Note: This story uses British spelling.
“Mmm … scrumptious,” twelve-year-old Conley McArdent mumbled through a mouthful. “The best shortbread I’ve ever tasted.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” responded his fourteen-year-old sister, Patsy.
“I mean it.”
“Really? It was just a wee experiment—throwing the usual ingredients together type of thing. You know—butter, flour, sugar and all. Naught special, except the butter, of course … Ballyrashane.”
“But they are so good,” Conley said, reaching for the plate. Patsy stayed his hand.
“That’s your fifth. I only made four for each of our guests.”
“Okay, Con, since you are a satisfied customer, go ahead. Merrill and Moira and their children will eat ’em, and Mike and Maggie, of course—but their daughter, Megan, might pass—she’s on some kind of a diet.”
Conley’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of customers, I bet I could sell these.”
“What? Sell my dinky biscuits?”
“Aye. You don’t think so?”