Singin' Hinnies

On a wet afternoon, when the light has gone grey by three and the kettle has been on twice already, this is what I want. A pan on the hob. A bowl of flour and fat on the counter. The smell of warm currants and butter and something faintly nutty from the lard hitting the cast iron.

Singin' hinnies are from Northumberland, a part of the country I love and don't pretend to be from. The name comes from the noise: when the fat in the dough meets the hot pan, they sing. A proper hiss and crackle, like wet leaves on a bonfire. Hinny is the local word for a sweetheart, the kind of thing called across a kitchen by someone who's been calling you it for forty years. A singing sweetheart. There are worse things to put on a plate.

This is coal-country food. Built for hungry people coming in cold, made from what was in the cupboard, cooked on whatever pan was already hot. There's no oven involved, no rising, no waiting. You rub the fats into the flour, scatter in the currants, bring it together with a splash of milk, and the whole thing is on the table within half an hour. We're only making dinner. Or tea, in this case. The principle is the same.

The lard matters. I know lard has fallen out of fashion, and I know butter would be easier to reach for, but lard is what gives these their proper shortness and that quiet savoury edge that stops them being just a fruit scone. Use both, the way I've written it here, and you'll get the best of each. Eat them with cold butter while they're still warm enough to melt it. There are few better feelings.