Start by sifting the flour, baking soda, salt, and sugar together into a roomy bowl. Sifting feels optional, but I swear it makes a difference in how the crumb bakes up—no random pockets of soda keeping you on your toes later.

Drop in the cold, diced butter and use your fingertips (or a pastry blender, if you must be civilized) to rub it through until the mixture is full of uneven, coarse crumbs. Bigger chunks here and there are what give that signature flaky bite along the crust.

Mix in the caraway seeds and fresh orange zest so they’ll be speckled through every slice. The kitchen will already start to smell like a bakery at this point—rich, spicy, and faintly floral.

Make a shallow well and pour in the cool buttermilk. Now switch to a wooden spoon or even your hands, gently turning the dough just enough so everything is moistened and clings together. Don’t overwork it—you want rough, not sleek. If it’s dry, a splash more buttermilk rescues everything.

Flour your counter and tip the dough out, coaxing it into a rough ball. Press down to flatten slightly and pat the edges into a rustic round loaf, leaving it about the height of your hand.

Transfer to a lined baking sheet. Using a floured knife, slash a deep cross in the center—this isn’t just ceremony; it helps the bread rise and bake evenly.

Bake in a hot oven until the crust is deeply golden and the bottom sounds hollow when tapped. If you can stand to wait, let it cool for fifteen minutes so the center settles before slicing.