Classic English Scones

There's a particular kind of afternoon that calls for scones. Grey light at the window, the kettle on, somebody coming round in an hour. You've got nothing planned and nothing in the cupboard except flour and butter and a bit of milk. That's all you need.

Scones are the most forgiving thing I know how to bake. Fifteen minutes from start to finish, give or take, and the kitchen smells like a bakery while you're making the tea. The trick, if there is one, is to handle the dough as little as possible. Quick fingers, cold butter, a light hand. Overworked dough makes heavy scones, and a heavy scone is a small disappointment that nobody quite knows how to mention politely.

I make these the way I was taught: rubbed in by hand, brought together with a knife, patted out rather than rolled. The lemon in the milk is a small thing I picked up somewhere along the way and never let go of. It gives the crumb a softness that feels almost like cake. We're only making dinner, or in this case, tea. But there are few better feelings than putting a warm scone in front of someone with a pot of jam and a spoon of clotted cream and watching them stop talking for a minute.

I wrote it down in the notebook once: scones, jam, cream, Sunday rain. That was the whole entry. It didn't need more.