Buttermilk Scones

There's a kind of grey afternoon, the sort that doesn't quite commit to rain, where the only sensible response is to put the oven on and make scones. It takes half an hour. By the time the kettle has boiled twice you'll have a tray of them cooling on the rack, smelling of warm butter and bread, and the afternoon will have rearranged itself into something worth being in.

Buttermilk is the thing here. It does two jobs at once. The acidity tenderises the flour, so the crumb stays soft and pillowy rather than tough, and it reacts with the baking powder to give the scones that proud, tall lift you want when you tear one open. Plain milk will get you a scone. Buttermilk will get you the scone you remember from someone's kitchen years ago, the one you've been quietly trying to recreate ever since.

The rules are few but they matter. Cold butter, cold buttermilk, a hot oven, a hot tray, and the lightest possible hand with the dough. Don't roll it. Don't twist the cutter. Don't keep working it after it has come together. A scone wants to be left alone to do its job, and your job is mostly to know when to stop.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago, after a particularly good Saturday: "Scones. Buttermilk. Quick. Always." That note has earned its keep more times than I can count. We're only making dinner, or in this case, the small ceremony that comes before it.