Weekend Cooking: Making scones

A few years ago I listened to a book called The Drifter by Anthea Hodgson. As soon as I heard this passage I knew that I wanted to share it but I ran out of time to do so for that year's International Scone Week. And then we were away last year and then I had other things to post, so that brings us to now. I've been saving the post in draft for so long but today is the day that it sees the light of day!

I have had scones on my mind recently after having lunch with an old boss who told me that she whips up a double batch of scones on a regular basis! I was kind of surprised by that as I didn't picture her as a baker but now she has a bit more time on her hands so I guess that accounts for it. 

In this passage our main character Cate is talking to Henry who is a drifter who is helping her work her aunt's farm

"Anyway, I've gotta go inside and bake as I've never baked before."

"Have you ever baked before?" he asked without looking up.

"Never."

"Shouldn't be too hard then."

She wandered back into the cool of the house and started prepping the kitchen. She'd at least seen Masterchef, and she'd picked up tips from loads of share houses, so she wasn't a bad cook; it just that baking was a specific skill set, and she'd never bothered with it. That's what shops were for. She pulled a copy of The Golden Wattle Cookery Book from the shelf, ignored half the advice, and knocked out a dozen scones in well under an hour. Except they were a bit flat. Wrong flour, maybe. She threw them out and tried again. Burned her hand on the tray getting them out of the oven, accidentally turned off the over, nearly blew her face off when she leaned inside to light it again, then sore loudly and refreshed her cup of coffee while she contemplated her future.

She needed to get this done. The damn cake stall was tomorrow. She thought about packet scones, then decided Kath at the co-op couldn't keep her mouth shut. She stood up and launched her hands into the mixture, rubbing the butter into the flour, adding milk, then kneading like crazy. 

"What are you doing?" Henry had come in to observe her progress, and his large figure was leaning in the doorway, looking aghast.

"Making scones."

Henry pulled her hands off the corpse of dough. "No, you're not. Step away from the dough."

She pulled a face of frustration. She didn't need this. "What?"

"How long have you been kneading this stuff?"

"Ten minutes or so."

"Don't."

"Huh?"

"You don't knead scones. You treat them gently, lightly, softly."

"Yeah, yeah, Nigella - what makes you an expert?"

"I have a mother in Victoria"

"You do?"

"And she's  a good baker. Lots of sons. So I know you don't pummel scones to death. And you cook them quickly in a hot oven."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She was fed up, and threw the dough-pancake into the bin. 

"Okay, you're up.Held me make these damn things or it's going to get embarrassing."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to cry, and I can tell you  aren't okay with crying women."

He nodded. He washed his hands like a surgeon ready to operate, and pored over the Golden Wattle Cookery Book with her.

"Here, rub the butter and flour together," he said patiently.

She looked unimpressed. "Why not use the mixer?"

"I have no idea. Just do as you're told."

She fixed him with a glare but got rubbing, and found, ultimately, that it wasn't so bad. Henry guided her through the process with the understanding of a cook who had done a bit of baking in his life. She wondered about the woman who had taught him to cook. Did she know where he was now? Was she looking for him? She hated to think of Henry's Victorian mother pining for her boy and not knowing his fate. Henry leaned over and bumped her as he reached for the baking tray.

"Cate? Time to cut the scones out and get them in the oven." He checked the temperature was high.

She picked up the scone cutter and pushed it into the soft dough, then twisted it and brought it back out.

Henry tut-tutted and placed his hand over hers for the next one, his large arm running casually down hers, looking over her shoulder to check her form. "Don't twist it."

"Why not?"

"Not sure. Stops it rising as much?"

He gave off a lot of heat. "Okay."

He kept his hand on hers for a few more scones.  Maybe he thought the technique took practice. Finally, the scones were in, and rising, forming perfect golden scones.

And now I want scones with lashings of jam and cream

Weekly meals

Saturday - 
Sunday -
Monday - Steak egg and chips
Tuesday - Work event
Wednesday - Home made pizza
Thursday - Out for dinner
Friday - Takeaway

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