top of page

Lucky Stump Scones

A popular spot among Meredith College students is Lucky Stump, a small, inaccessible coffee shop across the street from Hell our fine school. The scones at Lucky Stump are like no other. They are terrible and painful to eat, but like magic, you will return to Lucky Stump and order them again and again like you enjoy food that becomes a weapon in your mouth. The scones do not taste good. They do not feel good to chew unless you like feeling bad (I haven’t forgotten about you, my little masochists). They liberally deposit crumbs as a Hansel and Gretel precaution. These scones are what you give to children so they don’t get lost.

Lucky Stump scones should come with a complimentary tube of Orajel, a dust broom, and an apology, but instead, come with what feels, upon doing the mastication tango, like sand. Like, beach sand, the stuff you long to step on when dirt begins to feel predictable. I say this not to imply that the scones don’t strongly resemble dirt in taste and effort but rather to highlight that the sand is novel and more interesting than your run-of-the-mill vegan scone, if no less unpleasant. In other words, Lucky Stump scones are a disappointing vacation from your horrid culinary life. Still, this sandy, oceanic experience can be appreciated two hours inland by pretending to be a beach crab while you chew, with frequent reminders that if you’re lucky, you’ll die from climate change before finishing your meal.

A Lucky Stump scone is the surest cure I’ve found for imposter syndrome. If those cursed croutons can be a scone, you can be a functional adult. Rarely do I eat something that so wholly convinces me the ingredients were scooped up in a parking lot and put into an oven like that would make them edible. If someone can bake those scones and sell them, you can at least get baked and sell anything. Want to tell your parents you flunked calculus? Got gay? Got monkeypox the sinful way? Give them a Lucky Stump scone. Let Lucky Stump scones be useful and disappoint your parents for you. If they can’t have flavor, they can have a purpose.

By Rebecca Simmons, Contributing Writer

EDITOR'S NOTE: The views expressed in columns and opinion pieces do not necessarily reflect the views of The Herald staff.


Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page