Last night, after one crazy power walk, I decided I would replenish my freshly kindled calories with something as starchy and buttery as I could conjure up. I ventured through my thoughts, mentally paging through cookbooks at warp speed in my head. Then, like a rake handle in the face, I thought SCONES!
When Diego and I went to Ireland last year, my heart was impregnated with the seed of three things: the emerald isle's fresh cream, it's lamb, and most of all, her baked goods. I confess, I was willingly assaulted by these foods. I mean, there was no way I was NOT going to allow these foods to enter me. Let me tell you... the food and I... we had some wild nights in Ireland! It often started with a pint or two of fine Guinness. As we awaited the famous double pour for the perfect pint, the timid bartender would hand Diego and I a menu. What happened after this is hard to remember. I recall one night ordering rhubarb crumble at the pub (which, in true Irish tradition, was also the local inn, restaurant, hall, and pharmacy). The beer came first, followed by the piping hot crumble, and finally, God. One evening, after touring the day through the bonny sheep-ridden mountains of the Connemara, it seemed only logical to order up lamb stew for dinner. When that meat entered my mouth, I felt like I a junky on drugs. It was orgasmic! ...So much so that when I awoke after blacking out, I had gravy in places a man should not have gravy.
I couldn't quite remember what happened that night, but the hot July moon saw everything. The next day, like the good Irish Catholic boy I am, I decided repentance was in order. I needed to break some holy bread to make it official and sought out a bakery.
We walked into a humble little coffee and sandwich shop in County Birr. The establishment showed evidence of overlooked building code, but for the most part it was adorable. It was old, yet renewed with pastel pinks and blues. There were a few tables in the front of house with the main focal point being the long tall bar that spanned then entire space. It was adorned with a beautiful coffee machine, jars of loose tea, mugs, plates, and of course, a panini deli.
"Goddamn it!" I blasphemed at the non-existent holy bread I needed to break to officialize my divine commitment.
Then I heard a whisper: "over here lad!"
I looked. There was no one there. I blinked, chuckled nervously, and returned to my search.
"You arse McKenna, look this way lad!"
Gravely confused if I was called a "horse" in an Irish accent, or an "arse", I swivelled around again, but before I could rebut, I was stunned. As though time froze, my eyes widened when I saw him sitting at the bar. He emanated a golden warmth and smelled the way a real man should smell. It was a vision unlike anything I had ever seen.
"Are you real?" I begged in hope that I wasn't dreaming. I pinched myself, which subsequently turned into a bruise.
"You best bet your lucky daisies I'm real! The name is Scone. Fresh Scone. Care for some lashings of butter, cream and jam with me?"
This couldn't be good. I knew I was in trouble. First of all, I was there with my boyfriend. Had I no shame ogling overs this stranger in front of him? Second of all, Scone, though comprised of similar ingredients to bread, was was certainly not holy, nor bread. His temptation was strong. Just by looking at him, I truly believed Scone could offer me an eternity of happiness and joy... even if that eternity went straight to my hips.
Like a moth to a flame, I leapt at Scone. "Screw the lashings!" I said aloud, drawing attention to myself. He cackled devilishly as I feverishly devoured every last morsel of him. Swirls of colour flooded my head. An ambient mix of rock and opera played around me as I had my way with Scone. The two of us were surrounded by fireworks, dragonflies, and a dancing fawn with a panpipe.
My eyes glazed over as reached in my pocket and pounded down a euro-twenty. I took a sip of my elixir (coffee), inhaled deeply, and let my mind meander. The locals marvelled at my state of ecstasy. No, not marvelled, GOCKED. I became defensive, and took my business elsewhere.
Irish Scones:
2 cups of fine flour
1/4 cup diced cold butter
1 1/2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/3 cup whole milk or heavy cream
1/3 cup sugar
1 egg beaten plus a splash of milk
Preheat oven to 350 F.
In a food processor, place all the dry ingredients together and pulse to blend well. This will further grind the dry ingredients into the consistency of fine cocaine. This is the texture we want: light and airy.
Drop in the third-cup of milk (or cream) and butter cubes. Pulse until you have a crumby mess in the bowl, being careful, once again, not to over process.
Dump the mess onto a clean floured work surface free of cat hair and paper clips. Knead gently and sparingly only to group crumbs into a ball. Press into a round half-inch disc. Cut into eight wedges and place on a baking sheet. Brush the egg and milk mixture atop the wedges.
Bake in the oven at 350 F for 8 minutes and NO LONGER! As Scone suggested, enjoy with "lashings" of butter, cream, and fresh jam.
No comments:
Post a Comment