he first time I made scones, it was on impulse.

I passed the recipe on my way to somewhere else in Barefoot Contessa at Home and thought, ‘Wow, hey, scones! I’ve never made those before. And cranberry and orange—what could be more Thanksgiving-y than that? I’ll make them for us to eat out of the oven for breakfast!’

You probably know this already, but scones can take a while. It’s not that they’re particularly complicated—if you’ve made a biscuit, you can make a scone—but there are all of these extra steps. You’re putting fruit in and you’ve got flour all over yourself and unwitting passersby and there’s a flipping egg wash that you didn’t read about until you were getting the first batch out of the oven and you don’t own anything resembling a pastry brush, what the hell are you supposed to do about the egg wash?

Breakfast was served fairly late last Thanksgiving morning.

But the scones were pretty good, so I planned to make them again (emphasis on the word plan). The next time around, I blocked out most an afternoon. (Hot scones are overrated, I told myself.) I enlisted the help of sweet-natured children, willing to zest and sprinkle in exchange for the mere hope of something to lick at some yet-to-be determined day and time.

One of those children even came equipped with a pastry brush! Perfection!

These are the fruits of that labor. Truth be told, the process took just as long as it did on Thanksgiving but it didn’t seem so stressful without the din of all of those growling stomachs. Between the planning and the happy help of others, there was joy in our work together and abundance once we’d done.

It is only in writing this that I have realized that my baking scones for me bears more than a passing similarity to my history making and rearing The Three. Disturbing, delicious or both? I leave that to you to decide.