Oh Biscuits!

           We all love things that aren’t good for us. And in this case, I’m talking about food.

          “I think you should have the things you love once in a while,” my feisty redheaded neighbor Miss Rosie says.

          And I agree with her. Nothing is off limits — as long as you don’t over-indulge, like I do with Doritos.  

          One of the things I love is biscuits and gravy.

          I never had B&G when I was growing up. Maybe it wasn’t a culinary staple where I grew up in rural Pennsylvania sixty years ago.

“Maybe it’s like spaghetti. Your mom didn’t like it so she didn’t make it for you,” you hazard a guess.

I don’t think so.

I remember once, a long time ago, Momma and Aunt Marie (her sister) made the drive from PA to IN where I was living at the time. Neither one had ever had biscuits and sausage gravy before so I made it for them — with canned biscuits.

“I think I’d rather have it on homemade bread,” Momma said.

“I’d like it better on potatoes,” Aunt Marie said, or maybe it was the other way around.

Now you can find B&G just about anywhere and everywhere.

Even so, it was not a food I indulged in much over the years. I’ve had too many badly made gravies to take a chance anymore. Then I re-discovered it at Mark’s Valley View. They made a good sausage gravy and had a good biscuit. Now if I want B&G I talk my handsome mountain man into taking me to breakfast.

Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, right?

Nope!

They only serve B&G on the weekends. One Friday, when I was wanting B&G, we went to Mark’s. Guess what? Friday is not part of the weekend. Maybe you knew that. I was disappointed.

The next time we went, we went on a Saturday morning and I got my B&G fix. On the way out I found out that it’s only served every other Saturday. The odd Saturday chipped beef gravy is the gravy served.

We don’t go out for breakfast every weekend. We don’t go out twice a month. We may go out for breakfast once every two or three months. That means, if I want B&G, I have to call and make sure it’s the right weekend.

“Peg, that’s irrelevant now,” my local friends say.

I know, right! We heard the news. After serving breakfast for thirty-three years, Mark’s Valley View will no longer offer breakfast.

Sigh!

Oh well. This country girl can make gravy! When you grow up in a big family, you can stretch a pound of meat by turning it into gravy — and Momma made some good gravies, too, let me tell you! Hamburger, chicken, even hot dogs, and bacon can be made into gravy. It’s biscuits that are more the challenge for me because Momma never made those either.

A few years ago, I came across a drop biscuit made with buttermilk that was pretty good. I searched my recipe box and couldn’t find it. I did a Google search and still couldn’t find it. But if you want a rolled biscuit, there are tons of those recipes out there.

I didn’t want to take a chance on stumbling across a good biscuit recipe, so I got out one of my old cookbooks.

I bought Jimmy Dean.

I bought buttermilk.

I let both those things sit in the fridge for days, a week, maybe even longer.

“Is your buttermilk going to go bad?” Mike finally asked me.

I checked. Luckily, it had a nice long date on it.

This week I made biscuits.

Roll the dough one-half-inch thick, it says. I didn’t really want to fool with a rolled biscuit but at least it gave me a chance to use the fancy-schmancy rolling pin with thickness rings Mike bought me.

To make a good biscuit, press straight down, don’t twist the cutter, it says. Or, if shape isn’t important, cut into squares.

Guess which way I did it?

They really weren’t hard to make. Now, let’s see if they’re flakey and taste good.

I baked them according to the directions. When I opened the oven door, I was faced with twelve overly-brown and not-very-tall biscuits.

“You’re gonna laugh when you see what I pulled outta the oven,” I told my best old friend Trish.

“Good,” she said. “I need a laugh.”

The biscuits had a good flavor, thanks to the butter I’d used.

The next morning, I took the roll of Jimmy Dean sausage out, divided it into four, wrapped and froze three, and made gravy from the remaining quarter.

I had high hopes for my biscuits and gravy but the truth is, the flavor of the biscuit clashed with the sausage gravy.

Not one to give up easily, and having half the gravy leftover, I got down my fabulous Fanny Farmer cookbook and compared her recipe to the one I’d used.

The recipes were very similar. Fanny’s had more complete instructions and used more baking soda. Will that make the biscuits higher? I set to work, once again with high hopes. This time, not wanting butter biscuits, I used good old-fashioned lard. I got fifteen biscuits and I watched my time better.

Don’t laugh. I know they’re all different sizes. I was a little worried the bigger ones wouldn’t be done and the smaller ones would be over-done, but not enough to do anything about it. I worried for nothing. They baked just fine but I don’t think they’re any taller than the first batch I’d made.

This non-butter biscuit was much better with the sausage gravy and I think it’s the recipe I’ll use from now on.

I took some of both down to the Kipps for a taste test.

“I like the ones made with lard better,” Miss Rosie said.

Rosie’s been having trouble with her knee so she hasn’t been walking. AKA, she doesn’t get to spend much time lovin’ on Bondi and they both miss it. Here, in the picture, they’re getting their loves on. Bondi just laid there and snuggled while Miss Rosie loved on her to her heart’s content.

Biscuits weren’t the only thing I made this week.

A recipe called Snoball Brownies and claiming to be just like the Snoball snack cake you buy, came across the internet.

I made it and even though it’s good, it isn’t anything like the snack cake. For one thing, the seven-ounces of marshmallow fluff is cut with sixteen-ounces of vanilla cake frosting. How is that gonna taste like marshmallow?

It doesn’t.

I took some down to the Kipps.

“It’s good but I like the Mounds Brownies better,” Miss Rosie says and I concur.

Last Sunday was a going away party for this young man. Leo Kipp IV is flanked by (left to right) dad Leo III, LeAnn, Shelby, then it’s young Leo, Anna, and the tiny little woman on the end is mom Feleica. Bubby, his nickname, joined the Army and will be going to Germany for the next two years.

“Any relation to Lamar and Rosie Kipp?” you ask.

Oh! My! Gosh! The Kipps are coming out of the woodwork around here!

Lamar is great grand uncle to Bubby.

“Fun fact,” beautiful Jenn Kipp says. “He's Leo Herbert Kipp IV, but Dad's dad was Leo Freeman Kipp, so five Leos in a row.” There was a middle name change so Bubby is only four instead of five.

Not to mention, Leo III’s mom is also named Rose Kipp and we all go to the same church! 

This is Bubby with his grandmother, the other Rosie Kipp.

I was honored to take pictures at the party and paid with some really good food. Roadside, or Fireman’s chicken, brisket, hamburgers, hotdogs, salads, cake, homemade chocolate mint chip ice cream, and the best Dirt Cake I’ve ever had!

There I stood, a plate of Dirt cake in one hand and fork in the other. “This is so good!” I told Felecia.

“Anna made it,” she said with pride.

I found Anna. “This is the best Dirt Cake I’ve ever had. Can I have the recipe?”

She smiled coyishly. “Well... it’s a secret.”

Now I want it even more! “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone,” I assured her.

“You can pretty much find the recipe all over the internet,” she told me. “The way I make it is the secret.”

“How do you make it?” I’m not one to give up easily.

Anna grinned. “It’s a secret!”

Mike laughed. “Peg, what part of secret don’t you understand?”

The Kipps live on a beautiful piece of property on a road I’ve never been on before. I took a couple of pictures for you. I might’ve taken more, but they weren’t far down the road.

This is a Duskywing Butterfly.

          And the Forget-me-nots are blooming. 

My Sensation lilacs are scenting the air with their beautiful fragrance.

I’m guessing the Sensation is a purple lilac crossed with a white lilac because I get branches on the same bush with plain white lilacs on them.

          A black flower!

          Oh, wait. On closer inspection, I see it’s a fungus. 

          I’ve got more bloomin’ pictures to show you, but let’s break ‘em up with a Raini story or two.

          Raini loves playing with her knobby rubber ball so much! Five, six, ten times a day she brings it wanting to play! Even when I’m standing at the sink doing dishes. I’ll wash a dish, throw the ball, wash a dish, and she’s back with the ball, dropping it at my feet. I make her wait until I rinse my dish and put it in the drainer before I throw the ball into the living room again. Wash a dish, throw the ball. She’s getting the routine down, but if I take too long washing, she whines and snaps her jaws at me. It makes a clacking sound when she does that. I Googled it. If she was doing it at any other time than when we’re playing, I’d be worried it was a sign of a health problem or aggression. She does it to both Mike and me but neither one of us feels threatened by it.

          When it’s nice out, and I have time, I like to toss the ball on the roof for her. The ball gets wet. Either because of dewy grass or because she drops it in the water tub when she goes for a drink.

This ball swells when it’s wet and the ends pop up. When it dries, it goes back to its original form. I didn’t know that the first time I saw it do it and I was worried it was going to fall apart, so we went looking for another ball just like it. Both Mike and I looked but we can’t find one. I bet we bought this ball when we first got Itsy or Ginger but neither of our Yorkies played with toys and I hung onto it all these years — and so glad I did because it’s the only ball Raini’ll play with.

          We’ve bought other balls for her but she wouldn’t play with them. Then we were at the store the other day and I found a ball that had similar colors and was made from the same kind of rubber. I was excited thinking Raini would have another ball she likes to play with. She doesn’t. She doesn’t care anything about it at all. I guess it’s the knobs she likes and not the color or material it’s made from.

          This week has been beautiful, weatherwise, so we had lots of outdoor play time.

          “Get your ball,” I told Raini as I was heading for the door.

          You could see the joy on her face as she ran and found her ball, bringing it back and dropping it at my feet just as I got to the door. I ignored her, opened the door, shut the screen door, Raini and Bondi followed me out, and Raini left her ball in the house.

          “Get your ball,” I told her again.

          Raini ran for the dog door and hit it at about ninety. A few seconds later she came back through with her ball and dropped it at my feet before I could get off the patio into the grass. I ignored her and kept walking. She picked up her ball and followed me out into the grass where she again dropped it by my feet.

          “You’re such a good girl,” I told her giving her an ear scratch on my way to picking up the ball. She doesn’t care. She just wants me to throw the ball!

          I tossed the ball onto the roof and suddenly Blackie appeared, chasing the ball. That made me smile.

          Blackie hung around on the roof, occasionally chasing the ball, but mostly lounging. Silly cat!

          Sometimes I throw the ball too hard and it goes over the roof.

          Sometimes I don’t throw it hard enough and broke a pane out of one of the windows decorating the side of the mill.

          Then! Sometimes I put just the right (or wrong) amount of umph behind my toss and it plops right smack into the rain gutter.

          Aye-yi-yi!

          “Blackie!” I called. He came stalking over. “Knock the ball down,” I coaxed and pointed. He spotted the ball, crept over, gave it a sniff. I was hopeful. “That’s it, Blackie, knock it down. You can do it! Hit the ball.”

Did he? NO! And no amount of cajoling could convince him to take a swipe at the ball. I had to get a pole and knock it down myself.

Raini got a drink and found a shady spot to rest in.

          I bought a yellow rose bush more than a week ago. It was sitting in a bucket of water and I needed to get it planted. I started digging the hole and pulled out some good-sized rocks.

          The next thing I know a ball drops in the hole I was digging. I guess Raini wasn’t done playing.

          Sometimes it’s a bother to be interrupted. I just remind myself that she won’t always be with me and I wasn’t on anyone’s time clock. It’ll get done when it gets done, and I throw the ball for her.

          Dig a bit, throw a ball. Dig a bit, throw the ball again. And time marches on.

          I had parts of bags of garden soil, potting soil, and top soil. I mixed them together and put it in the hole with my rose bush.

          Now, just so we’re clear, and in case the bush dies, remember. I’m not a gardener. Mostly I’m just faking it, doing the best I can.

          The hole needed more dirt than I had. I got the screen Mike made for me and screened the big rocks out of the dirt I took out of the hole and used that to fill in.

Cross your fingers, maybe say a little prayer for the rose bush that was unlucky enough to be picked by me.

          I drug the tarp with the unused rock and soil out of the dog run and when I dumped it, I saw all kinds of blue, orange, and yellow speckles. A colorful surprise.

          “What is it?” I know you wanna know.

          I’m thinking it was paint chips from the tarp since it was on the bottom and since it’s the same tarp I use when I spray paint my creations.

          Oh! I have to tell you something!

          Do you remember when I made the mouse trap with the five-gallon bucket, a piece of pipe for a roller, and baited it with peanut butter?

          Well, I did. We put it in the barn and checked it every day for a few days. We didn’t get any mice and sorta forgot about the trap.

          When I went to the barn to get the wheelbarrow to mix dirt in, I glanced in the bucket and automatically switched to mommy breathing.

          Do you know what happens to mice if they sit in water for a long time? No? Well let me tell you. They kinda dissolve. This is not the first time I’ve come across mouse soup around here. A bucket collecting rainwater collected mice too and I’ve had the pleasure of dumping that. And once, an unlucky fellow got down into a vase of water on the back patio and couldn’t get out. Trust me, you do not want to smell this kind of mouse soup! It’s nasty!

I took the mousetrap bucket out into the sunshine, swished it around a little and counted at least four mouse tails — but I bet you wouldn’t blame me if I didn’t look too closely. I did take a picture but I’ll spare you. I heaved the contents over the bank, washed the bucket, and re-baited it.

          Another day, playing ball with Raini, she had had enough, or maybe I wasn’t throwing the ball right, I don’t know. Sometimes she’ll get fed up with my tosses and take the ball to Mike. To say my feelings are hurt would be an understatement.

          But on this day, we were playing in the yard. I tossed it and Bondi and Raini both ran for it. You have to understand the dynamic between these two. Raini is the boss and it’s Raini’s ball. If Bondi gets there first, she makes a half-hearted attempt to pick it up but doesn’t even really try to get it. Raini’ll run her over and take it from her if she does. So, Bondi fakes taking it and moves a step or two past the ball, allowing Raini to pick it up.

          Bondi and Raini ran for a just-thrown ball. Bondi gets there first and turns around to see where Raini is. Raini had flopped herself down in the grass and hadn’t chased it at all! You could almost see the surprise on Bondi’s face. She picked the ball up and I assumed was going to bring it back to me. She didn’t. She took it to Raini and dropped it.

          Raini picked it up and brought it to me.

          I tossed it again, but really, I should’ve known Raini was done playing. Bondi brought the ball back to her and Raini just looked at it. 

          Another day I took Raini on an early morning walk-about.

          Grasses covered in dewdrops.

          The honeysuckle is blooming.

          I found four of these guys on the leaves of a bush. They don’t move well when the temps are low.

          Dewdrops on the edges of multiflora leaves.

          I kept one eye on Raini as I took pictures.

          Autumn Olive flowers droop down whereas honeysuckle flowers droop up. I know! I know! Don’t say it!

          Open Autumn Olive flowers.

          Honeysuckle with a pink tint.

          Apple blossoms on the volunteer apple tree. It had more blossoms than the apple tree we planted!  

          Chokecherry flowers are open.

          Maples aren’t the only tree that makes helicopters. This is a Box Elder.

          This is a teeny-tiny little grass flower of some kind. 

          I Googled it but everything came back saying it might be a variety of Speedwell or Chickweed.

          I know what both of those things look like and they are small, but this guy is a fraction of their size.

          I made a special trip out into the yard and picked some of all three to show you.

          I finished the double-sided porch sign I was working on.

          My next project is a commissioned book box.

          Mike has been keeping himself busy.

          His first time stuck for the lawn mowing season.    

  

Mike is also working on the apartment. He put up insulating board and used an old ceiling tile to help keep them in place.

“Do we have any big washers around here?” Mike asked.

“I can look in that box of stuff Lamar gave me.”

          I picked up the shoe box full of tiny little nails, tacks, screws, and a mishmash of other garagey-looking things and the side of the shoebox gave way spilling a million little things in a million different places!

          Sigh!

          At first I tried to sweep them together with my hand but after plucking the fourth tack from my hand (I don’t give up easily) I went and got the broom. It wouldn’t’ve been so bad if they hadn’t gone in the bags on the shelf and under the shelf. It made it a job! I was so frustrated and cranky that when Lamar stopped by to drop something off, I told Mike to see to it while I finished cleaning up the mess.

          Mike went out but soon came back. “Lamar wants to talk to you,” he said.

          I heaved myself off the floor, plastered a smile on my face, and went out to talk with Lamar. Judging by the way the conversation went, I’d say Lamar never said that. But it never hurts to be reminded to mind my manners, be neighborly, and say hello, especially when that neighbor was kind enough to bring me homemade Strawberry Rhubarb Coffeecake — which was really yummy!

          “Peg, did you put all that stuff back in the broken box?” you ask.

          Much to my chagrin, I admit, I did. It was there, it was handy, and did I mention I was frustrated and cranky? I know I’ll have to be careful when (and if) I pick the box up again. Maybe I’ll let it live right there on the floor until Kevin orders a dumpster to clean this place out after I die!

          Once the insulation was up on the ceiling, Mike went to work on the wiring. 

          Something was wrong with the switch. You’d have to flip it on and off a bunch of times before the lights would come on so Mike pulled it apart to fix it. Do you know it took him two days to figure out and find there was a crossed wire?

          Mike put up the grid work for the drop ceiling and installed the new LED lights. I don’t know when we’ll get the new ceiling tiles.

          With some paint and a good cleaning job, this can be a cute little apartment. 

          We have a pair of blue birds raising a family in the birdhouse Miss Rosie made for me.

         I was so excited to see I had something more exotic nesting there instead of the wrens that had occupied the house in years past or the Starlings that nest in the eaves.

          “I think they’re Buntings,” I told Miss Rosie when I showed her the picture on my camera.

          “I’m pretty sure those are just Eastern Bluebirds,” Miss Rosie said. Then she got her book out to show me the difference. I’m not sure what I was looking at in my bird book, but she’s absolutely right.

          “Mark this day down,” Miss Rosie said with a laugh. “I’m right for once!”          

          I saw my first Tiger Swallowtail this week. He was flying beside the golf cart as we were on the way up to the gas well site. 

          We watched as a semi backed trailers into a containment area even as they were nailing the heavy plastic in place. 

And with that, let’s call this one done!