My body is aching. I can’t tell if it’s from rigorous work-outs or just cooking my little heart out this week. Nonetheless, I’m about to get my hair professionally blow dried so all is ok in the world. It’s one of the greatest luxuries. If you’re a woman, you understand this sentiment; if you’re a dude, you’re probably confused why salons dedicated to just blow-drying even exist. The answer: because it’s important and blow-drying takes too long!
Last year I made my favorite Irish Soda Bread in the entire world. It was laced with brown sugar, whole wheat pastry flour and OMG there were whiskey-soaked raisins, which let me tell you, completely changed my mind about raisins.
I used to be one of those people who despised raisins. Like, if I saw a “chocolate chip cookie” to only then realize the CCs were raisins, serious side-eye, my friends. Serious. Nowadays I’m a grown-up who has the ability to enjoy some raisins in her baked goods. I’m an ever-evolving human.
I love a good scone. Maybe it’s because I love English things like Downton Abbey, Mini Coopers and corgis. I’m not sure, but scones, tea and my pinky out is my current mood. I feel like I have another part of me that loves sweet tea, rollers in my hair, fried green tomatoes (the food and the movie) and Nashville. But that’s for another day. (ALSO CAN WE DISCUSS LAST NIGHT’S EPISODE?!)
Today we’re exploring my more dainty, English, proper side. I had leftover cherries hanging in my fridge and chocolate chilling in my pantry. I figured I couldn’t let this combination pass. It needed to be done.
I’ve been wanting to make some sort of buckwheat scones for a long time now. I adore buckwheat. It really does have a bad reputation because it has the ability to turn fluffy, light baked goods into heavy, door stoppers. But if done right (read: cut with all-purpose flour) it can really add a nice nutty, earthy flavor. These scones aren’t hockey pucks. No sireee. No. They’re tender, buttery, with a big, hearty, scone-like crumb. I li-it-uh-lot.
I’ve made the executive decision (in life) that A Christmas Story is the least cozy, most scary and creepy Christmas movie to have ever been produced. Between the father with the weird leg-lamp fetish, the obsession about Turkey dinner to Ralphie’s mom actually punishing them with a gigantic bar of soap? WEIRD.
Then, why do I insist on catching it on TBS every.single.year, you ask? Well, maybe it’s because their Christmas isn’t that idyllic, unreachable type of image Pinterest vomits at you. Instead, it’s real life, in a I-live-in-Indiana-in-the-40s kind of way.
I appreciate the Christmas realness, man.
But if I’m being frank, I hope your Christmas morning looks nothing like the one straight out of A Christmas Story. That’s just scary.
Rather, I hope it’s somewhere between Ralphie’s scary Christmas morning and the one Martha Stewart makes happen in her Connecticut home.