The Urgency of Scones
Dedicated to Hannah, an integral part of my scones’ success. And for supplying me with freezer scones.
2000g plain flour, 220g sugar, 110g baking powder, 2 sticks of butter, 2 and a half handful of soaked sultanas and an eyeball amount of buttermilk. That’s the recipe for a good time. Or, well, roughly 35 scones, which equates to a good time if you’re really into scones.
Wow! Scones!
When I was a commis chef in Northern England, I looked after larder—the section responsible for cold starters, bread and desserts. My mornings were more or less the same each day: Walk into the kitchen in a frenzy at 9AM, my brain raking through the angrily scribbled-down prep list that I left myself last night. I’d pause at my station momentarily and say hi to John, the breakfast chef, before going to the hotel’s front desk to get the daily dine-in numbers.
On a good day, there weren’t vegetarians. On an even better day, my scone mixes were prepped the day before, and all I had to do was chuck everything in the mixer. Unfortunately, the vegetarians continued to come (you’d think they would avoid an English grill and smokehouse restaurant), and scone mixes were usually nowhere to be found. Ah, I can hear Taylor singing so clearly, “It’s me, hi! I’m the problem, it’s me.”
I’m ashamed to admit the absolute grip scones had over my mood. It’s not that making scones is a difficult task, in fact, it’s a really enjoyable one. But I suppose the influencers are right—how you start the day really does matter. And there was nothing worse than having to make a scone mix in the morning and realising that the flour tub was empty. Meanwhile, the 15kg bag of flour stared at me smugly from the floor. Actually, there could be something worse. The flour AND the sugar tub could both be empty, with backup nowhere to be found. Now that’s a proper nightmare.
Sometimes, my shift would start an hour later at 10 a.m., which was when most of the team arrived. The fight for oven space would almost always happen. Sorry, veg chef. You can steam your potatoes later.
Sometimes, when I woke up in the morning, my first thought went to scones. That was when I realised that the kitchen had sucked my entire life up. Fuck, is it a Sunday? Did I prep enough scone mix? or I should probably go in earlier today to get a head start on scones since the prep list is 15 pages long or Did I freeze enough scones to get an extra 20-minute nap?
People have opinions on how the scone is best made. People have opinions on how the scone should be eaten. (What goes first, jam or clotted cream?) People even have opinions on how the word “scone” should be pronounced. I don’t have opinions on any of that. I’ve tried all the methods, I’ve eaten it the “right” and “wrong” way—and even cut the scone vertically once (in my defence, it was my first ever scone, and they don’t come with manuals). I pronounce the word like Northerners now.
Leftover scones would be put on the cold pass after lunch service for staff. It always amazed me when some of the FOH boys would eat three in one go.
I have no attachment to the mighty scone. Or, maybe I have a little too much attachment to the scone. I’ve made hundreds, if not thousands, of scones in the one year I was in The Lakes and probably consumed less than ten. Scones are nice. It’s definitely not a revolutionary pastry but making scones—the skill, routine, ritual—is one that I miss. The lunch and dinner menus at the restaurant would change, and afternoon tea nibbles would change, but the scone stayed constant. Today, I’m thinking about scones. Reminiscing about them as if they’re an old lover that I lost.
And maybe, in time, when the memories of the kitchen become a little more diluted, when the stress associated with the pastry becomes a distant recollection…Maybe then, I’ll head to my nearest Marks & Spencer for a little pick-me-up.
