remedial eating

not the type

I am not the pink flower type.

I am not, for that matter, the pink type.

To be perfectly frank, I am not the type to ply the phrase "not the type".  It has always made me cringe.  Itch, even, allergic-like.  It's the implied confines, I think, the connotation of limitations.  I've always felt a little claustrophobic around conformity, always avoided typecasting.  Almost as much as pink flowers.

But time passes and people change and peonies happen.

The peonies bloomed last week.  

Peonies are extremely pink, urgently flower.  

Peonies are not tulips, or pinks, or even roses.  Those are also pink flowers, and I nod at them and carry on.  Peonies are all those combined and then some, inflated, exaggerated, taken to extremes.  They're flamboyant and brash and over-the-top, Greenspan's prototype for 'irrational exuberance'.  They are bossy and bold and shameless show-offs, holding center stage in any landscape. They're a commotion of ruffles, a tempest of frill, a Civil War petticoat posing as flora.  

And that's only their form.  Let's talk color.  

Peonies come in white, as well, but ours are pink, scratch that, PINK.  Not the sheer whisper of a clam's private quarters, not the pale blush of a bunny's inner ear.  

Irrepressibly pink.  

Emphatically pink.  

We have two stands of peonies, and they vary slightly in color, the one taking its cues from Barbie's Dream House, the other tending towards magenta-fuschia-flushed cheek.  I have never liked fuschia, magenta, or flushed cheeks, and apart from a brief stint between age six and eight, never cared much for Mattel's McMansion, either.    

I do not like our peonies, either.  But I must confess, I'm completely enthralled.

I can't explain it.  

Henry got at it the other day when he asked, "How do all those petals fit into that one little bud?"  There is mystery, there, and magic, of the highest order.  Zoë got at it, also, when I asked if she'd yet noticed their scent.  She buried her face in a bloom, then stayed so long, I wondered aloud whether she could smell anything at all.  "Yes," she muffled, her nose still in situ, "and I don't ever want to leave."  

What she said.  

I guess the only other thing to do is to pull a Walt Whitman, admit I contradict myself.  "I am large, I contain multitudes."

About peonies and butterscotch chips, both, it would seem.  

I have always avoided what I think of as "weird chips", by which I mean peanut butter, mint, cinnamon and such.  This isn't based on reason, or even experience, seeing as I've never tried most of them.  It is, more than anything, self-defense, the sense I've enough almond-lemon-fruit-chocolate-jam-butter-spice baking to keep me busy for fifteen decades, without flavored morsels muddying the waters. 

That was then.  People change.  Scotch Chippers happen.  Have mercy. 

We first made these Scotch Chippers a few months back, on a thunderstorm-y Spring afternoon.  It was just us girls, and out of the blue, Zoë suggested we make cookies.  Specifically, she suggested we make chocolate chip cookies "but with those chips that match our floor."  Our floor, for the record, looks nothing like chocolate, so I stared and puzzled for a few moments.  "Peach chips?" she offered.  "Butterscotch?"  I returned.  I knew by her giant grin that I'd nailed it.  I knew by my groan that I had my work cut out for me.

See, I've made my fair share of butterscotch cookies over the years, and I've never found them much more than okay.  They are always too stiff, too sturdy, too sweet, too not worth the butter and sugar they're baked with.  So I decided I'd do the one failsafe thing: google a recipe and go with a proven winner.  And darned if I didn't uncover this gem, 4 1/2 stars, per 333 people, as close to guaranteed as a drop cookie gets.  

And darned if I didn't veer from it, instantly.

I meant to follow it to the letter, truly.  But I could tell, as I read it through, it would never do.  Not enough butter.  Insufficient salt.  Inadequate vanilla.  Excess egg.  Time to teach our beloved chocolate chip cookies to speak oatmeal butterscotch.  

(Spoiler alert: they are absolutely fluent.)

In the end, all I borrowed from the original was an abundance of oats and an abbreviated baking time. Slam dunks, both.  

The oats, three cups, enough to be called legion, do two very important things, here.  As the backbone of the dough, they bring all sorts of texture, melting in the middle, toothsome on top, and every lucky now and again, toasty at the edge.  They are playful, if such can be said of an oat.  To this, add their flavor, their innate oat-i-ness, the gentle sweet that is necessary ballast to the butterscotch.  

And then there's the timing, always important, especially here.  It's a delicate thing, these oats, this dough, a deal sealed by care taken in the baking time. All drop cookies benefit from being pulled just shy of done, and allowed to firm up on the tray.  Scotch Chippers need pulling just shyer than most.  They are done when the centers are just barely set, when a bit of shine is still evident on top.  They will not look done, and they won't be done: handle them in the next 30 minutes, and they'll collapse.  They must rest on their trays a full half-hour, for which you'll need faith and discipline in equal measure.  After 30 minutes, you'll need only the discipline.  Because what you wind up with is small, still-warm discs, stippled with the sweet smack of butterscotch, underscored by brown sugar, educated by salt, illuminated by vanilla and inflected by oat.  

And nutmeg.  I forgot the nutmeg.  The nutmeg is haunting.  It doesn't scream, doesn't even whisper, just pads silently around the edges, everywhere and nowhere and essential.  Like oxygen.     

Lots of discipline, if you're me.       

Other things left our oven, last week.  Quite a few other things, quite a lot of them good.  Two loaves of bread, and then another two.  A double batch of pizza crust, and of cake.  Possibly the best cake I've eaten.  Ever.  Also, two dozen cupcakes.  And rice krispie treats.  And chocolate chip cookies, and sugar cookies, and oat brittle bars, which were new to me and which separated me from my socks.  We need to talk oat brittle bars, soon.  

Other headlines happened, also: the bean poles went up, mud pies were made, Sculpey sculpted, summer tickets to Seattle bought (!), excitement over Mamo's arrival (!!) tonight (!!!) grew.  An entire pound of wildly out-of-season blueberries was devoured, over one apparently berry-starved afternoon.  But these Scotch Chippers, which I'd thought my own little love, were shared with friends who asked after the details.  And while I reserve the right to wake up each morning and step into whatever self seems to fit that day, I have never been the type to withold cookies from friends.     

Scotch Chippers
Inspired by allrecipes.com, adapted from our house Chocolate Chip Cookie
yield: 3 dozen cookies, give or take

I prefer Ghiradelli butterscotch chips, because they're smaller, and so distribute themselves more frequently throughout the cookie.  That said, Nestle chips are fine, here, but I use an extra half bag to get the same distribution.  Proportions are everything.  As to the flour, I prefer white or a white/wheat mix, here.  Last week's cookies were all whole wheat, and while great the day of, they lost a little luster 2-3 days out.    

As to that all-important baking time:  get your oven good and hot, giving it a good 20 minutes to get up to temperature.  At a solid 350°, 10 minutes are perfect in my oven.  When I cheat and only preheat for 10 minutes, I find I need closer to 11-12 minutes.  Ovens vary, so if you do find that, after their 30 minute rest, your cookies will not hold their own, just return them to the oven for a final 3-4 minute firm-up, and make notes for next time. 

1 cup + 2 tablespoons salted butter (2 cubes + 2 tablespoons)
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon nutmeg, freshly grated if possible
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 extra-large egg
1 tablespoon pure vanilla
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
2 cups unbleached flour, all white, or half white and half whole wheat
3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 package Ghiradelli butterscotch chips or 1 1/2 packages Nestle chips

Preheat oven to 350°.  Position two oven racks just above and below center.  Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Into a medium bowl, measure flour, oats, baking soda and baking powder, and stir to combine.  Set aside.  In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream butter, both sugars, salt and nutmeg, until well-combined but not fluffy, 1-2 minutes.  Scrape sides, add egg, and mix well to combine.  Scrape sides, add vanilla, and mix to combine.  Scrape sides, add oat-flour mixture, and stir on low a few seconds, just to combine.  Add butterscotch chips, and stir again on low, just until incorporated.

Scoop ping-pong size balls onto prepared baking sheets, flatten slightly to around 1/2", place one tray on each rack, and set timer to 8 minutes.  When the timer rings, reverse and "rap" cookies:  remove each tray, give it a few sharp raps against the edge of the stove, and switch its oven position, top to bottom, front to back.  Set the timer for another 2-4 minutes, and remove.  Cookies are done when they are just set but STILL SHINY between the cracks, just dry along the center surface, and not yet browned at the edges.  Do not overbake, and do not remove to a cooling rack.   Let cookies cool and finish cooking on their trays for 20-30 mintues: they firm and crisp up once removed.

Made with white flour, these hold well for three days.  In theory.  

tip my hat

I woke up last week and realized I've been living in the past, around here.  Between Spring Break slide shows and salvaged afternoons, a month sort of slunk by.  It wasn't as quiet as all that, in practice.  I don't want to bore anyone silly with our domesticities, so please feel free to page down for ace pork, the stuff of happy lunchboxes and stellar rice bowls. 

But because this is where I remember our days, I tip my hat to our April, before we commit to May. 

Last month, we raised four house finches.  Right outside our front door!  Well, we hung up a wreath, anyway  Mother finch did the rest.  Dive-bombed us for weeks, all throughout March.  Laid four blue eggs, then sat on them, ceaselessly.  Hatched them.  Fed them.  Raised them.  Launched them.  All four of them, in the space of two weeks.  Fissured shells to empty nest.  Fourteen days.  Surely, there's a parenting lesson to be had here?

(The wreath was literally just outside our door, not even twelve inches from the hinges.  Level with my shoulder.  Level with Max's shoulder.  Completely within Henry's seven-year-old reach.  Completely madcap crazy, at least from this apparently-helicopter mother's perspective.  Maybe the lesson is chill out, already?)

I cast off one sweater.  And felted another.  Anyone need a really really warm pink hoodie, extra-small? 

Must be time to cast on something new.  Que sera.

The garden exploded, lost all self-control.  Out: brown, soil, contrast.  In: stems, leaves, lush.  Everything grew tall, high, lyrical green.  Except where it's purple.  There's a lot of purple.  April, I think, is the garden's purple period.

I laughed, ungenerously, loudly, repeatedly, over the alliums' hysterical hair.  If ever a plant had a bad case of bed head...

We painted our bean poles!  And a bit of our grass.  And the tips of Zoë's Crocs.  And the tips of her toes.

Messy.  Unnecessary.  Totally excellent.

April ushered in the backyard bouquet.  There is such luxury in walking out one's door with scissors, and returning with stuff enough to fill four vases.  So what if the stuff is chive blossoms and weeds.  It is vital and free and eminently now.  

Mostly, we admire them outdoors, monitoring their progress, squealing over their arrival.

We waited on clematis; we got clematis. 

We waited on iris; we got iris. 

We waited on roses... oh, you get the picture.  April is nothing if not instant garden gratification. 

Well, except the peonies.  The peonies are a perpetual tease, bulging stalled buds for weeks on end.  They take their own slow-oh-ho-hooo sweet time, a boon for the ants, an eternity for us. 

Still, May needs something.  Any day now.  I'm sure of it. 

I debated again, as I do each year, whether I prefer the Pasque flowers as flowers, or memories.  This year, I voted for the frazzle-haired latter: Einstein on a stick, Dr. Seuss on a stem. 

We fell a little more in love with Mariah Bruehl's Playful Learning.  The recurring "Where's my math?" query is wonderful.  The timing—at day's end, during elementary homework, during dinner prep—is more than a little vexing.  Mariah's saved my hide, more peeling sessions than I can count.  

We've gone to bed with the sun, to wit later, and later.

We've gotten up with the sun, to wit earlier, and earlier.  (That up-top shot?  6:04 a.m.  Lovely light.  Ugly early.)

We've had some tired, tired afternoons.  I am not at my best on tired, tired afternoons.  It helps to have a kid who washes doll dishes for kicks. 

It also helps to have windflowers out the window, all a-bobble.  Does any flower pack more charm per square inch?  Does any anything?  

From the dryer, I've pulled mittens and shorts, wool hats and tank tops, t-shirts and scarves.  All from the same load.  All from the same week.  The flowers may be on a steady trajectory, but my goodness, Spring weather's a bit schizophrenic. 

We've played with old friends, in brand new ways, as doors opened and air warmed and playzones expanded.  We've ogled tadpoles and picnicked in parks and traipsed across creeks in ill-suited shoes.

Oh, and have you heard?  The dinosaurs went extinct.  Again.  I didn't quite catch it the first time 'round, but the second devastating asteroid was pretty entertaining.

We said final farewells to the lunar dogwood, the lilacs, the tulips, the grape hyacinths.  And after days and days of April crabapple "snow", we waved off the fruit blossoms, as well.

We welcomed the first foods from the garden, more snacks than meals, more celebration than substance.  Fresh mint, for salads and sandwiches.  Wild spring onions, a.k.a. The Allium Formerly Known As Weed.  Chives, which I never understood as a child.  Rhubarb, which I did, and which one of mine does, also.  Ten stalks, we said.  Ten stalks, we stuck to.  Enough for a bowl of splodge and three small sodas. 

And big, giant glorious collard greens!  I don't even especially like collard greens.  But I grew them myself, accidentally, a year late, from 2011's completely failed crop.  From last year's thirty sprouts, I didn't harvest one leaf; this year, I've gotten a good dozen and counting, from my single, strange Phoenix plant.  I don't understand it, but I'll take it.  Preferably slivered and sautéed in olive oil.

We spied Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail in our backyard.  And ooh'd and ahhh'd! and ran to catch peeks.

Then discovered they were eating our broccoli leaves.  Like, de-foliating them completely, in the space of a morning.  Like locusts.  Like Agent Orange.  Albeit agent orange with impossible ears and whipped cream tails.  We brought in chicken wire reinforcements.  And switched to a sort of frown-croon combo.  (We're keeping close watch on our crop of twelve strawberries).

We made our first popsicles.  We ate our first popsicles.

And our seconds, and thirds, and fourths. 

We dyed Easter eggs! 

Sheesh.  It has been awhile.

And all the while, we've been making bento pork.  Two batches in April, or maybe three.  Back up to September, and append those numbers with "dozen".  Bento pork is some very nice pork.

This pork began its life as chicken, and between the pages of Everyday Harumi.  (If you're not already on a first-name basis with Harumi Kurihara, she of our beloved gingered green beans and pork, may I recommend you introduce yourself, ASAP?).  It also belongs rightly in a rice ball (onigiri).  But I can't quite get rice balls right.  Mine always wind up rather less sphere, more schrapnel.  So bento pork it is.  And wonderful.

What this is is a deeply flavored pot of ground pork, tender and rich, salty and sweet.  If that last combination makes you pause, think terriyaki, for that's the come-hither balance struck, here.  Also, much the same ingredient list.  Mirin, sake, soy sauce and sugar are tipped into a pan with a pound of ground pork.  Then simmered for twenty.  Then eaten.  That's it. 

(This is where you abandon American notions about browning ground meats, because nothing of the sort happens here.  Think instead bolognese, rich meat slowly simmered, until soft as velvet and stumble-drunk on its braising liquid.)  

(This is also where you say: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harumi.")

I began making bento pork last fall, to send to school in Henry's lunchbox: warm rice, black beans, plus this pork in a Foogo.  I could put a pot on as I made coffee, Monday morning, and it would be ready in time for lunch-packing.  I can't make conversation while making coffee, Monday morning.  This should tell you something about the difficulty level, here.  Also, it made enough to last the whole week long.

Or it did, until I started dipping in.  Soon enough, I found it rounded out a rice bowl spread nicely, the sort we set up sometimes, buffet-style, for supper.  A pot of hot rice, plus black beans (because all my littles love them), plus this pork, plus veg, turns little into much.  Sometimes it's as simple as canned corn and frozen peas.  Recently, there was early asparagus, braised in a little miso butter.  Sometimes, scrambled eggs.  Sometimes, slow-fried peppers.  (Ancient post.  Excellent dish.)  Often, cubes of golden tofu.  I love a fillip of pickled ginger, always.  I'm alone in that last one.  But that's the beauty of rice bowls.  Everyone assembles their own, with whatever they like.

And always, in my rice bowl, I like a bit of this.  I like it because it's meat the way I think meat's meant to be, meat as seasoning, splendid, exceptional.  This is not pork to be eaten by the pound; it is pork honored and amplified, underscored and italicized.  A tablespoon or three informs an entire bowl, mostly made up of grains and abundant veg.  Every crumb is an ambassador of flavor, every crumble, an exclamation point.  It may look like ye olde American ground meat, but it acts like aged parmesan, umami sparks flying everywhere.  We had eight for dinner, last Tuesday night, and one pot fed us all, handsomely.  With several of us returning for seconds.   And enough leftover for three days' lunch.  I don't know about you, but I can tip my hat to that. 

Bento Pork
Adapted from Everyday Harumi, Harumi Kurihara

Harumi's original recipe calls for 7 ounces of meat, destined as it is for onigiri.  (It also calls for finely chopped chicken, which is also excellent.)  I've scaled the recipe up to a pound, the standard packaging for pork and a fine quantity for a week's worth of meals.  Mirin and sake are available in the Asian section of most groceries, though they are significantly less expensive at an Asian grocery.  Also, please note that this is plain pork, not ground pork sausage or meatloaf mix. 

1 pound ground pork
6 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons sake
4 tablespoons mirin
2 1/2 tablespoons sugar

Measure soy sauce, sake, mirin and sugar into small saucepan, set over medium-high heat.  Add ground pork, crumble gently with a wooden spoon, and bring to a strong simmer.  It will look hopeless and a little ghastly, for a spell.  Press on; it all works out in the end.  Turn heat down to a lowish-medium, keeping pork at a gentle simmer, and cook 20-25 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Pork is finished when almost all the liquid has been absorbed, and you've a remaining mahogany syrup of several tablespoons.  Serve with hot fresh rice, with all manner of extras.   

ten things

Several weeks ago, on a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday, but definitely a weekday, and most definitely between 3:37 and 4:25, things were going sideways.

Seriously sideways.

We were milling about, at loose ends.  For the first time in a long time, no one had a playdate.  It was after school, after apples, after cursory accounts of the ways of our different days.  Before homework, before refreshed, before restored.  Before the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness, or legos, drawing, and the day's funnies, a fair proxy.  Before we'd successfully negotiated what is commonly called the witching hour, but which I always think of as re-entry: that intense, vivid period when we all re-group, re-braid our lives, re-join each other's atmospheres. 

Before flow.

I was doing my best to bring harmony to the situation, which is to say dropping unwanted suggestions like lead bricks.  "It's a beautiful early Spring day."  [THUD]  "Go outside!"  [THUNK]  "Have fun."  [KLUNK]  "NOW."  [THUD CLATTER THUNK].

This is not a direct quote.  But it might as well be.  I've developed a few parenting skills over the years, but getting three wildly different personalities on the same page is not among them.  I tend to go about it with the grace of a Walrus, the diplomacy of Nero.  And on the afternoon in question, I was in top [ungainly mammalian dictatorial] form.

Thankfully, my children have more sense than I.   

There we were outside, together, separate, harrumphing around until I let us all back in, when my eldest let drop this lovely line:  "I wish I could just have some things.  To do whatever I want with.  Build, invent, experiment, ruin, whatever.  Ten things, maybe.  Maybe someday."

***fwoooopkk!!***  (Or whatever sound movie soundtracks make when the whole moving picture thing stops.  When time stops, when action stops, when inaction speaks volumes.  When a moment's total pause causes you to re-consider the outrageous import of What Just Happened.  Yeah, that.)

This surprised me on so many levels, I had insufficient fingers and toes to tally.  But suffice it to say, I responded with:  "!!!!!!!!"  Then: "Right back."  Then: "!!!!!!!!"  Then I high-tailed it to the garage, before the mood passed.

What followed next was a most extraordinary afternoon.

Well, what actually followed next was that I assembled, crish-crash, a small parcel of stuff in the space of three minutes.  A strip of cheesecloth.  A roll of masking tape.  An empty water bottle.  A sheet of dot stickers, a pencil, a plastic spoon.  Some wooden clothespins.  The requested whatever, within easy reach.  Then I gave them over.  "There you go." 

Him: "Mine?"  Me: "Yup."  Him: "Really?  Whatever I want?"  Me: "Go to town."  Him: "Like, you don't need this back?  Or this?  Any of this?"  Me: "Nope.  Yours now."  Him: "??!?!?!!!!" and "O....kay."

Then, the extraordinary afternoon.

Robots were built.  Rockets, too.  Flags, slings, boats, whales and drums, also.  These were the things that could be named.  Most of the most important things, couldn't.  Most of the most important things weren't things. 

There was cooperation and brainstorming and bickering and resolving.  Concentrating, problem-solving, laughter, tears, laughter.  Finger nails and knees, deeply dirtied.  Hours unnoticed.  Homework forgotten.  Sun sinking.  Serious flow.

Much tape was ripped.  Heads put together.  Messes made.  Economies created.  Those who had tape bartered with those who had none.  The worth of clothespins, hotly debated.  The value of S-hooks skyrocketed, then plummeted, as fascination with hanging stuff from trees waxed and waned.  It was very Pets.com, circa summer of 2000, a good reminder we're all bubble-prone, regardless of age. 

But that water bottle, man.  It was the gold standard.  Vessel, vehicle, container, weight.  Waterfall, wave-maker, centrifugal-force enabler, cap-chaser.  It came with a cap!  Two things in one.  Priceless.

We laid some ground rules as questions came up.  Yes, you can do/make/build/try/un-do pretty much anything, so long people and property are respected.  Yes, you can use the hose.  No, not on your siblings.  Yes, you can use any bits of nature.  And just like that, our backyard became a treasure chest.  Y-sticks, bird baths, tree branches, oh my!  Funny what new eyes, new perspective can do.

We learned that sticker dots provide quick color, but that their adhesive is water-soluble.  That the pulling of thread can turn cheesecloth into strings, and singular into plural, and that strings can then become fasteners.  That tape for some fingers can be tricky.  That for others, it's easy.  That we need one another. 

That the balancing of things, a bottle, a silver and blue bubble-bot, is as much art as science, and irrationally satisfying.  And that the satisfaction upon success seems to come in direct proportion to the time invested.  I'm not sure whether that makes it a physics problem or a math one.  Only that it makes it a very good problem.

That when I equip one kid with ten things, the other two will quickly come running.  That scarcity fuels demand, that they'll each want their own ten.  That this is a "Me, Too!" I can totally get behind.  That tin foil is an awesome addition: waterproof, malleable, shiny.  That rubber bands are, also, and L-brackets and screws.  Paper plates and sardine labels, not so much.  Duds happen.  I learned that there is unbearable luxury in giving a child an entire roll of masking tape.

I learned that there is great value in limits, that parameters and creativity go hand in hand.  The simple fact of ten things (so brilliant, so not my idea) was the spark they—we—needed to fire up eyes, minds and fingers.  Knowing there would be no more, no less, we could focus.  For three hours.  All together.  [!!!]  I consider myself a fairly focused person.  I'm not sure I've focused like this, before or since.   

I know this, studied this, considered a Ph.D. in this.  This way constraints have of marshalling attention, the apparent paradox of rules igniting imaginations.  Odes, sonnets, claymation, the evidence is of course everywhere.  But I'm forgetful.  And human.  The same old lessons keep sneaking up on me.  It's like breathing, I guess.  Inhale, exhale.  Learn, re-learn. 

And then, there were the things themselves, bits and bobs, the lot of them, mostly culled from the recycle and tool bin marked "Misc."  Background stuff, there everyday.  All of it, always there for the using, for anyone, no permission necessary.  (They never get used, never get asked after.)  I didn't buy them, make them, prepare them, pre-meditate them.  But something about assembling and presenting these cast-offs made them thrilling, desireable, beyond any toy.

Learn, re-learn.  Round two.

I am not suggesting you try ten things (mind you, you may; just credit Max, not me).  I'm not even suggesting I try ten things, again.  Extraordinary is, by definition, difficult to repeat.  (Though of course I'm ready, if they ask.  I'm particularly excited about the twisty ties.  And the shoe box.  And the laundry detergent cap.) 

I simply set it down here, because I'll forget.  Because simplicity's not my strong suit.  But I'm not done, yet. 

Which brings me to scones.  Plain, simple scones.  White flour, white sugar, buttermilk, butter scones.  These scones have no whole grains, no ground oats or spelt.  No zaps of candied ginger, no chew of dried cherry.  No tip of chocolate, no glug of crème fraîche.  No spice, no fruit, no nut, no health check.  (I love complicated.  But not always.)  No redeeming value, save delicious.  I could tell you ten things about these scones, that they are tender, flaky, buttery, Monday-Morning-simple scones.  Porcelain-crusted, melting-crumbed, Platonic scones.  Unassuming, excellent, crisp-where-it-counts scones.  But really, they are just simple scones.  And sometimes, simple is very, very good.

Buttermilk Scones
adapted ever so slightly from Molly Watson

Molly's original recipe is four-star;  my tweaks have mostly to do with details and technique.  I like salted butter here, and also, full-fat buttermilk, which has less water and therefore less likelihood of toughening.  Also, on top, I love turbinado (raw) sugar, for its crunch.

As to technique, two notes:  I prepped my dough, up through cutting the butter, the night before, then refrigerated it and finished it off in the morning.  Quick enough for a weekday breakfast.  I'm tempted to prep them completely and refrigerate, but wonder whether the buttermilk/soda reaction will wear off.  Let me know if you try it.

Finally, after the original 12 minutes' baking time called for, my scones still had dough for centers.  They took 16 minutes, likely because the dough was cold (see above).  Bear in mind that this will affect baking time, and as always, bake by cue over clock: toasty smell, golden edges, and flaky centers (snap one in half to confirm). 

3 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus more for sprinkling (or use turbinado, on top)
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
12 Tbs. salted butter, well chilled
1 cup full-fat buttermilk, well shaken

Preheat oven to 425°.  In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Over bowl, cut butter into small bits, dropping them into the flour mixture as you go.  With clean hands, work butter and flour together, sliding and noodging with your fingers, until you have a heap of flaky butter-flour.  You want bits of butter still visible, and a smidge of loose flour, but mostly, a pile of cornmeal and shaggy flakes.  (You can refrigerate the dough at this point, and complete the making in the morning.)

Give buttermilk a good shake, then pour into the flour-butter mixture, using a rubber spatula to fold together (or a fork to stir loosely).  Stop stirring while it's still inelegant; you don't want homogenous yet.  Dust a clean surface with flour (or, if you don't want to muss up a surface, lay a piece of parchment down), and tip the still-shaggy dough and bits onto the surface/paper.  Gently, quickly, pull the dough into a rough ball, with a few confident kneads, until it mostly holds together. 

At this point, I divide the dough in half, and pat each half into a rough circle, about 1/2" thick.  Cut each circle into six or eight triangles, and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet.  Alternatively, you can roll out the dough, and cut into circles, hearts, stars, whatever suits, keeping in mind only that different sizes will affect baking time.  Sprinkle generously with sugar, and bake until golden on the bottom and all around the top edges, 12-16 minutes. 

Serve warm, with butter, and/or raspberry jam, and/or clotted cream.  Even simple takes well to jam and cream.