The garden is put to bed for winter. This is the phrase my mother used and her mother before her — put to bed — as though the garden is a child being tucked in, which is not entirely a wrong feeling. The raised beds are cleared, amended with compost, and covered with burlap. The perennial herbs are cut back and mulched. The last of the squash came inside this week: a dozen butternut, a few delicata, one enormous Hubbard that Gary carried in with both arms and the expression of a man who has been asked to relocate a small boulder.
I pickled the last of the peppers, the stragglers that came in after the main harvest. I put up two more quarts of tomato sauce from a late batch that I hadn't expected to ripen. The dried herbs are tied and hanging from the kitchen ceiling rack — the thyme, the oregano, the sage — and the kitchen smells like a medieval apothecary, which is a smell I find extremely comforting.
There is something that happens to me in this annual process of putting food up that I've been trying to find words for in the new book. It's not exactly security, though it's related to security. It's more like continuity — the sense of a thread running from the ground in June to the jar on the shelf in February to the soup in March. I grew this. I processed this. I will eat this. The distance between field and table collapsed to its simplest possible form.
Gary spent the weekend splitting wood for the fireplace. We have a cord of oak stacked under the eave now and the kindling box is full. He has been in a different gear since the sabbatical — not transformed, which would be too dramatic a word, but recalibrated. He took longer lunch breaks than usual last week. He came home one evening with a book of poetry, which I didn't comment on but noted. The sabbatical gave him something I don't yet fully understand, and I've decided that understanding it is not my job. My job is to be glad he got it, and I am.
November coming. The wood is split. The garden sleeps. The squash is on the shelf. We are, by most reasonable measures, ready.
With the peppers pickled and the herbs hanging and the squash lined up on the shelf, the only thing left to do was bake something that smelled as good as the kitchen already did. These cardamom scones have become part of the rhythm of this week every year — something to make the morning after the last jar is sealed, when there’s no urgency left and the house is finally, fully ready. The cardamom carries that same warmth I get from the dried sage overhead, and the whole thing comes together quickly enough that you can have a cup of tea and still catch the light before it goes.
Cardamom Scones
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 18 min | Total Time: 33 min | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1/3 cup granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon baking powder
- 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cardamom
- 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
- 6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
- 1/2 cup cold heavy cream, plus more for brushing
- 1 large egg
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1 tablespoon turbinado sugar, for topping
Instructions
- Preheat oven. Heat oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
- Mix dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, cardamom, and salt until evenly combined.
- Cut in butter. Add the cold butter cubes and work them into the flour mixture using your fingertips or a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining. Work quickly to keep the butter cold.
- Add wet ingredients. In a small bowl or measuring cup, whisk together the heavy cream, egg, and vanilla. Pour over the flour-butter mixture and stir with a fork just until the dough comes together — do not overmix.
- Shape the dough. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and gently pat into a circle about 3/4 inch thick. Cut into 8 wedges using a sharp knife or bench scraper.
- Top and bake. Arrange wedges on the prepared baking sheet with a little space between them. Brush tops with a thin layer of heavy cream and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake for 16–18 minutes, until the edges are lightly golden and the tops are just set.
- Cool and serve. Let scones cool on the pan for 5 minutes before transferring to a rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 285 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 14g | Carbs: 36g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 180mg