Alton Brown Would Be Proud

I'm no chef. Cooking to me is actually a bit of a mystery. Why anyone would want to dedicate any amount of time to a product that is eaten and quickly forgotten is beyond me. I prefer to do things like quilt, where at the end of it all there's an heirloom that can outlive you and be passed on from generation to generation. However, my outlook on cooking has changed a bit since I've been married.

Brent enjoys all kinds of foods, but when he really likes something, he's particularly verbose. It's rather gratifying and when it happens on occasion, I suddenly don't mind the time I spent in the kitchen. Brent's also good about cooking with me, so I'm not all alone. I love trying out new recipes with him. He's really changed the cooking world for me.

Yesterday I knew Brent would be working late. I had visited a client in the morning and then worked from home for the rest of the day. Even by the time I'd picked up Liesel and walked through the door it was much earlier than usual. With a chunk of lonely time ahead of me, I decided to make good use of the last of the buttermilk. Hmmmm, what can you make with buttermilk? Well, biscuits came to mind so I checked out my New Best Recipe Cookbook (thanks for the tip on this one Katrina!).

The recipe wasn't all that difficult, it was just strange. Put the butter in the freezer, shred it with a cheese shredder and add yogurt? Oooohkay. Mix it with two knives moving in opposite directions? Riiiiight. When I'd finished combining all the incredients I was just sure I'd made a drastic mistake and wasted a lot of ingredients because the dough was a lumpy mess. Hoping against hope, I threw them in the oven and the oh so lovely smell began to waft through the apartment. When they came out, they were browned and fluffy lumps of mess. Then I tasted one. Oh how it melted! They weren't actually lumpy messes at all! They were small mounds of buttery tastiness. I grabbed a jar of jam and a tall glass of cold milk. They were soooooo GOOD! I quickly made the next biscuits larger and cooked them a bit longer.

Brent walked in the door just as I pulled the second batch out of the oven. He smiled at me as his glasses fogged up. He quickly pulled off his coat, gloves, hat and gave me a cold kiss on my cheek. I led him to the kitchen where the hot little mounds of baked deliciousness lay waiting. At my behest, Brent immediately grabbed one, tossing the hot biscuit between his hands as he went for the butter. "Oh, you won't need any butter... trust me. These are buttermilk biscuits." He took his first bite and moaned in appreciation. Then I had him try it with jam. He went into raptures as he ate and I eagerly took in all the praise. He had one, two, three before he admitted he needed to stop. That was dinner. Cooking is worth it with those kinds of accolades. It really is.