- Heirloom Hours journal entry -

Scones Cut with
an Old Vegemite Glass

 - A Keepsake Story -

Jam, cream, and memories from Nanna’s kitchen.
A tender reflection on my Nanna's fruit scones, an old Vegemite glass,
and the quiet kitchen moments that taught me love often lives in the simplest things.

There are some foods we remember not only for their taste,
but for the hands that made them.

For me, my Nanna’s fruit scones will always belong to her kitchen.

I can still picture myself sitting on the stool at the end of the kitchen bench, watching her make them. I would settle into my place and look on as she moved through the familiar steps with quiet confidence.

There was no fuss.
No special equipment.
No need to measure everything with great seriousness.

She had made them so many times before that the recipe seemed to live in her hands.

My Nanna had been taught to cook by my great Nanna, and there was something beautiful about that quiet passing down.
The kind of knowledge passed down — never written in a perfect book, but learned by watching, doing, tasting, and remembering.

I would watch in amazement while she roughly measured and mixed the dough, rolled it out on the floured bench, and then reached for an old glass Vegemite jar.

Yes, the old glass Vegemite jar. Those times when things were often made to last and given a second purposeful use. They were often used as drinking glasses, but in my Nanna's kitchen, the same glass became an important kitchen tool, used to cut the soft fluffy scones from the dough on her bench.

In Nanna's kitchen, it was always referred to simply as the Vegemite glass. To me, it was an important part of her kitchen — practical, familiar, and perfect for cutting scones.

I loved the detail then, and I love it even more now. It was something so simple and clever about it. The old jar would press into the dough, lifting out little circles ready to be placed on the tray.

One by one, she would arrange them carefully. Then she would brush the tops with milk and place them in the oven. 

While they baked, the kitchen would begin to fill with the most beautiful smell. Warm, sweet, homely. The kind of smell that makes you feel loved before anything has even reached the plate.

And when they were ready, she would pull them from the oven and place them back on the kitchen bench near me. I could smell the aroma and see the steam rise from the freshly baked golden scones, my mouth watering anticipation.

I can still remember watching her cut them open with a butter knife and seeing the steam waft out into the air.

The scone cut open in half, and butter spread on both sides. I would watch while it melted into scone halves. Every surface covered.

Then topped with jam and freshly whipped cream.

.. and .. oh, the cream .. 

The cream was a memory all of its own.

While the scones baked, my Nanna would make the cream by hand.
She did not use an electric beater. She used an old fashioned hand beater, turning it round and round until the cream became light and fluffy.

She would add sugar until it tasted just right. 
Just enough to make it ‘dee-licious’ - this is exactly how she would describe it as she dipped her finger to taste, and you would see the smile and the joy when she got the balance just right.

There was something so special about that cream.

It was handmade.
It was never rushed.
It was made with thought.

Made with patience.
Made with care.
Made with love.

And when she had finished, there was always the extra little joy of being allowed to lick the spoon.

 Those moments seem small, but felt so large in my heart.

These were the moments that made childhood feel safe and sweet.

The moments that taught me love can be found in the way someone prepares something just for you.

Once everything was ready, my Nanna would make a cup of tea, and we would sit down to our little afternoon treat.

Warm homemade scones.
Butter melting into the soft centre.
Jam spooned on top.
Fresh cream, light and sweet.
Tea in a cup.
And the two of us together.

There was no grand occasion.
Just an ordinary afternoon.
A small kitchen ritual.
A simple thing shared.

And perhaps that is what made it so meaningful.

The deepest memories are often made from the simplest things.

Ï

A kitchen bench. 
An old glass.
A tray of scones. 
A bowl of cream.

Ï

Someone taking the time to make something properly.
I remember those scones for more than their taste.

I remember them for how they made me feel.

I remember watching my Nanna’s hands...

The quiet certainty in the way she worked.
The patience in the way she made things.
The joy of sitting close by and knowing that something beautiful was being made for us to share.

And even now, all these years later, I can still see it.

The dough on the bench.
The old Vegemite jar.
The tray going into the oven.
The steam rising from the scones.
The cream being turned by hand.

And my Nanna, making something ordinary feel 'unforgettable'.

Ï