USMB Coffee Shop IV

[Dajjal]

That sign applies very well to an artist. I got up at six o'clock am ,and painted on my sunflower picture for two hours.
Nobody will see that struggle, only the flawed results.

 

[Dajjal]

Well, I did five and a half hours painting before deciding I was tired. Then I looked out of the window at midday and was lucky to see five of the fox cubs and an adult fox in the garden. They don't seem to come out much in the day now. While I was watching a seagull dive bombed the adult fox twice, but it took no notice.

 

[Foxfyre]

That sign applies very well to an artist. I got up at six o'clock am ,and painted on my sunflower picture for two hours.
Nobody will see that struggle, only the flawed results.

I have to disagree. Any of us who have toiled over a work of art, a manuscript, a creative piece of clothing, an intricate quilt, a remodeling project, etc. will also know the struggle that produces the finished results. I know. Ringel knows. Gracie and her dressers knows.

 

[Dajjal]

That sign applies very well to an artist. I got up at six o'clock am ,and painted on my sunflower picture for two hours.
Nobody will see that struggle, only the flawed results.

I have to disagree. Any of us who have toiled over a work of art, a manuscript, a creative piece of clothing, an intricate quilt, a remodeling project, etc. will also know the struggle that produces the finished results. I know. Ringel knows. Gracie and her dressers knows.

Well I am not struggling as much as I was. I have found a system for painting the contra flow spirals at the centre of the sunflowers. I literally had pain in the chest from stress when I first started trying to do them, but now I have settled down to the long haul of painting the seventeen sunflowers. It will probably take a long time to finish them.

 

[Nosmo King]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

 

[Foxfyre]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

 

[Nosmo King]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

I do know that Mom's pie crust recipe is deceptively simple. Flour, water (ice water), salt and a combination of chilled butter and lard. Cold, as it turns out, is the essential quality of the ingredients.

 

[Foxfyre]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

I do know that Mom's pie crust recipe is deceptively simple. Flour, water (ice water), salt and a combination of chilled butter and lard. Cold, as it turns out, is the essential quality of the ingredients.

I do agree that lard content is a factor. And that is staple found in few kitchens these days, including mine. I may need to rethink that. Greasing your griddle with lard or even hard shortening makes heavenly pancakes. I don't know why that makes a difference, but it does.

 

[ChrisL]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

That is one type of cooking that I do not like, working with dough.

 

[Nosmo King]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

I do know that Mom's pie crust recipe is deceptively simple. Flour, water (ice water), salt and a combination of chilled butter and lard. Cold, as it turns out, is the essential quality of the ingredients.

I do agree that lard content is a factor. And that is staple found in few kitchens these days, including mine. I may need to rethink that. Greasing your griddle with lard or even hard shortening makes heavenly pancakes. I don't know why that makes a difference, but it does.

Maybe it has to do with how much heat they can take. My brother fries French fries in peanut oil because it can take more heat.

 

[ChrisL]

Hi everybody! Happy Thursday!

 

[Foxfyre]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

That is one type of cooking that I do not like, working with dough.

I love to bake when I have time to do it. I love to do a whole bunch of my cooking in the oven.

 

[ChrisL]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

That is one type of cooking that I do not like, working with dough.

I love to bake when I have time to do it. I love to do a whole bunch of my cooking in the oven.

I don't mind baking. I just hate kneading and rolling out dough and making sure it doesn't get stuck on everything and that it's the perfect texture. It's just such a mess and such a PITA.

 

[saveliberty]

I love to bake when I have time to do it. I love to do a whole bunch of my cooking in the oven.

If you are using the oven, isn't it baking???

Seriously, I have less than two working days this week, confusing me is not helpful.

 

[Nosmo King]

Saturday is the pivot day of 2016. Half way through the year. We are actually closer to the coming Christmas than were are to the Christmas whose bills are finally paid off.

We are also on the precipice of the Independence Day weekend. Finally the water in the river is warm enough to accommodate water skiers. The Spring floods that clog the river with partially submerged logs and other detritus are over and the mighty Ohio flows without hidden obstacles that tear the bottom out of pleasure craft.

The Little Beaver Creek, a National Wild River and environmentally protected waterway is at top speed. Canoes and kayaks and automobile inner tubes will be filled with revelers as they ply the rapids and depths of that beautiful creek.

Outdoor grills have had their share of duty already this season and will offer up the enticing aroma of grilled meats. The air will also be filled with the smell of sulfur as neighborhood fireworks displays light up the evening sky. Little kids will run around with sparklers and wonder at the amazing 'snakes' they set alight on the sidewalks. Somebody will go to the emergency room.

Flags are flying all over town in a burst of patriotism. Picnics and reunions and get togethers of all sorts clog up the weekend calendar. Old and young have fun together at family events and the numerous sky rocket displays.

Mid summer! Not so bad after all. The heat is not a factor. The weatherman assures us of 'chamber of commerce' weather; clear sunny skies and warm temperatures with low humidity. Basically the kind of weather we would make a Faustian bargain to have during the depths of January.

But, as soon as the month's names end in 'ber", the calendar accelerates Labor Day is the last hurrah. After that, the Autumn decorations; mums and cornstalks and pumpkins will line front porches. Halloween, now an adult drinking holiday will be on everyone's minds. Thanksgiving, poor old Thanksgiving, now serves only as a harbinger of the coming Christmas season.

Let's enjoy summer for the wonders it brings. Sweet corn and tomatoes and fireworks and warmth. Because Autumn will bring its own glories then winter will bring hard facts to us all.

 

[Hossfly]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

My mother baked the best pie crusts in the world but only so-so biscuits. Her sister and mother made biscuits to die for but average pie crusts. My mother swore by an electric stove for pie crusts and Grandma and aunt swore by a wood burning cook stove for biscuits. I thinks that's the main difference between biscuits and pie crusts. Both types of oven heat produced very good bread.

 

[Nosmo King]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

My mother baked the best pie crusts in the world but only so-so biscuits. Her sister and mother made biscuits to die for but average pie crusts. My mother swore by an electric stove for pie crusts and Grandma and aunt swore by a wood burning cook stove for biscuits. I thinks that's the main difference between biscuits and pie crusts. Both types of oven heat produced very good bread.

That could be true. Mom used an electric oven too. But I'm thinking it has more to do with the experience of the baker and how often pies are made compared to biscuits.

Mom would crank out at least a pie a week, more if there was fresh fruit in season. Early Spring brought chilled strawberry pies where really only the crust was a factor. Later, when black berries were in season, the only problem Mom had was keeping me out of the fresh berries! Come August and the peach crop was harvested, Pop enjoyed his favorite pie. In September, when the Granny Smiths came in, we dined on apple pies. Finally, canned pumpkin pie filling lined the pantry shelves

But biscuits were so infrequently baked that maybe Mom never had the chance to get her biscuit groove on. If biscuits were an indispensable part of our dinners, I'll wager Mom would have perfected the art form.

 

[Ringel05]

Mom makes the best pastries around. Period. Her pies are scrumptious. The crust, in my opinion is the benchmark for great pies, is consistently flakey and light and baked to perfection. Her cakes are also moist and tasty. But Mom cannot make a biscuit if the family fortune was in the balance.

Her first stabs at bicuitry were pitiful. Those biscuits, if I might call them biscuits, had the mass and weight of artillery shells. If they were soaked in gravy for a few weeks, they might be cutable with a cleaver or large machete. But they were not for human consumption. Such a mass in the digestive tract could lead to permanent and irreparable damage.

One batch she tossed from the back porch. They made impact craters in the lawn. Divots that Pop and I had to fill in with top soil from the garden and seed so that in the future grass might once again sprout up there. Captain, our dog, promptly peed on them and the song birds that frequented Pop's bird feeders refused to peck at them for fear of damage to their fragile beaks.

Mom, however, was undeterred. She continued to try to satisfy her family's craving for a delicacy we had heard of, but have never enjoyed. Bisquick recipes eluded her. The 'from scratch' methods of ingredients like baking soda and baking powder and what ever else she added like talcum powder or portland cement all turned out disastrously. Still, she beat on, like boats against the current, but there was no biscuit recipe to be found, even in the Great Gatsby.

Dumplings? No problem. They were dolloped upon chicken stew and thoroughly gobbled down by everyone but me as I do not eat poultry. Dinner rolls? Superb! Flakey little delights ready to soak in a pat of butter or wipe latent gravy from the dinner plate. Even magnificent loaves of bread; white, rye, whole wheat, pumpernickel all came out as if the were delivered fresh from heaven's own bakery.

Mom, the gourmand artist triumphed at every thing she sought to make. Only the lowly biscuit eluded her expertise.

Good biscuits are an art. I'll put mine up against most, but the perfect pie crust made from scratch too often eludes me. I suppose we all have our gifts.

I can make awesome biscuits and pie crusts, the biscuits were frequently made for others as I find biscuits far too dry to eat unless drowned in a gravy or sauce dish of some kind or eaten with a 1/2 pound of butter per biscuit.

 

[blackhawk]

 

[Foxfyre]

Good morning everybody. All must be sleeping in?

The monsoon arrived early in New Mexico but our neighborhood hasn't seen much of it yet--other parts of the city have received nice showers, so we keep hoping. Another fire burning in the Manzano Mountains just southeast of us but hopefully they'll get a handle on this one quickly with higher humidity and lower temperatures.

We are enjoying daytime highs of high 80's or low 90's which is quite pleasant for us this time of year.

And I just saw this photo and thought, is this one of those times to say, here, hold my beer and watch this?. . .