This years’ batch of Crot Boss Huns was a raging success. I wish I could make them more than once a year, but I always feel silly having them on any day other than Good Friday. Which is silly in itself given I have absolutely no religious affiliations whatsoever and that it was only a few years back that my Aunty Neena instilled in me the ‘buns on Good Friday, chocolate on Sunday’ rule. And that I secretly ate all the spotty caramel eggs in the cupboard when Louis wasn’t looking a week ago.
So, where were we? Oh yes, Crot Boss Huns, seen here in Glorious Morning Sunshine.
This years’ HCB were a bastardised version of Alison and Simon Holst’s recipe, printed in the DomPost a week or two ago. Last year, I used the recipe in Ladies, A Plate and made them the diehard way, you know, without a breadmaker. This year I felt as though I had proven myself (bread making pun) and slacked off a bit, getting the breadmaker in on the act. I slacked off further by baking the buns the night before and just heating them for breakfast on Good Friday.
I say ‘bastardised’ because I maybe added more fruit peel than the recipe suggested, and followed the Ladies, A Plate method of piping on the crosses with a simple concoction of flour paste. This year I knew better than to follow her ridiculous instruction to ‘cut’ crosses into each bun and piping the paste into it. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I try to cut sticky bread dough, it sticks to the knife. This happened last year, and this year I found that piping on the cross without fiddling about first achieved the same result.
In terms of flavour, these were a pretty good match with a decent shop-bought bun, if you’re after that sort of thing, though as far as my memory can stretch, shop-boughts no longer have peel. They are dark and spicy and probably just as sweet. The texture was perfect, they rose, and they didn’t sink when I took them out of the oven. The glaze was also lifted from the Ladies recipe as Alison’s had golden syrup AND honey in it and I thought a bit of milk and sugar would be better. They were sticky. Even Rata liked them. We ate them for breakfast and then we ate them at the beach for afternoon tea. We tried to take them to Bertie’s house, but while we were knocking on her door, she was knocking on ours, and somehow we didn’t cross paths. Tricky little village.