Mum’s scone recipe would have come straight from the Edmonds Cookbook. No twists, no technique, just a familiar method repeated week after week. They weren’t precious, and they weren’t perfect, but they were reliable, and they were hers.
I remember the scones being lifted from the tray and placed straight into a bowl in the middle of the table, wrapped in a tea towel. And once most of them were gone, I’d sneak back to the empty tray, popping the remnants of enlarged, overcooked sultanas into my mouth before they hardened completely – chewy, delicious, verging on burnt.
I bake differently now. My method is borrowed from my sister’s cheese scones and would probably raise an eyebrow with scone purists. I roll and fold the dough like flaky pastry, building gentle layers before cutting. That simple step makes all the difference, giving the scones lift and lightness, a short crumb on the outside, and a soft, moist centre.
These sultana scones are made specifically for my husband, who loves them best just as they are. I tend to favour date and orange myself, so I add a little orange zest here too, a quiet nod to my own taste. It’s a small adjustment, but that’s how recipes evolve – shaped by the people you’re cooking for now, while still carrying the memory of where they began.
