Those who know me know that I adore anything with greater than 1/2 a stick of butter per helping (but, no, I still cannot tolerate Paula Deen. AT ALL. She makes me want to take a drill to my ears to stop the infernal noise of her voice. And ice picks to my eyes to prevent them from ever seeing one of her creations in any stage of prep.). ANYWAY, for those that want it, here is the recipe that B, my mum & I have settled on as the household favorite. Taken from the Tartine cookbook & epicurious.com, with some random additions & adaptations:
BUTTERMILK SCONES (makes as many scones as you put your mind to, but approximately 12 large ones)
4 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup dried currants
1 tbsp. baking powder (I have mis-read this before & put in 1 tsp... they still came out pretty good)
3/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 cup sugar (I use whatever fine grained sugar I have at hand, but not muscavado)
1/2 tsp. of salt (the original recipes call for 1 1/4 tsp. salt, but it doesn't do it for me... depending on how altered my state is, I can sometimes taste it, which sucks for a scone)
1 cup cold, unsalted butter (Can't stress this enough. COLD. I freeze a few sticks of butter simply for this reason)
1 1/2 cups buttermilk (you will need more than this. This is what the original Tartine recipe calls for, but I have ALWAYS ended up needing more... just add more little by little until the mixture is wet & somewhat sticky).
Grated zest of 1 lemon/lime/orange
Chocolate chips/chunks, according to taste
Coarse brown sugar to sprinkle on top
1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper (or the like).
2. Pour hot water into a small bowl and pour the currants inside, allowing them to plump up (about 10 minutes). Once they've softened and plumped, drain the currants.
3. Put the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt & sugar into a food processor bowl.
4. Cut the butter into 1 inch cubes and add them to the dry ingredients in the bowl. Pulse the processor to combine, without breaking down the butter too much (you want the mixture to be coarse, with visible pea-sized pieces of butter).
5. Put the dry mixture into a (regular mixing) bowl, and pour in the buttermilk, lemon zest, currants & chocolate. Mix well (use your hands, as it's the best way to tell when it's time to stop adding liquid).
6. Dust a large cutting board, or the kitchen counter, with flour and place the dough onto it, shaping it into a long rectangle or round shape, depending on how you want to shape your scones. Cut into equal sized portions.
7. Sprinkle with coarse brown sugar.
8. Bake the scones for approximately 25 to 35 minutes (until the surface is lightly browned).
9. Pig out & enjoy subsequent food coma.
The Hesitant Baker
I have recently laid my hands on the 2 most essential things a fledgling baker is wont to crave:
- Solid recipes, preferably with tons of pictures to keep the motivation up
- Guinea pig, of the human variety, with a sturdy gastro-intestinal tract.
I won't add "stand mixer" to the list because I've owned that for ages, and ladled out nothing but dust from it, on occasion.
So far, the following things have been attempted, but FAR from perfected:
- Irish brown bread
- Irish soda bread (yes, they are different. According to Avoca cafe, anyway)
- Scones (recipes from Avoca AND Tartine... I prefer Tartine's, but only marginally!)
- Banana bread (Avoca recipe is my favorite)
- Several variations of chocolate cookies. The whole wheat-oatmeal ones from 101cookbooks.com is the reigning favorite at home, but it's a fickle audience. The recipe from David Lebowitz is pick 2, but it's looking like it may be the long-term favorite. Once I PERFECT a chocolate chip recipe, as infuriating a task as it seems, I'm passing it down the generations. I don't even care if the generations did not emerge from my loins... someone's getting the damn thing, whether they like it or not!
Baking has breathed new life into my desire to eat & live healthy. I urge anyone wishing to be on that quest to devote themselves to baking for a bit. Contrary to what may seem like common sense, the "lighter & fluffier" the product, the higher the chances that the ingredients are anything but. For instance, let's take the unassuming scone. Looks non-oily, flaky/crumbly & innocent, right? WRONG!! A COPIOUS quantity of butter makes its way into every batch... in fact, the recipe calls for making sure the butter is plenty, cold, not over-mixed, and left as pea size pieces to maximize the flaky texture. Yup, pea size pieces. Pea. Sized. Pieces (as in, plural). Now I don't care where you live, and the size of the peas you get there... pea sized pieces of butter are NOT small enough in ANY country to make me feel good about the union of them & my ass. Enough said. Now back to making a batch, and living vicariously by watching B eat them, and perhaps nibbling the edges. THANK GOD for the 2% spandex in these jeans.
- Solid recipes, preferably with tons of pictures to keep the motivation up
- Guinea pig, of the human variety, with a sturdy gastro-intestinal tract.
I won't add "stand mixer" to the list because I've owned that for ages, and ladled out nothing but dust from it, on occasion.
So far, the following things have been attempted, but FAR from perfected:
- Irish brown bread
- Irish soda bread (yes, they are different. According to Avoca cafe, anyway)
- Scones (recipes from Avoca AND Tartine... I prefer Tartine's, but only marginally!)
- Banana bread (Avoca recipe is my favorite)
- Several variations of chocolate cookies. The whole wheat-oatmeal ones from 101cookbooks.com is the reigning favorite at home, but it's a fickle audience. The recipe from David Lebowitz is pick 2, but it's looking like it may be the long-term favorite. Once I PERFECT a chocolate chip recipe, as infuriating a task as it seems, I'm passing it down the generations. I don't even care if the generations did not emerge from my loins... someone's getting the damn thing, whether they like it or not!
Baking has breathed new life into my desire to eat & live healthy. I urge anyone wishing to be on that quest to devote themselves to baking for a bit. Contrary to what may seem like common sense, the "lighter & fluffier" the product, the higher the chances that the ingredients are anything but. For instance, let's take the unassuming scone. Looks non-oily, flaky/crumbly & innocent, right? WRONG!! A COPIOUS quantity of butter makes its way into every batch... in fact, the recipe calls for making sure the butter is plenty, cold, not over-mixed, and left as pea size pieces to maximize the flaky texture. Yup, pea size pieces. Pea. Sized. Pieces (as in, plural). Now I don't care where you live, and the size of the peas you get there... pea sized pieces of butter are NOT small enough in ANY country to make me feel good about the union of them & my ass. Enough said. Now back to making a batch, and living vicariously by watching B eat them, and perhaps nibbling the edges. THANK GOD for the 2% spandex in these jeans.
Of reviews & reviewers...
So… I was reading some online reviews for restaurants & bars just the other day, with some wildly misplaced faith in the power of the collective experience & intellect, to ascertain whether the new restaurant we were heading to was any good. By the end of 10 mins, I knew little to nothing about the food at the hot new restaurant. It did, however, occur to me that there should be a method for capturing (and publishing) reviewer demographics. Just so one can put the reviews in perspective, y'know, and go straight to the correct section (informative, entertaining, bizarre & demented... you catch my drift) instead of trying to sift through reviews that begin with "OMG, this was the worst dinner EVER. Broke my stiletto heel on the pavement right outside, and the homeless did NOTHING to help me. I'm like, WTF?!... blah blah" to find out whether the gnocchi was fluffy enough. I have concluded that MOST reviews for eating or drinking establishments don’t even purport to address anything related to the wares offered by the business. As an example, most restaurant reviews are about the date that brought them there, the dishiness quotient of the server, the fact that the neighboring table was too loud or having a much better time than the reviewer, etc etc. Anyway, I digress. I'm thinking that the demographics should be slotted according to criteria more apt & contemporary than the usual yawn-inducing age/education/salary ones, as these review sites have proven that none of those can guarantee a brain or the ability to put it to use. Perhaps some options such as these?
- I'm a generally malcontent cow...check out my other reviews for a real dose of bile. Nothing could make me happy. When I'm not writing these reviews, I am seething about why nobody will date me.
- I like to put down "I work in this industry" in my reviews to gain credibility, but what I really mean is that I'm the ONLY ONE who works in this industry. The rest of the lazy fucks are just out to get my overtime pay. Which I would achieve in just the time it takes me to turn one order around
- I have daddy issues and/or will do ANYTHING for the attention I was denied in my childhood/youth. This needlessly slutty review for a gelato shop is just the tip of the iceberg
- Wait, this ISN'T a dating site? Really? So I shouldn't mention that I am single, fabulous, and hint at my amazing sexual vigor in every post?
- Nobody caters to me in this new city, esp. not the merchants. I want my mommy!!
- I'm a generally malcontent cow...check out my other reviews for a real dose of bile. Nothing could make me happy. When I'm not writing these reviews, I am seething about why nobody will date me.
- I like to put down "I work in this industry" in my reviews to gain credibility, but what I really mean is that I'm the ONLY ONE who works in this industry. The rest of the lazy fucks are just out to get my overtime pay. Which I would achieve in just the time it takes me to turn one order around
- I have daddy issues and/or will do ANYTHING for the attention I was denied in my childhood/youth. This needlessly slutty review for a gelato shop is just the tip of the iceberg
- Wait, this ISN'T a dating site? Really? So I shouldn't mention that I am single, fabulous, and hint at my amazing sexual vigor in every post?
- Nobody caters to me in this new city, esp. not the merchants. I want my mommy!!
Another rager. This time with a slight twist.
The original plan: A farewell party for a friend moving to give true love its due
The gathering was pretty much as expected. D, T & I landed up to find a group of friendly, hyper-networked, high-achieving folks, with some having graduated from Harvard, etc. My first thought was that I was happy to have had assistance of the vapor kind prior to the event. Everything is 100X more entertaining when high. The person we were there for is pretty cool, but I didn't know her very well yet, and in a place as loud as that, it's just tough to hold a proper conversation anyway. Plus, she had other folks to attend to as well. I texted N to ask if he was coming, and he said "not likely". But our departing friend was having none of that, so being the sensitive soul that I am, I texted him again & said that he should. After a couple of texts (enough to make him feel sufficiently important & in demand), he landed up with a friend. A designer. Nice enough chap. Unfortunately, I have forgotten what exactly he designs. Already having slammed 3 drinks by then (wine + sake), the idea of going to another bar on Polk suddenly sounded infinitely more appealing than it would have minus those drinks.
Deviation from plan: A different bar on Polk
When we get there, it turns out that there was an agenda. Of the female kind. No surprise, as there always is one, with N. It turned out that she's from out of town, is pretty nice, and has 5-6 friends with her - they are gathered here from all over the US to vacation together... nice! The place was PACKED and one can't breathe without causing a human wave by merely that action. We proceeded to drink even more. N proceeded to tell the chick that I was a masseuse specializing in tantric massages. Uproarious laughter ensued. After 10 mins, to the side, she asked me "are you really a masseuse?". Clearly she does not know N too well yet. I was wearing my David Hasselhoff fan club T-shirt and showed it to my new friends. A German fellow walks up to me and says, "nobody believes me when I tell them that people love him in Germany". I assured him that I had several German friends who had told me that, and at least one that I trusted implicitly, so I saw no reason to doubt him. By this time, I was starting to get to the point of "I'm not going to remember tomorrow what I say from now on", so I decided to stick with my own from then on.
Deviation from deviation: After hours house party
After the last few bar patrons (us) were finally herded/shoved out by the bouncers, someone uttered the sweetest words to ever escape anyone's lips at 2 a.m. in the US: "let's go to such-and-such house party". Now...often, this person is me. Over the years, I've subjected M to several such impromptu parties at 2:15 a.m., spill-overs from seemingly harmless 6 p.m. happy hours after work. Anyway, back to the point: this time, it was not me. Some part of my brain that still had some tenuous hold on reality remembered that because Papa was home, I could not take my 10 new BFFs home with me. We bundled up into cabs and headed to this house party. After parking ourselves on one of the couches, a can of beer appeared, and was duly consumed. The girls & I were inseparable by now, more likely due to the dearth of seating space than my unfailing charm. Numbers were exchanged, and promises made to stay in touch forever and ever. As abruptly as he had disappeared, N re-appeared with the chick. A few minutes later, a guy came up to him/us, visibly upset, and said "that was NOT cool, dude. I don't even know you. That wasn't RIGHT!". Then he asked N to leave. Obviously, we stood by our man and left with him. Upon being pressed for details, N revealed that he and the chick were, um, getting to know each other better, and the room they happened to pick was his. Understandably, knowing neither party involved, he took offense to their choice of locations in which to conduct their business.
The finale: N's place, the volcano, and missing time
Being unceremoniously ejected in this manner took its toll on our drunken stupor, reducing it just enough to enable us to locate a cab. We headed to N's place to resume our single-minded pursuit of being totally obliterated (by this time, caution had been thrown to the wind (if you recall, more intoxicants than one were at work), and it had been decided that Papa's guilt trip about being out too late, leading to him worrying ceaselessly, would be dealt with when the time came... cross that bridge when it's got to, and all that). Anyway, we get to N's by around 4, promptly put the volcano to good use, and talk random gibberish for a couple of mins. I think. Then I topple to the side like a baby who hasn't quite figured out the concept of balance, and promptly pass out. I wake up in a couple of hours, see it's past 6 a.m., and my first thought is "FUUUUUCK. I have to go home to Papa". Dropped designer boy off on the way, and then snuck back into my own apartment with the stealth of a persistently errant spouse. As predicted, guilt trip was delivered, and duly accepted, later in the morning.
The gathering was pretty much as expected. D, T & I landed up to find a group of friendly, hyper-networked, high-achieving folks, with some having graduated from Harvard, etc. My first thought was that I was happy to have had assistance of the vapor kind prior to the event. Everything is 100X more entertaining when high. The person we were there for is pretty cool, but I didn't know her very well yet, and in a place as loud as that, it's just tough to hold a proper conversation anyway. Plus, she had other folks to attend to as well. I texted N to ask if he was coming, and he said "not likely". But our departing friend was having none of that, so being the sensitive soul that I am, I texted him again & said that he should. After a couple of texts (enough to make him feel sufficiently important & in demand), he landed up with a friend. A designer. Nice enough chap. Unfortunately, I have forgotten what exactly he designs. Already having slammed 3 drinks by then (wine + sake), the idea of going to another bar on Polk suddenly sounded infinitely more appealing than it would have minus those drinks.
Deviation from plan: A different bar on Polk
When we get there, it turns out that there was an agenda. Of the female kind. No surprise, as there always is one, with N. It turned out that she's from out of town, is pretty nice, and has 5-6 friends with her - they are gathered here from all over the US to vacation together... nice! The place was PACKED and one can't breathe without causing a human wave by merely that action. We proceeded to drink even more. N proceeded to tell the chick that I was a masseuse specializing in tantric massages. Uproarious laughter ensued. After 10 mins, to the side, she asked me "are you really a masseuse?". Clearly she does not know N too well yet. I was wearing my David Hasselhoff fan club T-shirt and showed it to my new friends. A German fellow walks up to me and says, "nobody believes me when I tell them that people love him in Germany". I assured him that I had several German friends who had told me that, and at least one that I trusted implicitly, so I saw no reason to doubt him. By this time, I was starting to get to the point of "I'm not going to remember tomorrow what I say from now on", so I decided to stick with my own from then on.
Deviation from deviation: After hours house party
After the last few bar patrons (us) were finally herded/shoved out by the bouncers, someone uttered the sweetest words to ever escape anyone's lips at 2 a.m. in the US: "let's go to such-and-such house party". Now...often, this person is me. Over the years, I've subjected M to several such impromptu parties at 2:15 a.m., spill-overs from seemingly harmless 6 p.m. happy hours after work. Anyway, back to the point: this time, it was not me. Some part of my brain that still had some tenuous hold on reality remembered that because Papa was home, I could not take my 10 new BFFs home with me. We bundled up into cabs and headed to this house party. After parking ourselves on one of the couches, a can of beer appeared, and was duly consumed. The girls & I were inseparable by now, more likely due to the dearth of seating space than my unfailing charm. Numbers were exchanged, and promises made to stay in touch forever and ever. As abruptly as he had disappeared, N re-appeared with the chick. A few minutes later, a guy came up to him/us, visibly upset, and said "that was NOT cool, dude. I don't even know you. That wasn't RIGHT!". Then he asked N to leave. Obviously, we stood by our man and left with him. Upon being pressed for details, N revealed that he and the chick were, um, getting to know each other better, and the room they happened to pick was his. Understandably, knowing neither party involved, he took offense to their choice of locations in which to conduct their business.
The finale: N's place, the volcano, and missing time
Being unceremoniously ejected in this manner took its toll on our drunken stupor, reducing it just enough to enable us to locate a cab. We headed to N's place to resume our single-minded pursuit of being totally obliterated (by this time, caution had been thrown to the wind (if you recall, more intoxicants than one were at work), and it had been decided that Papa's guilt trip about being out too late, leading to him worrying ceaselessly, would be dealt with when the time came... cross that bridge when it's got to, and all that). Anyway, we get to N's by around 4, promptly put the volcano to good use, and talk random gibberish for a couple of mins. I think. Then I topple to the side like a baby who hasn't quite figured out the concept of balance, and promptly pass out. I wake up in a couple of hours, see it's past 6 a.m., and my first thought is "FUUUUUCK. I have to go home to Papa". Dropped designer boy off on the way, and then snuck back into my own apartment with the stealth of a persistently errant spouse. As predicted, guilt trip was delivered, and duly accepted, later in the morning.
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