AN EXCUSE to MAKE SCONES

"And she was delighted to have an excuse to make her delicious scones..." -Rosemary Gemmell

My grandmother, who was from Scotland, pronounced in "Skon" or "Skonz". If you were from the town of Scone in Scotland, it was " Skoon".  In the US. it often rhymes with the word "tone". Great British baking Show personality Mary Berry , pronounces it the Scottish way "Skon".   My mother and grandmother made them  constantly. Day in. Day out. On the farm they fed the workers and the family. Growing up the Scones fed us.

Grandmother Shiels, Mum

My Uncle Bill would spend a great deal of winters with us. He  ran the farm in Bethune, but the winters were long and hard.  He  often showed up in December. or January. He'd stay about three or four months, before driving back to Saskatchewan.  He would trundle in with his camper truck and park  it under the willow tree. He brought presents and books. I used to think he was a cowboy. I would stare at him for hours.

My  mother always made him a big breakfast. Bacon, Easy over eggs, the kind that ran into the bacon, porridge, coffee, and Scones. Fresh from the oven. Every morning practically. I can still see him eating scones at the table. He would halve the pie wedges, slather with butter, and plop the biggest spoonful of honey on them. The honey would drip down the sides of the scone. Then he would have another. Sometimes with homemade preserves. To finish off he would take a plain scone and wipe down his plate of egg yolk, then cover the wedge with more honey.  He would drink coffee contentedly. Breakfast lasted about an hour and a half. Then he would burp for a while. THAT fascinated me. I would  eat scones beside him , wondering if he could stay forever. He always let me stuff his pipe . The scent of   tobacco wafted over the kitchen. Till my mother shooed him outside so she could clean up. Lunch and dinner was pretty much the same. Big lunches. Big dinners. Lots of talk about the old days. And Scones at most meals.

Mum always said that the secret to the best scones was handling the mixture very lightly…treat it like it was pastry…..and they will turn out flaky and wonderful. Not too much liquid, and the dough should be really soft, should look undermixed, but not wet.

Mum, Bill 1940's

LOVELY BETHUNE SCONES

2 cups  flour,  ½ cup sugar,  1 tbsp baking powder,   Pinch of coarse salt

½ cup cold butter or margarine,   1 egg,   2/3 cup milk ( I use cream sometimes)

Grandparents 1930 Bethune

Mix all dry ingredients together

Plop butter or margarine into this, blend with pastry cutter.

Dump egg into milk/cream and beat till blended.

 

Make a well in center of mixture, pour liquid into this well. 

Mix quickly with fork and combine immediately into a soft, dough ball…should feel like baby’s skin.    

 It should NOT be worked together very much. Or it will be tough. Think of pastry.

Bill on farm 1930's

Turn into a soft ball of dough. Do not flatten. Do NOT knead. Pat into a round. It should be smooth kind of on top.

Brush with a little milk, and cut into wedges BEFORE baking.

You can double or triple this recipe.

Sprinkle with coarse sugar........Bake at 425 degrees for about 10 minutes. Check to see how it is doing then add five or ten more minutes. Slice the wedges apart and possibly bake about five more minutes to make sure it is not doughy.

MY UNCLE came every year for about twenty five years. He was there when my dad died in the 60's. That year he put new shingles on the roof . He stayed a bit longer to help out. Every year he would repair something on the house. When he was older, instead of driving, he would fly out. He did not like the rain much on the Island. But he stayed anyways.

He liked to read Ian Fleming books and Dickens   by the fire, and  eat raw garlic till the living room reeked.  And I'd play violin and piano. He would hum along.Then we'd put on Sons of the Pioneers on the stereo. He loved them. I still have that recording. 

When the thaw would come in Saskatchewan, he would get the longing to go home again. Always  drawn back to the homestead, and the land he grew up on . My mother would pack a round of Scones in his luggage. He always told her that was silly. But he took them anyways. The last time I saw him we were travelling through Bethune. We stopped at the farm, and stayed a few days. It was like going home . I felt a connection to that wild and wondrous land. I could see how he loved it so. A few years later, we buried my uncle in a poppy field near the old homestead. We stood there with his friends and neighbours. It was such a beautiful day. Just the way he wished. The wind whistled. Hawks soared over that lovely place. He  was where he longed  to be.......

"After that hard winter, one could not get enough of that nimble air. I should have known it was spring..." -Willa Cather

Photographs 2021