• blueberry torn-biscuit cobbler

    We had a fantastic supper the other night.

    At least I thought it was fantastic. I had almost as much fun making it as I did eating it. Maybe more.

    It was four curses long:

    1. Sliced radishes with butter to spread on top and coarse salt to sprinkle them with. And tomato slices with dollops of cucumber mint salad on top (mayo, capers, mustard, red onion, vinegar, mint, cucumbers, S&P).

    2. Grilled zucchinis that were then relaxed in a lemon-olive oil-basil dressing.

    3. Spaghetti tossed with Pumpkin Seed Pesto and fresh Parmesan.

    4. Bubbling hot blueberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream.

    I did not plan this menu. I started thinking about supper a little before 4 pm, and it came together as I went along.

    This cobbler is just a butter-and-sour cream rich biscuit dough that gets torn over a panfull of sugared, lemon-spiked blueberries. We feasted till we about popped.

    And then my parents stopped by and I dished some cobbler into little ramekins for them.

    My mother approved of the topping. She liked that it was so crunchy.

    By the end of the evening, this was all that was left.

    I put it into a little ramekin and ate it the next day, hunched over the counter, my back to the children.

    And it was wonderful.

    Blueberry Torn-Biscuit Cobbler
    Adapted (but not much) from the August 2012 issue of Bon Appetit magazine

    Next time, for more texture and flavor, I may swap out some of the flour for some oats or the multigrain mix.

    1 ½ cups flour, plus 3 tablespoons
    1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
    1 cup sugar, plus 3 tablespoons
    ½ teaspoon salt
    6 tablespoons butter
    ½ slightly heaping cup sour cream
    6 cups blueberries
    juice and zest of one lemon

    In a large bowl, toss together the blueberries with the one cup of sugar, the three tablespoons of flour, and the lemon zest and juice. Tumble it all into a 9×13 baking dish.

    In another large bowl, combine the remaining flour, baking powder, 3 tablespoons sugar, and salt. Using your fingers, cut in the butter. Stir in the sour cream. Knead very briefly, just till it comes together. Tear the biscuit dough into bits and scatter it over the berries.

    Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes or until golden brown and bubbling merrily.

    Serve with vanilla ice cream.

    ***

    In case you are under the impression that all my meals are seasoned, balanced, and finished off with a noteworthy dessert, allow me to set the record straight:

    1. I can’t cook hamburgers. The other night I tried, once again, to make a good burger, but I made the patties too thick (about an inch instead of a half inch) (my carpenter husband was appalled that his wife could be so measurementally challenged) and they were raw on the inside. We threw them back on the grill (all except for my youngest son’s burger—apparently he likes to hear his supper moo), and they turned out yummy, but by then it was far too late for any possible cooking goddess glory.

    Also, I bought American cheese (oh yes, I did) to top the burgers and made McDonald’s special sauce to go on them. And we had Pringles and mushy watermelon.

    2. And then another night we ate eggs and toast and everyone was still hungry when we finished.

  • the quotidian (7.30.12)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace 

    Bits of a supper.

     

    Rain drenched: lately, so many storms!
     

    Beans, beans, beans!
     

    Making more of my new favorite pesto (and taking pictures this time).
     

    The pesto: it’s good on pretzels, did you know?
     

    Boys and sticks, a classic combination.
     

    Lugging in yet another load: anybody want some?

     

    Corn! It’s what’s for supper (again and again and again).

    Leftover mortar: from a chimney repair.

    Stocking the newly-built bookshelves.
     

    When the wind blows, the kids panic.
    They huddle by the door with all their blankets
    and beg me to take them to the basement.
    (To be fair, there was a tornado warning.)
     

    Afternoon snooze (with his tooth fairy present close at hand):
    he was scared of the wind and wanted to be with me,
    but I didn’t want to be with him,
    so we compromised and he took his rest time in the hall.
    Which, in retrospect, is kind of pathetic.
     

    Napping: he claims that he can’t snooze laying down. 

    This same time, years previous: shrimp, mango, and avocado salad, experimentingsummertime pizza

  • the boy and the bike ride

    The boy wanted to ride his bike into town, but his mother and father were a little hesitant. It was a long ride—eleven miles—and much of it was on a four-lane road.

    “You need to ride it with an adult a couple times first,” they said.

    So over the course of a few months, the boy rode to (or from) town with a good friend from church who happens to love biking.

    Gradually, the boy’s parents warmed to the idea of him riding the route by himself. The boy was a big kid, and he looked older than his age. He was certainly strong enough to do the ride. Also, he had a fairly level head, though as is the case with most boys, he was inclined to do stupid things on occasion.

    “Shouldn’t he have a cell phone with him?” the boy’s father wondered.

    “Nah,” the mother said. “If he gets a flat or crashes, he can flag down a car or knock on some door. It’s not like he’ll be in the middle of nowhere. And,” she added, “if he crashes and dies, well then, in that case he wouldn’t be able to call us anyway.”

    “Did you really just say that?” the father gasped in (only semi) mock horror. “I can’t believe you just said that!”

    The truth was, the mother was pretty nervous about the boy riding his bike while cars sailed past him at 60 miles per hour. One little mishap and the unthinkable could happen—

    So she didn’t think about it.

    Despite her cool-headed logic, when the first opportunity came for the boy to have a non-adult accompanied ride, the mother said no.

    The boy had been spending the night at his friend’s house in town, and just before bed, the friend called the mother. “Is it okay if we ride bike out to your house tomorrow?” And then he launched into a carefully thought-out recitation of all the pros and cons.

    But the mother politely explained she’d rather an adult accompany the friend on the first long ride,  not her son, a peer. And then they hung up.

    “Why did you say no?” the father said.

    “Huh?” the mother said, incredulously. “You think I ought to have said yes?”

    “The boys are both good riders, and level-headed. I think they could do it.”

    So the mother called back and said yes.

    The mother was in town to see them off (she had to pick up her other children from their swimming lessons), and she lectured them heartily on road etiquette. “Ride in single file at all times. Keep your heads up. Don’t do anything stupid. No goofing around at all BECAUSE IF YOU DO YOU COULD DIE! And remember, drivers are stupid so assume they can’t see you.”

    “Does that mean we can ride all over the road?” The boy’s eyes twinkled.

    “NO!” the mother roared.

    And then she finished her death-and-doom speech with a cheery, “Have fun!” and sped off in the van.

    An hour later, the boys called home (on the friend’s mom’s cell phone). “We’re almost there but we’re stopping to take a break before the long uphill stretch and didn’t want you to worry.”

    And then they were home, glowing from pride and sweat, exhausted and elated.

    The end.

    Afterword
    The boys reported that when they had stopped for that breather, a kind man came out of his house and offered them cold drinks. They said no, they had water with them and had to be getting home soon. The man offered to transport them in his pick-up if they were too tired to make it. They said thanks, but no, they were almost home.

    Some people might freak out over this exchange—stranger danger! eep! eep! eep!—but the mother found it quite reassuring. It reinforced her belief that the world was full of good people (at least one, anyway), and it showed her that the boys weren’t flighty little whippersnappers, eager to dash off with any random person who treated them nicely.

    This same time, years previous: blackberries and Glee, Indian pilaf of rice and split peas