Three Fat Rascals and a Train Going Anywhere

You don't always need a reason. Sometimes, all it takes is a good name on a train station board, a spark of mischief, and an appetite for something you've never tried before.

My mother is a planner by nature. Lists, labels, strict routine. But drop her in a foreign country, and something flips. Rigid planning dissolves into joyful spontaneity, especially in England, where the air smells like tea leaves and serendipity.

She took us to the must-sees, her favorite Mexican restaurant under a bridge, and a ride on a double-decker. But beyond the basics, she occasionally played Town Roulette, where we went to the train station, picked a random city from the board, and hopped on. The only rule was to be back by dinner because hailing a taxi in a remote town was much harder without a cell phone.

There was the time we chose Bath because it sounded charming, and another we picked Sandwich because—well, sandwiches. We were American kids with loud voices, fast feet, and the sort of hunger that was as much about snacks as it was about discovery. England became our playground. A second home, defined less by landmarks and more by happenstance.

And that, I like to think, is what I've come to love most about travel—and about baking. Both let you go off-script, off-schedule, and off the beaten path. Fat Rascals aren't the first thing you think of when picturing British pastry culture. And that's exactly the point. They're cheeky. A little over the top. And incredibly satisfying.

This piece isn't a nostalgic reflection. Far from it. It's a field note from a life lived on the scenic route. And if there's one thing you should know, it's this: detours often lead to the best bites.

Tales of British Chaos and a Soda Called Tango

On one of our earliest trips to England, we stumbled upon a drink called Tango—a sparkling fruit soda that hit somewhere between fizzy cider and liquid energy. It was love at first sip. We were round-faced American kids with pizza roll palettes and energy to burn. The kind of kids who'd scream "TANGO!" when we saw a bottle in a convenience store, blissfully unaware of the cultural etiquette we were bulldozing.

We never blended in. But we didn't want to.

My brothers disappeared more than once. They'd slip out of hotel rooms to hunt down Pizza Hut or wander off in search of Beanie Babies. My mother would be mid-scone when the housekeeping staff informed us our teenage boys had vanished from their room. Again.

Love, Pudding, and Candy Shop Crushes

It was the late '90s, pre-Airbnb, pre-Wi-Fi. The Beeper was catching on, and a pocket cell phone was a toy for the elite. We stayed in floral-carpeted guesthouses with communal bathrooms and bedrooms named after novels. But what we lacked in digital certainty, we gained in analog charm. Each morning brought a breakfast basket the size of a tub filled with pastries, cereal, jam, and coffee strong enough to revive the dead.

And in between London's landmarks and the sleepy quiet of towns like Sandwich and Bath, we wandered. Aimlessly. Joyfully. We popped into boutiques and jostled between bookstores. We'd buy candy from shops by the Kent River. And on more than one occasion, I fell in love.

Once, I developed a full-blown crush on the teenage boy who worked the candy shop register. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, handsome. I didn't say a word. Just stared awkwardly from the taffy bins while my heart tried to crawl out of my chest. He stared back, not because I was the least bit attractive in my wedge sandals and hoodie but because my doe-eyed eyes gave the impression I was pocketing chocolates when he wasn't watching.

My heart fell again on another occasion when trying Yorkshire pudding for the first time. Fluffy, eggy bread captured my heart almost as fast as a young street performer near our hotel in Canterbury Square. It was 23 August 1998 when I saw him, two days after the pudding. I can't remember my laundry in the washer, but I most certainly will remember a handsome face and a tasty eggy pudding. 

A Ritual of Traveling Without Rules

I'm not the reflective type, in the sense that I like to document my day like a flight log. My days live mostly in my head—short films I pull up at random, rewatching old scenes with new commentary. My parents are the same way. We have maybe five photos from my childhood, but I wouldn't need them anyway. I still remember the way the cafe in Kent smelled on a hot summer day. 

My mother once gave me a travel journal to record my thoughts. What I gave her instead was a rundown of every meal we ate, complete with ratings and rapid-fire reviews. It was part menu, part manifesto. Brief, chaotic, and oddly foreshadowing my future career path. 

Those trips didn't have themes. They weren't structured. They weren't educational in the Rick Steves sense—no shade to Rick Steves. But they were formative. And they taught me something that no guidebook ever could: that sometimes, the thing you remember most isn't the palace or the tower, but the unplanned stop in a town you can barely find on a map. That a good pastry—and a good story—can come from a place you didn't mean to go.

And honestly, I've built my whole adult life on that rhythm. I don't over-plan my trips. I pick one anchor point—a bakery, bookstore, a meal I'm curious about—and let the rest unfold. Sometimes I get lost. Sometimes I get a story. 

Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get both.

Beyond Scones: The Bold, Cheeky Side of British Baking

One piece of advice I always give fellow explorers: go off the beaten path, even with food. The signature bakes have their place. The French macaron, the American chocolate chip cookie, the Indian barfi. They belong at the table—but they’renot the only guest at the party. Going beyond the tourist traps expands both your worldview and your palate.

Let’s face it—England has a reputation for the blandest bakes in Europe. Which is fascinating, really, considering their global history. Butter, flour, and a scant bit of sugar form the basis of a shortbread. Add eggs if you're feeling frisky andyou’ve got a Victoria sponge. Drizzle in a little cream by accident and you get Yorkshire pudding. Take the eggs out and freeze the butter? Scone.

Scone Vs. Fat Rascal

Scones are the archetype of British baking. Polite. Proper. Flaky in all the right ways. And I still love them—I do. But Fat Rascals? They’re louder. Bolder. They wear candied cherries like eyes and grin with slivered almonds. They’re not elegant. They’re not refined. But they are the ones you gravitate toward at the party. Hell, they are the party.

Fat Rascals are what happen when British baking decides to have a little fun. A little spice. A lot of dried fruit. A soft rebellion. They taste like England's pantry after empire, in the hands of a baker who decided “proper” was overrated.

They’re somewhere between a scone, a rock cake, and your gran’s soda bread. Unapologetically round. Fruit-studded. Rustic. The most iconic version comes from Betty’s in Yorkshire—a tea room founded by a woman, which only makes the legacy sweeter. It’s the kind of stop that rewards the curious. The kind of pastry that doesn’t look like much—until you’re two bites in and wondering where it’s been all your life.

Fat Rascals don’t need a reason. They don’t wait for birthdays. They’re breakfast, snack, and small rebellion all in one. The kind of thing you bake when you’re hungry for something different.

The Art of Baking Detours (And Learning to Live A Little)

As an adult, I've tried to keep the spirit of those chaotic train rides alive. Not always easy, especially in a world that values optimization over exploration. But I've found that baking—especially baking something unexpected—is one of the simplest ways to bring that energy back.

You don't need to fly across the Atlantic to take a detour. You can make one in your kitchen. With a mixing bowl. With a recipe you didn't plan on. With a pastry that looks you in the eye and says, "Lighten up."

And this is what I've come to understand: baking isn't always about comfort. It's about curiosity. It's about honoring tradition, then twisting it into something a little more you. It's about finding joy in the unlikely, like a town named Sandwich. Or a cherry-eyed scone called a Fat Rascal.

Baking The Scenic Route: A Fat Rascal State of Mind

Maybe you won't end up in Yorkshire. Maybe you'll never eat a scone in Bath or shout "TANGO!" in a convenience store. But you can still choose the scenic route. You can still bake something that isn't expected. You can still wake up one morning and decide to make something odd and wonderful, just because it sounds like joy.

The best rituals aren't the ones we inherit. They're the ones we stumble into—by accident, curiosity, and feel.

So go off-script. Take the strange train. Follow the funny name. Bake the thing that makes no sense. And see what finds you.

Try baking your own British moment with my recipe for Fat Rascals here.