Scones of Destiny – 28th June 2005

Scones can be wonderful - fluffy and light on the inside, with a thin yet crispy outside. They can also be terrible - baking-soda tasting, gluey and dough-centred, with rock-like crusts. After experiencing the former yesterday at Always Sunday, a gorgeous cafe on the Royal Mile, and the latter I won't say when or where, I decided that an entry on the craft of scone-making mightn't be a bad idea.

In 1996 the Stone of Scone (otherwise known as the Stone of Destiny) was returned to Scotland. This 152kg rock, the traditional coronation stone of the Scottish Kings and Queens, was stolen by English King Edward the first 700 years ago. While I applaud the symbolism of its return to Scotland, I am simultaneously wary that several Scottish bakers have mistakenly taken this geological marvel as a model baked-good. Ladies (because if men won’t eat quiche then they sure as hell won’t bake scones) please remember that your scones should NOT resemble hunking chunks of rock. Note also that a gooey dough in the middle of your scone is no means of recompense.

In order to achieve the light fluffy glory of a Devonshire tea (and avoid anything resembling the Scone Stone) please remember:

Measure carefully

Too much raising agent and your mouth will taste like a well scrubbed steel sink. Too much oil or water and your scones will spread all over the shop.

Knead gently

Your dough will be tough and stringy if you mix too vigorously or too long. Mix until it is just combined, even a few seconds before that point.

Roll out to 2cm thickness

Any thinner and your scones will be flat and unable to support the necessary jam and cream.

Watch them while they bake

Ovens vary so keep and eye on your goodies. A gentle tap on the bottom of the scone will let you know if it’s done. The scone should sound hollow and the base should be slightly brown.

I have a lovely recipe for a Park Hyatt Scone which I will let you in on at a later date. Promise.

29 percent of California women mistakenly believe that a cold or flu should be treated with an antibiotic

I have a cold this week, which includes a sore throat and a delicate tum. Hail the conquering ginger. I have been living off this tea (sometimes with, but mostly without, the whisky.)

Ginger (peeled and sliced)
Lemon (juiced)
Honey
(a wee slosh of whisky) optional

Simmer the ginger in hot water for at least 10 minutes. Strain into a mug. Add honey, lemon (and whiskey) to taste.

I've also found that Anna's ginger thins help after an otherwise bland, feed-a-cold meal.

Back Seat Chef

Pride in ones culinary talents and an Indian boyfriend do not sit particularly well together. Although a deft hand at most western cuisines and capable as concerns certain East Asian dishes, the food of the Indian subcontinent still remains elusive.

No matter how perfect my soufflés (and in all modesty they're Mary Poppins perfect) nor how tasty my moussaka, nor how crack-free my sponge-roll, my creations will never match the dhal and parantha of my boy's grandmother. Foolishly, after several requests from P, I attempted a "simple" chicken korma. After two hours spent in the grinding of herbs and the frying of oily pastes, I had what seemed to be a very decent curry.

P strides in, waxing lyrical on the heavenly scents in the corridor. Ego: up one. He walks to the stove, lifts the lid and smiles all over his face. Ego: up another one. He reaches for the spoon and prods at the chicken, frowning. Irritation: up one. He squeezes a piece of the succulent meat between his fingers, getting sauce on his cuff. Irritation: up two. He looks at me and says: "You should add some more water. It's too thick." Ego: down four.

Remind me next time to serve the food on a plate, looking wonderful. Remind me not allow any more back-seat chef's into the kitchen.

Gripe over, P actually loved the food. Despite his usually bird-like appetite, he ate enough for three or four decently sized people.

Intent on improving my Indian culinary techniques, I plan on a visit to the Indian Cookery School in Goa sometime in the near future.
See holidayonthemenu.com to join me there.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed

Admittedly, when I first tried haggis, all I could cope with was the table-spoon-sized, no-thank-you-portion of my childhood. I soon became a convert. These days, my week is not complete with out a visit to the Half-Way House (my spiritual local) for a dish of haggis, neeps and tatties.

Nevertheless, I can sympathise with those who squirm at the plethora of offal that constitutes a haggis:

1 sheep stomach
1 sheep liver
1 sheep heart
2 sheep lungs (called "lights" in Scotland)
1 sheep brain
(plus oats, spice etc)

While I do understand the reluctance to try this dish, I do not understand how any dislike can be so vehement as to translate into government law banning its importation or production.

In both the US and Japan, the consumption of sheep-lung is illegal (as is brain and stomach in some states of the US).
That sheep-lung is considered unfit for human consumption seems to stem from an age of rampant tuberculosis and less-than-rigorous farm hygiene. Health officials apparently feared that eating infected sheep-lung tissue might cause a human to contract the disease. These countries now enforce strict farming hygiene. Eradication of TB in these countries is almost complete. A little haggis will not hurt anyone. (Just wait for my rant on the ban of unpasteurised cheese in Australia!)

If you'd like to have a go, there are plenty of haggis recipes around (including some Americanised versions without the sheep's lung) or you could always buy a MacSween haggis like the rest of us.

Tips:
You must eat haggis with neeps (mashed turnips) and tatties (mashed potatoes) - it is plain wrong not to.
Gather a crowd of people around when you go to slice open the haggis - watching that little sucker give birth is better than Alien.