Each week I find myself, hands covered in dough. The way I used to be as a kid, except instead of baking bread or sweet roll dough, I make a little thing called a scone. Or “scon” depending on whether you hail from Northern Ireland. It’s a simple thing. A new part of my routine. That little moment of quiet time, as I cube the cold butter and measure the dry ingredients. It’s a ritual. Between my fingers, I delve deep into the bowl molding vegan butter, sugar, flour, and baking powder into a sandy mixture. A sandy mixture that feels like the sand on the beach, a little wet, pliable. The sand I still love to squish in my hands, in a drifting mindless void of experiencing the texture. A sensory delight.
In the rhythm, I cube the butter. Careful, long cuts with a sharp knife divide, and divide again until with swift chops little butter cubes line up on the counter. Flour cup after flour cup, building a powdery mountain in the bowl. A sprinkle of sugar, leavening, and salt. Blend, blend, blend, and watch Youtube. Let your mind drift away to far places. Watch the squirrels hop around the yard. Add water and raisins, and make a wet, sticky dough. With a spoon drop the scones one by one on the parchment. A warm oven, here they go.
My scones are a bit like biscuits, a little like shortcakes. A dash of raisins, the quick lift of soda bread. They are an amalgamation of what I remember relatives baking for me as a kid, and a new thing influenced by new boundaries. New limitations by a dairy-free restriction put into the practice of a nostalgic moment. I cannot bake the way I used to, but I can still make things with new ingredients. I can carry on the old ways of the past but in a way that makes sense to me.
Coming from a Northern Irish background, my grandma’s side called them “scon” and she made them with raisins. She drank tea and ate them with a little butter. Traveling south, I had biscuits – buttery and lightly sweet biscuits which felt like these scones of my memory. Strawberries and shortcakes, with a dash of whipped cream, a dish reminiscent of evenings at my mother-in-law’s house. A quick baked treat after a long day of hard work, that we would eat while my father-in-law showed us old episodes of Star Trek. Irish Soda Bread is an item I discovered later on in life to celebrate my heritage. A treat my mom would make on St. Patrick’s Day. Its dense yet fluffy texture creeps its way into my scones. These are a bundle of memories in one bite.
A bite I have quite often now. A bite that is my current breakfast staple with a handful of berries and almond milk whipped cream. I eat this with a cup of Yerba Mate.
I used to avoid breakfast, I simply wasn’t hungry. Then I picked up some bad habits like granola bars, pop tarts, or sugary cereals to start my day. This is the first breakfast routine, I appreciate. Maybe it’s the responsibility of making those scones by hand and keeping the freezer stocked for the week that has given me agency. Or an open eye to how food is nourishment, not fuel, not the enemy, nor is it a coping mechanism that reminded me to enjoy this simple thing.
It’s Monday, and I only have one scone left. I’m honestly looking forward to getting my hands covered in dough, in my little weekly routine. To create that taste of home in one bite. For the love of baking. The joy of homemade, handmade things that are a privilege to make.
I hope you have a wonderful start to your week!
One Rabbit Riot 