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I traveled to Ireland with my cousins and older sister when I was eighteen, freshly graduated from high school and feeling “all high and mighty,” as my Granny would say. I immediately felt a kinship with the place, lilting Irish accents echoing off streets paved with cobblestones, mist hovering over the most vibrantly green hills I’d ever seen, old rock walls made by generations of hands crisscrossing vast and mostly empty fields. The people we met were consistently friendly and welcoming. Once, we realized we’d booked a room at a remote bed and breakfast that was too far to walk to from the tiny town center we found ourselves in; naturally, our bus driver took us to the B&B, dropped us off, and told us to be on the side of the road the next morning with our luggage. Of course, he was there exactly when he said he would be, and graciously helped load our overstuffed bags before continuing his route.

We frequented cozy pubs full of families with kids, live music often featuring in a corner. I made Guinness a staple of my daily diet, and still crave the full Irish breakfast I ate most mornings (yes, including the black pudding; it was delicious and no one can convince me otherwise). Occasionally we would take a break from exploring to have tea in a little cafe, and more often than not we’d order plain scones, which were always accompanied by either clotted cream or whipped cream, as well as a tiny bowl of jam.

Traveling through Cork, the home city of our grandparents, was extra special. We found the little old townhouse Daddad had grown up in, just up the hill from the city center. He was one of ten children who often went to bed without enough to eat, who grew up with a determination to do his best by his family, who treated animals with the respect they deserved and argued, with a pained expression, that it was criminal to keep birds in cages. He left Ireland to make enough money to raise a family comfortably, but both he and Granny always missed it dearly.

Though my grandparents were born and raised in Ireland and both were fiercely loyal to their home country, not many culinary traditions were passed down to us. I remember many meals at their house as a child, my older sister and I seated around their tiny round kitchen table, which had an unencumbered view of the surfer statue on Westcliff. We’d have bowls of Irish stew when we stayed the night (and you had better finish that stew, or else!), to be followed by a game of cribbage; another day Granny would get us scoops of ice cream from the freezer—she had quite the sweet tooth; mornings would see her floury, soft scones pulled out of the oven, served with plenty of butter and jam next to cups of tea; on the evening of every Christmas, she brought out a burning Guinness cake as an offering to Jesus. But despite all those memories of us seated around that little table, there was only one recipe that was passed down to us cousins, and that’s this one.

Softer and plainer than the scones I regularly make, they’re the perfect backdrop for hefty dollops of jam and whipped cream. They remind me both of Granny’s little round table and my tour through Ireland. The scones I usually bake and which often show up in trendy coffee shops or bakeries these days are so flavorful and often so flaky from loads of butter that they are meant to be eaten without accompaniment. I actually prefer to eat them that way, or with only a good slathering of salted butter.

Not these scones, however. These deserve a little decoration, whether that’s a hefty chunk of salted butter or jam and whipped cream. I’ve kept Granny’s recipe very close to the original, though I did add a bit of sugar—it may not be exactly how she made them, but given her famously sweet tooth, I think she’d approve. At least, she might once she’d gotten over the shock of a tradition being treated as anything other than law.

Granny’s Irish Scones

Makes about 12-15 scones

580g (4 cups) all-purpose flour
1 heaping tbsp baking powder
50g (¼ cup) granulated sugar
¾ tsp Diamond Crystal kosher salt
1 stick (112g) unsalted butter, cubed
4 handfuls raisins or currants (optional)
288g (1 ¼ cup) whole milk

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Measure 580g flour, 1 heaping tbsp baking powder, 50g granulated sugar, and ¾ tsp kosher salt into a large mixing bowl and mix briefly. Toss the cubed stick of butter in and rub into the flour mixture until it becomes “grainy” (you can also use a food processor for this step; simply pulse until the butter is no larger than the size of small peas). Mix in 4 handfuls of raisins, if using. Make a well in the middle of the flour mixture and pour in 288g milk, stirring the dry mix into the milk with a fork until it starts to get quite clumpy, then use your hand to squeeze the dough together into a cohesive mass. If it’s too dry, add milk 1 tbsp at a time until it’s one rough ball.

On a lightly floured surface, pat the dough into a rough rectangle. Dust the dough with a little flour and use a rolling pin to get an even 1-inch thick slab. Cut the dough into quarters, then stack the pieces and push them down to smush into a rectangle. Dust with a little more flour and roll back into a 1-inch thick slab. Using a floured 2 ½ or 2 ¼ inch round biscuit cutter, stamp out as many scones out as you can and transfer them to a lined baking sheet. Try not to twist the cutter as you stamp them out, or else they likely will not rise as well, or will become a bit lopsided. Roll and stamp the remnants once more, but no more than that (simply roll the last bit into a ball, squash it, and bake with the others—the ugly one is the chef’s treat).

Bake for 20-24 minutes, until lightly golden but still quite pale. Let them cool until warm.

Serve with plenty of butter, jam, and soft, lightly sweetened whipped cream (or clotted cream, if you can find any). Enjoy!

These are best eaten the day they’re made, but they keep pretty well in a seal container for a day or two. Reheat in a 300°F oven for 10-15 minutes for best results.