Scones ask for almost nothing: flour, butter, milk and a hot oven. That is the whole trick. There is no creaming, no proving, no waiting around for dough to rise while a child asks for the tenth time whether they are ready yet. A five-year-old can be sieving flour within two minutes of climbing onto a chair at the worktop, and the whole affair is finished inside half an hour. For a family in Somerset, where a cream tea is practically a civic duty, that makes scones the ideal first bake — quick enough to hold a small person's attention, and good enough to put on a proper plate for grandparents at four o'clock.
This is a plain, light scone. It rises well, splits cleanly and tastes best still faintly warm from the oven.
You need one bowl, one tray and a cutter. Here is what to gather before anyone is allowed to dip a finger in the flour.
The lemon juice is worth the bother. Stir it into the milk, leave it for five minutes until it looks slightly thickened, and you get a noticeably lighter scone. Semi-skimmed milk works too, but whole milk gives a softer crumb.
On the equipment side: a large mixing bowl, a round-bladed knife for stirring, a 6cm fluted cutter, a baking tray lined with baking parchment, and a pastry brush. If you have two cutters, all the better, because arguments over whose turn it is are the single biggest threat to the afternoon.
Heat the oven to 220°C (200°C fan, gas mark 7) and put the shelf in the upper middle. Scones need proper heat from the start, so let the oven come fully up to temperature rather than guessing. Line the tray and have it within arm's reach.
Clear the worktop completely — nothing slows a bake like hunting for space with buttery hands. Flour a patch roughly the size of a tea towel for rolling out. Give each child a small bowl of flour for their own dipping, keep a damp cloth nearby for fingers, and set out aprons. A short, calm setup is the difference between baking with children and refereeing them.
Tip the flour, baking powder and salt into the big bowl and let the children sieve it together. Sieving is satisfying, hard to get wrong, and it does the essential job of aerating the flour. Add the cold butter cubes, then rub them in with fingertips only — lift, rub, drop back in. The aim is a coarse breadcrumb texture, and it usually takes three to four minutes. Small hands tire quickly, so share the job and check the texture rather than the clock. Any lumps left behind will show up as heavy patches in the baked scone.
Stir in the sugar, make a well in the middle, and pour in most of the milk. Mix with the round-bladed knife in a cutting, turning motion until it comes together as a soft, slightly claggy dough. Add the last of the milk only if it needs it.
Turn the dough onto the floured surface and, with floured hands, gather and pat it gently into a round about 3cm thick. Do not knead it. Pushing and squeezing develops gluten, and gluten makes tough scones.
Now the cutting, which is the best bit. Dip the cutter in flour, press it straight down through the dough, and lift it out without twisting. Twisting seals the edges and stops the scone rising evenly. Keep the offcuts, press them gently back together once, and cut again. You should get eight to ten scones.
Brush the tops with a little milk, working from the centre outwards and avoiding drips down the sides, which glue the scone to itself and stop it climbing. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes until well risen and golden. They should sound hollow if you tap the base.
Move them to a wire rack for five minutes, then wrap them in a clean tea towel while still warm. This traps the steam and keeps the crust soft rather than brittle. Scones are at their best on the day they are made, though a quick refresh in a low oven the next morning brings them back surprisingly well.
Set the table properly: a plate of scones under a cloth, a pot of tea, and squash or milk for the younger guests. Split each scone with your hands rather than a knife — a knife crushes the crumb — and then comes the great decision. Cream first or jam first? Somerset families will argue about this cheerfully for hours, and children tend to have firm opinions once they have tried both. Let them choose. Strawberry jam and a proper thick clotted cream is the classic, with a few halved strawberries alongside if it is June and the local ones are in.
Leftovers freeze well wrapped individually, and they thaw in about an hour at room temperature. Better still, make a second batch the following weekend and give the children the jobs they have now mastered: sieving, rubbing in, and the all-important staring through the oven door. That, rather than anything complicated, is what a Somerset afternoon tea is made of.