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27 March 2016updated 30 Jun 2021 11:57am

The holy bun that crossed the centuries

When it comes to hot cross buns, I love nibbling round the chewy cross on top like an ill-mannered five-year-old.

By Felicity Cloake

If you have just turned the page with buttery fingers, if your nostrils are filled with sweet spice and your tongue is at this very moment engaged in gently prising a gritty currant from your molars, then spare a thought and a hot cross bun for me. The moment I saw these Easter treats cheek by jowl with discounted mince pies in December, I resolved that not a single crumb would pass my lips until Good Friday.

Even writing about the merits of hot cross buns tests my resolve. I love their fluffy texture, the contrast between savoury bread and sweet, plump fruit, the heat of ginger and nutmeg tamed by the obligatory creamy wodge of butter. Best of all, I love nibbling round the chewy cross on top like an ill-mannered five-year-old. The only thing keeping me going is the thought of the glorious weekend of gorging ahead of me, before I forsake their pleasures for the next 51 Fridays, as nature surely intended.

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