A few weeks ago, my neighbourhood exploded in crimson. Like beads of blood shaken briskly from a deep wound, pendulous redcurrants started to dangle from the bushes lining the streets. Their weighty chain-like stems drooped abundantly, inviting birds and passers-by to gorge on their bright, tart goodness. And yet gorge they did not. Every time I wandered past I would survey the crop covetously, convinced that those who had an actual right to the bushes and their bounty would soon awaken to the ripeness of the harvest and take full advantage, but the day never came. The currants lingered. I waited. I decided enough was enough.
If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s perfectly good food going to waste. Even the birds didn’t seem interested in the gleaming treasure, let alone the inhabitants of the buildings in whose front gardens they grew. I had left it long enough to be polite and considerate. The thought of serviceable currants languishing in the dirt was too much to bear. I took a pair of scissors and an ice cream tub and strolled purposefully: a woman with a mission. I snipped, tugged and twisted until the tub overflowed with glistening tangles of scarlet. Alert, I was ready to cease and desist if requested, but the residents didn’t bat an eyelid.
It’s hard to know what to do with redcurrants, beyond the traditional British sauce of which I am not a fan. They appear with such haste, and in such quantities, that a glut can feel overwhelming. I simmered them into a sorbet (add a splash of elderflower cordial and a whisked egg white, and you end up with the most ethereally light, bubblegum-pink clouds of tart sweetness), whipped up a sublime sweet-savoury relish with brown sugar, red wine vinegar and red onions to accompany slices of grilled halloumi or lamb sausages, and fell in love with a Danish concoction, rysteribs (‘shaken currants’), which simply involves shaking a handful of de-stalked currants with sugar in a jar and letting them sit in the fridge, becoming sweetly mellow and releasing a delicious scarlet syrup – excellent on granola with a dollop of properly sour Greek yoghurt.
It occurred to me that the eye-opening pop of a sherbet sour currant might work wonderfully punctuating the crumb of an American-style (that is: triangular, busy with various flavours, and designed to be eaten without jam and cream) scone. After all, I’ve made delightful versions with cranberries and raspberries, and redcurrants sit within the same flavour family, in my mind. That thought also led me to pecans, and these lovely little treats were born.
As I say, these are not scones in the traditional British sense. Jam and/or cream wouldn’t really make sense here, I don’t think. They are best eaten warm, split and adorned with nothing but a lick of salted butter. Lemon curd maybe, if you really must. A handful more berries on the side, perhaps. They’re not overly sweet, making them ideal for breakfast or a snack, though they have a delightful crunchy sugared topping. The feisty currants are tempered by the caramel sweetness of pecans and the warmth of cinnamon. You must freeze your currants first, so they don’t become squashed and difficult to work with in the dough, which means they’re a good way of using up frozen berries – raspberries, blueberries and cranberries would also work well, or even whitecurrants or blackcurrants. I consider myself having done a tiny service to the world, in offering up more uses for the summer glut.
Much more palatable than lacklustre currants slowly rotting on the ground.
Redcurrant and pecan scones (makes 6 medium or 8 small):
220g spelt flour
35g light brown sugar
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
½ tsp ground cinnamon
90g cold butter, cubed
60g pecan nuts
110g frozen, de-stalked redcurrants
130ml milk, plus 1 tbsp for egg wash
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 egg
Demerara or granulated sugar, for sprinkling
Pre-heat the oven to 220C. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment or silicone.
Put the spelt flour, brown sugar, baking powder, salt and cinnamon in a food processor or, if making by hand, a bowl. Pulse to mix if using a processor, or stir well if using a bowl. Add the butter and pulse a few times until the mixture looks like fine breadcrumbs. If doing it by hand, rub in with your fingers as quickly and lightly as possible until you get the same result. If using a food processor, add the pecans and pulse two or three times to roughly chop them into the mix. If making by hand, roughly chop and add to the bowl. Transfer the mix to a bowl (if using a processor), then stir in the redcurrants.
Whisk together the milk, vanilla and lemon juice. Pour into the bowl and bring the mix together with your hands to form a dough – try to work it as little as possible. Press into a round about 15cm wide and 4cm high, and pat down. Use a sharp knife or dough scraper to cut into six or eight wedges, depending on how big you want each scone to be. Transfer the wedges to the lined baking sheet, spaced at least 5cm apart.
Whisk the egg with the 1 tbsp milk and use to brush the tops of the scones. Sprinkle with a little demerara or granulated sugar. Bake for 15-20 minutes, until risen and pale gold. Leave to cool for 10 minutes before eating.