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Created by Chef Thomas
Dark, spiced Scottish scones the colour of toffee, made for the kind of November evening when the bonfire is going out and someone needs something warm to hold.
It's the first proper cold week of November. The clocks have gone back, it's dark by five, and the kitchen has started doing the thing it does in autumn where it smells of itself again: butter, flour, something warm in the oven. These are the evenings that ask for treacle scones.
They are a Scottish thing, really. Dark with black treacle and warmed with ginger, mixed spice, a whisper of cinnamon. Halfway between a scone and a piece of gingerbread, and better than either. They belong to Halloween and Bonfire Night, to the smell of woodsmoke drifting in from someone else's garden, to the moment you come back inside with cold hands and need something to wrap them around.
They are also one of the quickest things you can bake. Half an hour from the bag of flour to the warm scone in your hand. No proving, no resting, no fuss. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one is short and friendly. Rub the butter in, stir the treacle through, pat the dough out, cut and bake. We're only making dinner, or whatever it is that happens at four in the afternoon when it's already getting dark and someone puts the kettle on.
I wrote it down in the notebook last November. "Treacle scones. Bonfire night. Salted butter, too much of it. Right food, right evening." I haven't anything to add to that.
Quantity
350g
plus extra for dusting
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
75g
cubed
Quantity
50g
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
150ml
plus a little extra for brushing
Quantity
1
Quantity
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| self-raising flourplus extra for dusting | 350g |
| baking powder | 1 teaspoon |
| ground ginger | 1 teaspoon |
| ground mixed spice | 1 teaspoon |
| ground cinnamon | 1/2 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| cold unsalted buttercubed | 75g |
| soft dark brown sugar | 50g |
| black treacle | 2 tablespoons |
| whole milkplus a little extra for brushing | 150ml |
| large egg | 1 |
| salted butter | to serve |
Set the oven to 220C/200C fan and line a baking tray with parchment. The oven needs to be properly hot before the scones go in. A lukewarm oven is the enemy of a good rise. Trust me on this. Wait until it's actually ready.
Tip the flour, baking powder, ginger, mixed spice, cinnamon and salt into a wide bowl and give it a quick whisk to distribute the spices. Add the cold butter and rub it in with your fingertips, lifting your hands as you go to keep things cool and airy. Stop when the mixture looks like coarse breadcrumbs with a few larger flecks of butter still visible. Those flecks are what make a scone flaky rather than dense. Stir the brown sugar through.
Spoon the treacle into a small bowl or jug and warm it gently. Ten seconds in the microwave will do it, or stand the bowl in a little hot water for a minute. Cold treacle from the tin is impossible to work with. Warmed, it loosens and pours like dark, slow honey. Whisk the milk and egg into the treacle until you have a glossy, deep brown liquid that smells faintly of bonfire toffee.
Pour most of the wet mixture into the flour, holding back a few tablespoons. Use a butter knife to cut and fold the dough together with quick, light strokes. Add the rest of the liquid only if it looks dry. You want a soft, slightly tacky dough that just holds itself, not a smooth one. Stop the moment it comes together. Overworked scone dough turns tough and you cannot undo it.
Tip the dough onto a lightly floured surface and pat it gently into a round about three centimetres thick. Don't roll it. A rolling pin presses out the air you've worked so hard to keep in. Use a floured cutter to stamp out rounds, pressing straight down without twisting. Twisting seals the edges and stops them rising. Gather the scraps lightly, pat them out again, and cut the rest. The second batch never quite matches the first. That's just how scones are.
Place the scones on the lined tray, close together but not touching. Brush the tops with a little milk. Bake for twelve to fifteen minutes, until they've risen tall and the tops are deep mahogany brown and feel firm when you tap them. The kitchen will smell of gingerbread and burnt sugar and the kind of November evenings you remember from childhood. Lift one up. The bottom should sound hollow when you tap it.
Slide the scones onto a wire rack and let them cool for five minutes, no longer. Split one open while it's still warm enough to melt butter. Salted butter, generous, the kind that pools into the crumb. That's how they should be eaten. Standing in the kitchen, fingers slightly sticky, the next one already calling.
1 serving (about 80g)
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