Britain. Yet one of the most famous is that which occurs the county where I once lived: Devon. There, afternoon tea was called "cream tea", and well, you can pretty much imagine what went on. Devon is rich and rolling farm country, known for its dairy herds, which are said to produce a higher fat milk than is typical in the rest of the British Isles. Dairy folk in Devon make a one-of-a-kind indulgence out of it, known as "double" or "clotted" cream. It's thick as mud, the perfect spread for a scone, especially when topped with a dollop of jam.

I was a nihilistic college student when I was first exposed to the stuff (oh yes, I considered myself quite the counter-cultural). Yet my black clad, amply pierced, heavily tattooed friends and I thought nothing of packing into a dainty, pink doily-draped tea shop two or three times a month to eat ourselves into a creamy coma. I mean, who cares about class politics when the milk fat content is this high? And anyway, the little old ladies were glad to have us. They'd graciously bring out a few pots of Darjeeling and a heaping tray of fresh, hot scones, then politely turn their backs while we made West Country pigs of ourselves.

I can still remember the gluttonous joy of it. Slather on the cream, a spot of jam for color, protrude the pinky and...stuff the whole thing into your mouth! People have been doing that as long as there's been tea in Devon. Of course they do the same thing just down the coast in Cornwall, only there they put the cream on top of the jam instead of the other way around. Animals.