I don’t think my mom ever made scones when I was a kid. In fact, I’m not sure she’s ever made scones at all. (Mom? Am I right on this?) So I’m not exactly certain where my love affair with scones was born. That first scone, who made it? Where did I eat it? What kind was it?

Oh, you know what? I bet I know where my first scones came from: the coffee shops! I’d go to a coffee shop to write and sometimes I’d buy one of those super-sized triangular heart attacks-waiting-to-happen to go with my café con leche. So if that’s truly where I first learned about scones, then that means I’ve only been eating scones for a handful of years. No more than ten, that’s for sure.

I fell hard for the glorious scone once I learned how easy they were to make. (And homemade a soooo much better than those store-bought lumps of dough.) They’re faster and easier than muffins even, since there are no individual muffin cups to grease or fussy muffin wrappers to mess with. And the dough freezes beautifully, either in disk form, or already cut—simply take out however many wedges you want to bake and pop them in the oven for a super-fast breakfast treat or a snack for a surprise (and lucky) visitor.

I’ve already written about white chocolate-dried cherry scones and ginger cream scones (very classy), and just less than two weeks ago I gave you a recipe for a simple cream scone, and now I’m here today with another scone for you to enjoy—this time a bacon and date scone (with Parmesan cheese, my addition) from the latest Bon Appetit.

These scones were a joy to make. They were a little more involved (dates to chop, bacon to fry), but it was so worth it. I made the dough one day and then popped out of bed early the next morning, all eager-beaver to get down to the kitchen and bake myself up some sweet and salty heartiness to go with my coffee.

My favorite part of the whole process (besides the eating, of course) was brushing the tops of the unbaked scones with bacon grease and then sprinkling them with demerara sugar. It was a real thrill, I tell you. It made me giddy.

I made half the scones with cheese and half without. The with-cheese ones were the winners, but the cheese-less ones were plenty good, too. A friend suggested serving these scones with a blue cheese spread which I did not do because I had no blue cheese, but I think her idea is a most marvelous one indeed. (Or maybe add the blue cheese to the dough in place of the Parmesan, yes?)

The kids were not fans of these scones, but my husband was. He took two with him to work every day while they lasted. Which wasn’t very long.

Bacon and Date Scones with Parmesan Cheese
Adapted from the March 2011 issue of Bon Appetit

I tried something new this time around, something I’ve read about many times. But not until this recipe prompted me did I actually try it: I briefly froze the stick of butter and then grated it like cheese. It worked like a charm.

I just hopped over to epicurious to see what folks had to say about these (the two reviewers both raved), and one suggested adding pecans to the dough. Ooo, yes!

10 ounces bacon, chopped
2 cups flour
½ cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
½ cup (1 stick) butter
2/3 cup buttermilk
3/4 cup dried dates, chopped
1 cup finely grated fresh Parmesan cheese
demerara sugar, for topping

Fry the bacon till cooked through but not crispy. Drain on napkins or paper towels. Reserve the grease.

Whisk together the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and baking soda. Grate in the butter (see head note) and then add the buttermilk. Use a fork to mix it all together. Stir in the dates, bacon, and cheese. Briefly knead the dough with your hands till it all comes together in a shaggy mass. Divide the dough in half and shape each half into an 8-inch disk. Wrap the disks in plastic wrap and chill in the fridge for at least an hour, or up to a couple days. (Go here for instructions on how to freeze scones before baking.)

To bake: cut each disk into eight pieces and place them on a greased cookie sheet. Brush the tops with the reserved bacon grease and sprinkle with demerara sugar. Bake the scones at 400 degrees for about 15 minutes.

Yield: 16 scones

This same time, years previous: dark chocolate cake with coconut milk

It’s Friday, whew. This past week was spent in doctors’ offices, as was the week before. I’m sick of doctor’s offices, but the good news is, there should be no more appointments till next Friday. However, seeing as I’ve gotten rather accustomed to watching professionals poke my progeny, there’s a small chance that a string of seven doctorless days might leave me feeling directionless and adrift.

Nah, there’s really no chance of that. I’m stoked to have my life back.

Actually, all those appointments weren’t really that big of a deal—

Wait. I take that back. Last week was a big deal since there were so many unknowns and we kept getting bounced around from place to place. But this week was easier since I kind of knew what to expect and could schedule some Regular Life around appointments. Regular Life is awesome. Regular Life is wonderful. (Even though I do it all the time) Regular Life ought never be taken for granted.

The smartest planning move—the move that made all the difference in the world—was that I picked up some books on tape from the library last Saturday. In the midst of appointment overload, those tapes saved my butt, my eardrums, and my sanity. Like, totally, dude. Every morning when I’d pull out of the driveway on our way to the psychiatrist, ENT, family doctor, or dentist, I’d pop in a tape and a magical hush would descend on the car—until a minute down the road when I’d let out a yell, whip the car around (“kids, tell me if any cars are coming!”), and zip back to the house to get my sunglasses or medical forms or whatever it was I had forgotten.

(At the tail end of the longest trip, a three-hour one, a bit of squabbling broke out. Now, it just so happened that I had been reflecting how easy the trip had been and how wonderful it was that all four kids could enjoy the same book on tape. As I pondered the relaxing car trip we were all enjoying together, it slowly dawned on me that this new turn of events meant the kids might be ready to go on some cool outings—perhaps we could take a trip to the zoo or hit up some DC museums! So when the bickering started up, I launched into a detailed account of my most recent epiphany. I ended with, “But now you’re fighting so maybe you aren’t really ready to do fun stuff like that. Maybe you’re not mature enough to go on longer car rides. Maybe we’ll have to wait till your older till we can do fun stuff.” They shut right up.)

It’s because of the whomping shovel that we’re in this doctoring marathon. While I’m not glad the shovel whomped, nor am I glad it whomped my kid (heavens no), I must admit that if the shovel had to whomp, I’m glad it whomped my little boy and not my little girl.

My little boy is a real champ when it comes to doctors. He follows every instruction, grinning mutely and hugely, and never complains. He is the complete opposite of his sister (thank goodness), his sister who is otherwise known as the Doctor-Kicking, Curtain-Climbing, Fire-Spitting Wild Cat.

I find it interesting that two of my children can be so completely different. But instead of perplexing me, tying me up in knots (what did I do wrong?), their oppositeness soothe me. Kids are different. It’s them, not me. I can no more blame myself for my daughter’s horrible behavior than I can pat myself on the back for my son’s stellar patient performance. It’s just the way it is (or, they’re just they way they are), no mother guilt necessary (though a hefty dose of forbearance is all-important).

Next Friday my baby’s toughness gets put to the test. That’s the day I get to take him to the hospital where he’ll be put under (I keep saying, “he’ll be put down,” much to my husband’s consternation) so they can cap his tooth with some shiny stainless steel. I’m not too worried about the surgery (I get to take my computer along and drink coffee so I’m kind of excited), but I’ll be very glad when it’s all over and we can spend our mornings in our house instead of our car.

This same time, years previous: sky-high biscuits, fire-safe

My son got struck with the notion to build himself another fort—we already have this one and this one—so he claimed a spot down below the chicken coop (yet another one of the outbuildings that pockmarks our land) and got busy.

At first he was so consumed with his work that I could hardly get him to come inside to eat his supper and at night he didn’t come in till it was dark dark.

My husband’s workday is punctuated with pressing phone calls from my son.

Hi Papa. Can you pick me up ten pounds of nails?

Hi Papa. Do you have a battery-powered jig saw I can use?

Hi Papa. Do you think you could buy me a handsaw? The one I’m using doesn’t work too well.

Hi Papa. You don’t need those old stairs on the burn pile, do you?

Hi Papa. The house wrap that’s in the barn? Can I have it?

My husband comes home after work and stares down into the field at the growing monstrosity, and then he sighs, “It’s so ugly. And all those nails—I just know the field will be full of them.”

“Hon!” I chide. “They’re having fun! Who cares what it looks like! Relax.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. And it is right next to the burn pile. We can just torch it when they’re done.”

Don’t worry. It won’t get torched for quite some time. I, for one, will flaunt it while it lasts. It’s a Monument To Childhood and I’m rather fond of it.

The other day I read some blog post in which a homeschooling mother admitted that she, out of deference to the public school system, doesn’t let her kids play outside till three o’clock in the afternoon. She’s afraid of what people will think if they see her kids running around during school hours.

When I read that, my jaw dropped. I don’t believe that thought—to restrict my kids to the regular school schedule—has ever crossed my mind, at least not recently enough that I can remember. I mean, the whole point of homeschooling is so that my kids DON’T have to be restricted to that unnatural schedule!

Yesterday, that blog post still fresh in my mind, I stood at the window watching and thought, Just let someone try to tell me my kids aren’t learning! Ha! Of COURSE they’re learning! It’s called math! Wha—? You don’t see a measuring tape anywhere? OPEN YOUR EYES, Doofus! Do you see the triangle? The cube? The parallel lines? They’ve done gone and BUILT themselves a freakin’ GEOMETRY lesson, for crying out loud!

Not that I normally look at my kids zipping around the back forty on their bikes and think physics, see them collecting the eggs and deheading bugs and think biology, or watch them pull each other’s hair out and think social skills. No, no, no, not at all. I’m too busy being happy that they’re out of my house to bother with all that educational lingo-schmingo.

Already, my kids’ fort has far surpassed the forts of my childhood, the little nooks we made in the freshly dumped truckload of firewood, the shady hollows tucked down under the tall evergreens. And their skill with power drills and knowledge of building procedure—the actual application of it, plus the love of it—puts them in an altogether different league than I ever was, or will be, in. I suspect that eventually less nails will be wasted, measuring tapes will actually get used, and their works of art won’t make my husband cringe and duck.

Until then, he can cringe till he has a crick in his neck, say I. The kids are playing their hearts out and there is no way I’m going to stop them.

They have no plans to stop, either. I’ve heard rumors that once the second story gets under roof, a porch is next. My daughter has already dug up some ground for a flowerbed. Perhaps my husband and I will be experiencing an empty nest earlier than we anticipated? If that happens, I think a tin can telephone might be in order.

P.S. Don’t be fooled by my husband’s fussing and whining. He’s actually pleased as punch that the kids are taking such an interest in all things tool belt.

This same time, years previous: soda crackers and Sweetsie’s birth story