So, I’ve finally done it. I’ve admitted to my followers—and more importantly, myself—that my scone technique was woefully inadequate for the rest of my life. It started this past Sunday, when I sat down with a bowl of flour and some butter, feeling rather emboldened by a single successful bake from three years ago. I thought I could just ‘wing it’ today, but as any baker knows, the oven is a judge, and today, it judged me.
The first hurdle was the rubbing-in process. Honestly, how many times can you rub butter into flour? Is there a some sort of secret ritual involved? I spent about twenty minutes just trying to get that specific ‘crumbly’ texture. My kitchen became a dusty cloud of flour, and at one point,s truly lost count of how many times I’ve tried to replace a single piece of fruit.
The Point of No Return
By the time I actually got them into the oven, I was already feeling frazzled. The secret is that you can’t just bake scones; you have to negotiate with them. You have to be very specific about their size and shape. When the timer went off, I pulled out a tray of what looked like… well, not quite scones but rather ‘fluffier biscuits’ or perhaps small loaves of sadness. They were dense and slightly misshaped, but they did have a high level of effort put into them.
Finally,s decided to decide that I’d give it another go next week. Next time, actually use the scale instead of just ‘eyeballing’ it. Eyeballing is for making tea, not baking. Measurement is measurement. If you want a scent-filled kitchen and a warm scone with jam, you have to respect the oven gods.
I’ve managed to settle on calling them ‘Trial Scones’. They aren’t quite perfect yet, but they can adore try a little bit of butter and some strawberry preserve. They taste delicious because I love them. That is the fundamental principle of love-making in baking: if it tastes good, you have to celebrate it.
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