Scones

Scones are a delicate matter. I often think of them as the Goldilocks of baking. It is a rare, and magic, moment to find a perfect, delicious scone when out - so often dry and crumbly or oddly claggy that stick to the roof of your mouth in a doughy smear. I'm a jam and butter kinda girl - indifferent to cream - clotted or otherwise.

Growing up, I knew three kinds - my Nan's (plain with jam), my Gran's (fruit) and my mother's (both). I remember making plain scones in my home economics class when baskets were still required to take the ingredients to school, the notion of which sadly conjures up the phrase of 'how quaint' and makes me feel ancient.

We were back in Esher yesterday hunting for kitchens and popped into Daylesford to pick up some bread for lunch (they do a great 5 seed sourdough). And they had freshly baked scones - after the disappointment last week, I couldn't resist. A smear of sea salt butter and Bonne Maman strawberry jam and a steaming mug of tea. Crumbly but not too dry with a generous crust. Just the ticket for getting through all those kitchen catalogues.