The Birth of a Biscuit

I was invited to brunch at my friends’ house today, and told to bring fruit and/or juice. I had been holding onto a recipe for strawberry biscuits, so I asked if it was ok for the fruit to be inside a biscuit. It was!

Now, I’ll be the first one to tell you that when it comes to me and the kitchen, well, we’re not exactly besties. I get what happens in there, and I can function at a moderate level. In addition, I can follow recipes, and make most things requiring the use of eggs or my beloved Kitchenaid mixer. More of a baker than a cook, nothing has ever turned out traumatically, I’m just not that into it.

This particular recipe called for neither eggs nor my mixer, but I like strawberries and the pictures looked good.

Just so you know, the pictures most always look good when food preparation blogs and books are involved.

I thought I managed my time well, but I always think that. I started with the things that required the most prep. The cutting up of the strawberries, the zesting of the lemon (hey now!). Things were smelling good. I was excited. (In the birth analogy, I guess this would be the part where your water breaks, but you’re not really in pain yet. However, I’ve never given birth, and don’t know if it really happens like that. But basically, things are happening, and you’re excited. But nervous.)

Then I mixed some dry ingredients with some wet ingredients and things started to get messy. And all the sudden I didn’t want to do it anymore.

Also, at one point you have to cut up an entire stick of butter into lots of pieces and “cut it into the flour mixture” and that took way more time than I thought it would. But I had never cut anything into flour with two knives before (the recipe’s suggestion, not my own solution).

That bottom pic is blurry because sh*t was getting real, and I couldn’t concentrate on things like pictures. Then I dumped it out onto a well-floured surface, and thought seriously about walking away. It surely wasn’t supposed to be like this. The directions said knead twice until together. My “dough” resembled kids at a middle school dance: separate pieces with no interest in coming together. And just when I was about to start shouting obscenities, something happened. Maybe a good song came on, because things started sticking together. We were all getting the hang of this. Eventually I was even able to do the whole “fold it like a letter” thing. (I’ll be honest and say that not all of what was in the bowl participated in the party, but a giant majority of it did. And sometimes you take what you get.)

And then I used a huge knife to cut them apart, and they were starting to look like real biscuits!

I crossed my fingers, and found relief in the cooking time. Which isn’t very long. And before I knew it, I was posing my cute lil biscuits for Instagram pix.

I mean, seriously. Then I ate a corner of one and didn’t die, so I got even more excited. I was proud of me and the biscuits, and our journey. I was tired. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to do it again. And I was so excited to show them off.

Ok, maybe I was cautiously optimistic to show them off. Would people like them?

(Side note: I arrived to the brunch 30 minutes after my target time.)

More importantly, they went over pretty well. The word “delicious” was used. I asked for brutal honesty. Somebody ate more than one. I brought Mascarpone, per the recipe. I had never had it on its own (or outside tiramisu for that matter), and I don’t really feel like it has much flavor, but it added something to them. It was fun to see the biscuits have layers (from the letter-folding process, I’m guessing), and I am pretty sure they’re going to be great with Nutella, which I’ll be breaking out for a snack later.

So they kinda turned out like scones I guess. And maybe with some slight tweaking they could be even better.

Now I need to get to work on all of the recipes I’ve found on Pinterest. Did you know those things don’t show up in your kitchen just because you pin them? Lame.

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