Burn the Biscuits !

  (A short story about a time in my younger life.)

Cooking and baking has never been my forte.  I can follow a recipe and sometimes even follow through to the on-the-table phase.  As for original creative use of spices and other ingredients, I am totally lacking.

My mother and sister were brilliant cooks and even my niece.  And baking, ummm-ummm!!  When I was little mom tried to teach me - and I stress tried.  She said I liked putting the stuff together and the mixing parts - under her direction of course.  She also said it took forever to get the ingredients together because I was so very fussy about everything being in its proper place in the mixing bowl.  I guess I thought it was a jigsaw puzzle, which I loved and still do. 

When it came to the actual cooking, baking part, I just couldn't stick with it.  Of course, she wouldn't let me put it in the oven myself.  She did, however, want to teach me to watch the time and check whatever goodie was brewing in there.  That was just asking a bit too much from me.  The timer would ding ding ding ding and finally she would come into the kitchen and see that I was very far away, not physically but mentally.  Never heard the darned thing.  I'm afraid to this day I have the same problem.

Microwave ovens and deli or frozen entrees or better yet, restaurants, became my saving grace.  When I was married my husband graciously took over the cooking.  He never dared say it out loud, but I think he was horrified by some of the things I put on the table.

Having dinner guests posed a real problem when he was out of town.  I always pushed the pot luck venue if I couldn't get to the market for some frozen delicacies.

Eventually came a fateful day that is burned into my psyche.  Aunty I, my ex's aunt, had a stroke.  She was home from the hospital but couldn't do certain things, like speak in full sentences.  Aunty I lived with my mother-in-law.  One day m-i-l had to make a presentation at a conference and didn't have anyone to help with Aunty I until she got home.  I loved Aunty I and volunteered to stay with her.  One of the responsibilities was breakfast as m-i-l had to be out of the house by 6 am. 

Okay, now this was a definite problem and m-i-l stressed that this was a "MUST DO".  She said that often.  It seemed Aunty I had lost much of her appetite and only faithfully craved her biscuits and gravy for breakfast.  Aww Lordy, just beat me up, why don't you.

I really thought that m-i-l and ex had conspired to play this cruel joke on me.  But no, my paranoia was overridden by the knowledge that the joke would be on Aunty I and they definitely would not be that mean to her.  I had a few days and pondered the problem and finally went to the local market and asked the deli lady.  She suggested I buy the gravy that's already made in a jar - just heat it up - I can do that - sort of - and get the Pillsbury biscuits in a tube.  Alll right!!  Problem solved.

The day to prove my love for Aunty I and my worth as a member of the family arrived.   I went to m-i-l's house at 5:00 am in case she had any instructions for me.  She always did.  Turns out she was busy preparing some last minute things for her presentation and didn't bother with me except to say that Aunty I usually awoke between 7 and 7:30. 

As soon as m-i-l left at 6, I went to my car and got the biscuit tube and gravy jar.  I sat at the kitchen table and thoroughly read and memorized the cooking instructions on the tube.  Seemed simple enough.  So I preheated the oven, took out a flat pan thing, WHACKED the biscuit tube on the edge of the table and set about placing the biscuit dough on the flat pan thing.  Also grabbed a saucepan and poured the gravy in.  Noooooo problem!!  This was going to be a cinch and I was happy to be able to make Aunty I's life a little bit easier.

Before long Aunty I's bell rang.  Yes, she was given a little bell to get people's attention when she needed something.  I went to her room, helped her out of bed and into her robe, combed her hair and asked if she was hungry.  She kind of grunted and I took it as a yes.  I helped her to the dining room and sat her at the table, got her a glass of milk and went to the kitchen to perform my magic. 

I reasoned that if the biscuits took 20 minutes to bake, then I shouldn't put the fire under the gravy until about 10 minutes before the biscuits were cooked.  Now, isn't that brilliant reasoning for a culinary illiterate?!  I was so impressed with myself.

I put the biscuits in the oven and set the timer for 10 minutes.  Then I went to the dining room with my coffee to chat with Aunty I.  Lord bless a clod, I actually  heard the timer go off.  Excused myself, went to the kitchen and put the fire under the gravy - on low!  Reasoned that one too.  J

Meantime, Aunty I wanted to read the comics so I set her up with those and then sat with the book I had brought with me.  After a little while, I decided to make Aunty I's bed and plump her pillows in case she wanted to lie down again after breakfast.  While in her bedroom, I became fascinated with the family photos on her dresser.

Came a strange sound - something like ‘BISC BUN BISC BUN BISC BUN' .  Oh Goodness, it was Aunty I.  I ran out to her and she was so agitated and struggling with trying to communicate with me "BISC BUN BISC BUN BISC BUN.' 

‘Okay, calm down.  Yes, we're having biscuit buns for breakfast. ‘ 

She violently moved her head from side to side ‘BISC BUN BISC BUN BISC BUN!'  What the heck?! 

Oh, no. BISCUITS BURNING.

Then I saw the smoke and smelled the burning dough.  I ran into the kitchen, turned the oven off, took the pan out burning my hands in the process and took it to the sink.  On the way I noticed the gravy was bubbling in a peculiar manner.  There was not one salvageable biscuit and the gravy was the consistency of taffy.

I hunched over the sink and let the tears flow.  I cried for I don't know how long (since obviously I have no concept of time).  I heard Aunty I saying something that sounded like my name.  I can't face her.  She kept calling so I mustered up my courage and went to her. 

Oh my God!  She had tears running down her face.  What have I done!?  I went to her and put my arms around her shoulders and kept saying, "I'm so sorry.  I've ruined your favorite meal. "

She pulled away from me and again was shaking her head side to side.  It was then that I noticed the twinkle in her eyes.  That little devil was laughing at me - kindly but laughing nonetheless.  We sat and laughed for a long time. 

She agreed to eat a McDonald's biscuit and egg.