During my recent summer session, I found myself living in a kitchen-less dormitory for three weeks, without access to my school's dining hall. Many of my readers are familiar with one of the results of that (the time I made applesauce in my teakettle at 2am), but here's another simple recipe I discovered for an easy, cheap, and delicious breakfast: Bowl biscuits.
Ingredients/supplies:
1 package of Bisquick(TM) complete biscuit mix. You know, the stuff that comes in a $1 pack and makes six biscuits. My local Kroger has it in two different flavors, my local Wal-mart has three.
Butter and/or jam (Optional)
2/3 cup of water (per biscuit- disregard the part of the package that says you're making six biscuits, you're making two giant biscuits.)
Microwavable bowl
Spoon
Hot pads
Microwave (obviously)
Instructions:
1) open biscuit mix and measure out half of it into the microwavable bowl (This is not an exact science). I use a ceramic rice bowl that also doubles as an instant oatmeal bowl (or a matcha tea bowl when I have my life together, which is pretty much never).
2) add 2/3 cup of water, stir until texture is consistent. It should be very thin, lumps are evil- unless you got one of the cheese kinds, in which case some lumps are evil and some are theoretically cheese.
3) disregard warning on package, lick that biscuity battery goodness right off the spoon! Just don't put the spoon in the sink yet, you're not done with it.
4) Microwave for five minutes. No, seriously, five whole minutes. No skimping. If you think it's a bad idea, just watch it cook. Heck, even if you don't think it's a bad idea you should still watch it cook, it's really cool to watch. It's so fluffy...
5) USE THE HOT PADS TO TAKE THE BOWL OUT OF THE MICROWAVE. Remember, you just nuked that thing for five minutes straight. It's hotter than the dudes swimming in lava in Dante's Inferno.
6) (optional) Top with butter and/or jam. If you got either the cheese garlic or three cheese kind you probably shouldn't use jam, but if you do, then that is your bizarre life decision, friend.
7) FEAST. Take that spoon and dig in to that lovely bowl of triple biscuit. It should have a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and biscotti (preferably closer to sponge cake), and be steaming hot and glorious.
One bowl biscuit makes for a very filling breakfast, so one package of Bisquick lasts for two meals. And remember: each package is $1, so each meal is about 50 cents (slightly more if you adorn your biscuit). It's also fun to mix things up a little and use this as a base recipe for something else. Last week I had a little single-serve packet of marinara sauce in my fridge because I'd ordered cheese sticks from the cafe in the student union the day before, so I cut up a hot dog, mixed it into a garlic cheese bowl biscuit, and added the marinara on top. Breakfast pizza bowl biscuits are every bit as amazing as they sound. This is basically the same principle as cake in a mug, only theoretically healthier because it's a biscuit instead of a cake. It's also really easy and really, really good!
Have fun and enjoy!
7/5/15
July 4th Special: That Freaking Rosemary Bush
Between July 4th, 2004 and whatever day last October (2014) when my parents moved, we were asked by untold multitudes of visitors what the deal was with that one weird bush. It didn't help we frequently told first-time visitors which house was ours by telling them to look for the bush with a giant freaking hole in it, because all of the houses on that block look pretty much the same.
So what did happen? How did we end up living with a bizarre parody of topiary in our front yard for an entire decade? Well, the answer is quite simple really, it began with a misfire, was extended by miscommunication, and went completely unchecked by sheer apathy.
Allow me to set the scene:
Apart from the *incident,* July 4th, 2004 was a display of patriotic enthusiasm at our home like every year before it and several after. It was about 117 degrees outside, but my sister and I played outdoors with our friends most of the afternoon because we were rowdy little kids and Mom was busy cooking. Dad barbecued enormous amounts of meat, the game was on the TV with the sound muted, and as dinner grew closer, family friends gathered, careful to park down the block so as to leave room for the fun.
After praying and eating, we all made our way out front at around 9pm to celebrate our independence from totalitarian dictatorship with the biggest fireworks our remarkably left-wing county fire department saw fit to allow. It was glorious. Sparks of every color shooting eight, nine, even ten feet in the air, whistling and shrieking as they flew. Snaps and sparklers abounded, and because I had achieved the mature and responsible age of nine, my dad even let me help light some of the smaller fountains. We couldn't get the boombox to work, however, so my mom parked the car in front of the house with all the doors open and the stereo blasting patriotic music.
I was taking advantage of the fact that my mom's back was turned to clean out the dessert table as my dad laid out some of the small spinners known as ground blooms. The first one went off just fine, rocketing around the street in a dizzying miniature display of lights and sounds. Things got interesting when he lit the second one though, at first it seemed normal, but it puttered to a lame halt after only a few seconds. Declaring it to be a dud, my dad took a step out to throw it in the wet sand bucket, but it started up again. And then stopped. And then launched itself ten feet off the ground, shot straight over my dad's head, and bounced off the edge of one of the rosemary bushes on its way to the gutter, where it lay still until Dad grabbed it and tossed it in the bucket.
We all chuckled a little as my dad started setting out the next round of small fountains, and then one of my sister's friends noticed that the bush was on fire. It was a glorious pandemonium, half of us kids ran screaming across the street as the adults herded us out of the way, one of the moms grabbed an empty stroller and pulled it away from the bush, my mom ran to slam shut all the car doors and move it away from the bush as my dad dragged the hose across the driveway, toppling lawn chairs in his wake. Naturally, the moment my mom got behind the wheel, the car battery died, but the car was far enough out of the way that keeping the doors closed so that the smoke wouldn't get in was enough. It was one of the most glorious scenes of loosely controlled chaos I have ever seen in my life.
The fire was limited to part of one bush, so once it was out we set off the rest of the fireworks. It took a while to coax some of the younger kids back to the driveway and my parents stopped letting me help light the fountains in case there was another dud. A friend with jumper cables got our car battery going again, and the evening returned to its proper pace.
The next day, our landscaper cut off all the burned bits and said we just had to wait for it to grow back. A few months later, we switched landscapers and the new guy didn't speak English. He thought we wanted the bush to look like that, and we couldn't explain otherwise, so after a while we just got used to having a big stupid hole in the middle of one of the rosemary bushes. For over ten years. Personally, I liked it. It was a constant tribute to the most epic Fourth of July of my childhood, even if it was completely absurd. Maybe because it was so absurd.
So what did happen? How did we end up living with a bizarre parody of topiary in our front yard for an entire decade? Well, the answer is quite simple really, it began with a misfire, was extended by miscommunication, and went completely unchecked by sheer apathy.
Allow me to set the scene:
Apart from the *incident,* July 4th, 2004 was a display of patriotic enthusiasm at our home like every year before it and several after. It was about 117 degrees outside, but my sister and I played outdoors with our friends most of the afternoon because we were rowdy little kids and Mom was busy cooking. Dad barbecued enormous amounts of meat, the game was on the TV with the sound muted, and as dinner grew closer, family friends gathered, careful to park down the block so as to leave room for the fun.
After praying and eating, we all made our way out front at around 9pm to celebrate our independence from totalitarian dictatorship with the biggest fireworks our remarkably left-wing county fire department saw fit to allow. It was glorious. Sparks of every color shooting eight, nine, even ten feet in the air, whistling and shrieking as they flew. Snaps and sparklers abounded, and because I had achieved the mature and responsible age of nine, my dad even let me help light some of the smaller fountains. We couldn't get the boombox to work, however, so my mom parked the car in front of the house with all the doors open and the stereo blasting patriotic music.
I was taking advantage of the fact that my mom's back was turned to clean out the dessert table as my dad laid out some of the small spinners known as ground blooms. The first one went off just fine, rocketing around the street in a dizzying miniature display of lights and sounds. Things got interesting when he lit the second one though, at first it seemed normal, but it puttered to a lame halt after only a few seconds. Declaring it to be a dud, my dad took a step out to throw it in the wet sand bucket, but it started up again. And then stopped. And then launched itself ten feet off the ground, shot straight over my dad's head, and bounced off the edge of one of the rosemary bushes on its way to the gutter, where it lay still until Dad grabbed it and tossed it in the bucket.
We all chuckled a little as my dad started setting out the next round of small fountains, and then one of my sister's friends noticed that the bush was on fire. It was a glorious pandemonium, half of us kids ran screaming across the street as the adults herded us out of the way, one of the moms grabbed an empty stroller and pulled it away from the bush, my mom ran to slam shut all the car doors and move it away from the bush as my dad dragged the hose across the driveway, toppling lawn chairs in his wake. Naturally, the moment my mom got behind the wheel, the car battery died, but the car was far enough out of the way that keeping the doors closed so that the smoke wouldn't get in was enough. It was one of the most glorious scenes of loosely controlled chaos I have ever seen in my life.
The fire was limited to part of one bush, so once it was out we set off the rest of the fireworks. It took a while to coax some of the younger kids back to the driveway and my parents stopped letting me help light the fountains in case there was another dud. A friend with jumper cables got our car battery going again, and the evening returned to its proper pace.
The next day, our landscaper cut off all the burned bits and said we just had to wait for it to grow back. A few months later, we switched landscapers and the new guy didn't speak English. He thought we wanted the bush to look like that, and we couldn't explain otherwise, so after a while we just got used to having a big stupid hole in the middle of one of the rosemary bushes. For over ten years. Personally, I liked it. It was a constant tribute to the most epic Fourth of July of my childhood, even if it was completely absurd. Maybe because it was so absurd.
5/26/15
The Porter Incident
We all have that one childhood memory we wish our parents would forget.
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.
I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.
Not root beer.
My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.
My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.
My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.
"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.
Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.
By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.
It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.
I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...
5/24/15
Homemade Applesauce
I made applesauce last week. This should surprise at least some people, seeing as I don't actually have a kitchen right now, or a budget that includes fresh apples and spices, or a mixer...
How did I do it, you ask? well, I'm glad you asked, let me tell you...
I have been planning this for a long time. That's probably why it didn't raise that many eyebrows when I showed up to lunch with fresh applesauce, everyone's getting used to my devious, scheming ways...
For the record, the apples came from the school dining hall. Yes, the one that's been closed for nearly two weeks. When they are open (basically, not during summer sessions) they have a policy that states that you can carry out one food item per meal, so I spent two weeks carrying out more than 20 apples and storing them in my dorm room. Normally my friends and I carry out bagels and save them at an off campus house called the Green Dragon for late night snacks, but with the semester winding down, we didn't really need a two-week stock of bagels from everyone who eats in the dining hall. And before you ask, I kept them in my fridge while I still had one and then did what I could to keep them cold in the four days between my having a fridge and my having an ice chest. Yeah, a couple of them couldn't actually be used, but I promise it was only about half as sketchy as it sounds, and I made sure I waited 24hrs to check for any adverse side effects before I let anyone besides me eat the stuff.
The sugar came from the coffee shop upstairs from the dining hall, I took a couple whenever I got a tea or something for a few weeks until I built up a pretty good stash. I wanted to make applesauce, but I wanted to do it as cheaply as possible, so this was the easy, logical solution.
The cinnamon was actually cinnamon tea. Tea is one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, and I happen to have quite a collection of different flavors. Any starving college students taking notes in a plan to replicate my unusual cooking technique should be advised that although a good chai would probably suffice, just straight-up black tea with cinnamon and nothing else is what I used and it worked great. Actually, given my plans to take up baking next semester, I have a slight suspicion that I may never actually use that box of teabags for making tea...
As for the part about not having a kitchen, well... That was kind of the point. I wanted to prove to the world that man is limited more by the extent of his imagination than his resources, so I made applesauce in my kitchenless dorm using only supplies I already had to hand with one exception- I bought a potato smasher at Walmart for 88c because it was on sale, and I'm actually going to be living in a house instead of a dorm next semester, and because it seemed more efficent than using my metal tea thermal to smash apples. If this is starting to seem absurdly elaborate to you, just wait until I get to the actual cooking part.
In lieu of an actual cutting board, I began by disinfecting my plastic clipboard and setting it upside-down next to the sink with the clippy bit hanging off the edge so it would lay flat. I actually have a decent small kitchen knife (courtesy of my parents back when I moved in in August), so I used that instead of one of my Swiss army knives to peel and cube the apples. I happen to have a large metal pitcher I picked up when a local antique shop had a massive closing sale back in January, but I suppose any sort of bucket would do for anyone still thinking of trying this at home. Once I had skinned and cubed all the apples (I know the number was somewhere in the low twenties, but I kind of wasn't actually counting), I divided them up between various vessels (three medium-sized mason jars (everyone should own at least three mason jars) and two rice bowls), leaving the pitcher clear to receive the cooked apples. I then added a little bit of water to each of the mason jars -about a third of the way up the jar, around the apple cubes- and secured a string to the lid as I sealed it.
Now, this is the part where this gets sketchy. I knew I would have a problem if I used the microwave, so I used the string to suspend the mason jars one at a time in my partially filled electric teakettle. I had to leave the lid off of the teakettle to do it, and I did notice a slight aroma of cooking motor once, but fortunately I was done cooking for a while at that point. I had to refill each of the mason jars one time the first time around, pouring each half-cooked jar of apple cubes back into the pitcher to season by adding about 15 little sugar packets and pulling open and dumping out two cinnamon teabags. As I added each jar and waited for the next one to have its few minutes in boiling water, I used the potato smasher to mush up and mix the apple cubes and seasoning. Not all of the cubes mashed the same (I don't think all of the apples were the same kind), but the edges of the potato smasher were good for breaking them down into smaller chunks. Once everything was thoroughly mixed, I once again poured it out into the jars and bowls (it took up slightly less room this time, because of the parts that did puree) and used the jars to boil it in the teakettle again. Once each jarfull had boiled a second time (and some of the larger chunks had been boiled a third time to make them easier to deal with), I poured it back into the pitcher and resumed my attacks with the potato smasher. By this point it was getting close to three in the morning and I was starting to get a little bit tired, so I made sure to alternate arms while mixing. When I was satisfied with the mix (and too tired to care about how big some of the chunks *still* were), I put the pitcher in my foam ice chest (which has 'totally legitimate fridge' written on the lid in sharpie) and went to bed.
I have now been living off the stuff (and ramen, and various and sundry other typical college kid foods) for four days. Although it's not quite as smooth as I normally like it, and I have to stir it before eating, it's really very good! And like I said, the only money I spent specifically on this project was the 88c I spent on the potato smasher which, like nearly all of my cooking gear, is a mulitfunctional unit that will undoubtedly get used a whole lot in the coming years. Fellow college students take note.
Am I crazy? Yeah, I kind of figured that was already established. But I have homemade tea-flavored applesauce, so I win.
How did I do it, you ask? well, I'm glad you asked, let me tell you...
I have been planning this for a long time. That's probably why it didn't raise that many eyebrows when I showed up to lunch with fresh applesauce, everyone's getting used to my devious, scheming ways...
For the record, the apples came from the school dining hall. Yes, the one that's been closed for nearly two weeks. When they are open (basically, not during summer sessions) they have a policy that states that you can carry out one food item per meal, so I spent two weeks carrying out more than 20 apples and storing them in my dorm room. Normally my friends and I carry out bagels and save them at an off campus house called the Green Dragon for late night snacks, but with the semester winding down, we didn't really need a two-week stock of bagels from everyone who eats in the dining hall. And before you ask, I kept them in my fridge while I still had one and then did what I could to keep them cold in the four days between my having a fridge and my having an ice chest. Yeah, a couple of them couldn't actually be used, but I promise it was only about half as sketchy as it sounds, and I made sure I waited 24hrs to check for any adverse side effects before I let anyone besides me eat the stuff.
The sugar came from the coffee shop upstairs from the dining hall, I took a couple whenever I got a tea or something for a few weeks until I built up a pretty good stash. I wanted to make applesauce, but I wanted to do it as cheaply as possible, so this was the easy, logical solution.
The cinnamon was actually cinnamon tea. Tea is one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, and I happen to have quite a collection of different flavors. Any starving college students taking notes in a plan to replicate my unusual cooking technique should be advised that although a good chai would probably suffice, just straight-up black tea with cinnamon and nothing else is what I used and it worked great. Actually, given my plans to take up baking next semester, I have a slight suspicion that I may never actually use that box of teabags for making tea...
As for the part about not having a kitchen, well... That was kind of the point. I wanted to prove to the world that man is limited more by the extent of his imagination than his resources, so I made applesauce in my kitchenless dorm using only supplies I already had to hand with one exception- I bought a potato smasher at Walmart for 88c because it was on sale, and I'm actually going to be living in a house instead of a dorm next semester, and because it seemed more efficent than using my metal tea thermal to smash apples. If this is starting to seem absurdly elaborate to you, just wait until I get to the actual cooking part.
In lieu of an actual cutting board, I began by disinfecting my plastic clipboard and setting it upside-down next to the sink with the clippy bit hanging off the edge so it would lay flat. I actually have a decent small kitchen knife (courtesy of my parents back when I moved in in August), so I used that instead of one of my Swiss army knives to peel and cube the apples. I happen to have a large metal pitcher I picked up when a local antique shop had a massive closing sale back in January, but I suppose any sort of bucket would do for anyone still thinking of trying this at home. Once I had skinned and cubed all the apples (I know the number was somewhere in the low twenties, but I kind of wasn't actually counting), I divided them up between various vessels (three medium-sized mason jars (everyone should own at least three mason jars) and two rice bowls), leaving the pitcher clear to receive the cooked apples. I then added a little bit of water to each of the mason jars -about a third of the way up the jar, around the apple cubes- and secured a string to the lid as I sealed it.
Now, this is the part where this gets sketchy. I knew I would have a problem if I used the microwave, so I used the string to suspend the mason jars one at a time in my partially filled electric teakettle. I had to leave the lid off of the teakettle to do it, and I did notice a slight aroma of cooking motor once, but fortunately I was done cooking for a while at that point. I had to refill each of the mason jars one time the first time around, pouring each half-cooked jar of apple cubes back into the pitcher to season by adding about 15 little sugar packets and pulling open and dumping out two cinnamon teabags. As I added each jar and waited for the next one to have its few minutes in boiling water, I used the potato smasher to mush up and mix the apple cubes and seasoning. Not all of the cubes mashed the same (I don't think all of the apples were the same kind), but the edges of the potato smasher were good for breaking them down into smaller chunks. Once everything was thoroughly mixed, I once again poured it out into the jars and bowls (it took up slightly less room this time, because of the parts that did puree) and used the jars to boil it in the teakettle again. Once each jarfull had boiled a second time (and some of the larger chunks had been boiled a third time to make them easier to deal with), I poured it back into the pitcher and resumed my attacks with the potato smasher. By this point it was getting close to three in the morning and I was starting to get a little bit tired, so I made sure to alternate arms while mixing. When I was satisfied with the mix (and too tired to care about how big some of the chunks *still* were), I put the pitcher in my foam ice chest (which has 'totally legitimate fridge' written on the lid in sharpie) and went to bed.
I have now been living off the stuff (and ramen, and various and sundry other typical college kid foods) for four days. Although it's not quite as smooth as I normally like it, and I have to stir it before eating, it's really very good! And like I said, the only money I spent specifically on this project was the 88c I spent on the potato smasher which, like nearly all of my cooking gear, is a mulitfunctional unit that will undoubtedly get used a whole lot in the coming years. Fellow college students take note.
Am I crazy? Yeah, I kind of figured that was already established. But I have homemade tea-flavored applesauce, so I win.
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