Chocolate Chip Scones

February in Alabama is a particular kind of cold. Not the bone-deep freeze I imagine up north, but a gray damp chill that gets into the apartment walls and stays. I have been here six months now. Six months of waking up in a space that is entirely only mine, and still sometimes I reach the kitchen and stand there surprised that no one else is in it.

The fried chicken is getting better. Not Gloria-level, that may be an unreachable standard, but better. The crust is staying on now. The first few batches I made alone the breading slid off in the oil and I nearly cried, which is ridiculous, except it was not. I called Gloria and she asked about the temperature of my oil and whether I was letting the pieces sit after dredging. I was not. Give it time to set, baby. So I started doing that. Fifteen minutes on the rack before it goes in. Works.

The biscuits are still dense. I have made them four times this month and every batch comes out like little bread weights. They do not rise the way Gloria does. Hers climb. Mine just sit there. I told her this on the phone Sunday and she laughed the warm kind and said cold butter and do not overwork it. The dough knows when you are nervous. I am probably nervous.

Work at the daycare has been steady. Iris has finally stopped crying at drop-off which felt like a personal victory. Thomas has started saying my name, or his version of it, more like Vanna, and every time he does it I feel something settle in my chest. These kids just hand you their trust like it costs them nothing. I hold that carefully.

I made baked sweet potatoes this week with butter and a little brown sugar because the grocery store had them cheap and they do not require anything of me. Just the oven doing its work while I read on the couch. That is enough sometimes, a warm oven and a quiet room.

After four batches of biscuits that refused to rise, I needed a win. Scones use the same bones — cold butter, a light hand, faith that the dough will do its part — but they forgive a little more. Gloria’s advice still held: keep everything cold, stop fussing with it, let it be. These chocolate chip scones were the first thing I pulled from that oven that made me stand there and just nod. Dense is not the word. They climbed.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 18 minutes | Total Time: 33 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup cold buttermilk
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon heavy cream, for brushing
1 tablespoon coarse sugar, for topping

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
Cut in the butter. Add the cold butter cubes and work them in with a pastry cutter or your fingertips until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining. Do not overwork it — those butter pieces are what make the scones flaky.
Add the chocolate chips. Toss the chocolate chips into the flour mixture and stir gently to distribute.
Combine the wet ingredients. In a small bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, egg, and vanilla extract.
Bring the dough together. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and stir with a fork just until the dough comes together. It will be shaggy and a little rough — that is exactly right. Stop as soon as you do not see dry flour.
Shape. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and pat it into a circle about 3/4 inch thick. Cut into 8 wedges and transfer them to the prepared baking sheet, spacing them about 2 inches apart.
Finish. Brush the tops lightly with heavy cream and sprinkle with coarse sugar.
Bake. Bake for 16 to 18 minutes, until the tops are golden and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool on the pan for 5 minutes before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chocolate Chip Scones — Learning to Trust the Dough