Alien Biscuits

 

If you've read this blog, you know about Trouble, my 15-year-old neighbor and painfully adorable heartbreaker. She went with me on my morning walk today after I put out my recycle bin. Normally, I roll the bin to the curb on Mondays wearing next to nothing to get my weekly exhibitionist fix; but today, I was a very good girl and tossed on a short, white cotton dress, my new "walking outfit." Trouble walked in a long t-shirt that just hid her snug little volleyball shorts.

We talked about how her school was going -- totally online and sometimes virtual. I was flattered that she much prefers our Tuesday/Thursday face-to-face sessions on my patio. "Zoom isn't nearly as much fun as Tiktok or Instagram," she says. "My teachers are okay, they are trying very hard, I can tell," she continued, "but it's just so much homework." Trouble's mom and aunt have started going back to the Air Force base where they work, so Trouble is alone a lot of the day, on her laptop. She said, "I miss doing things with my friends, with other people."

Air temperatures are breaking now, finally, so the air was cool. The sun dodged behind clouds as we talked about life, the universe, and boys (her favorite topic). For some odd reason, we both suddenly realized we hadn't eaten breakfast, so our tummies started growling at the thought. Thinking again of what Trouble had said about "doing things with friends," I suggested, "Let's go make biscuits." She looked at me and said, "Make biscuits? Like, with flour and stuff?"

When we got back to my casita, I put out a mixing bowl, a box of Pioneer Biscuit Mix, flour, and milk. "Just follow the instructions," I said.

What followed was non-stop laughter, sticky, sticky (too sticky) dough, and some awkward kneading. When the dough was a ball, I said, "Roll it to about half an inch thick," and the phone rang. I took the call (pesky college administrators) and turned back to find Trouble had rolled the dough down to about 1/4 inch. We had already beat that poor dough to death, so we agreed to stack the thin biscuits in twos. We popped them into the oven and watched them rise.

I wish I had a recording of Trouble squealing with delight -- as only a 15-year-old girl can do -- as the biscuits started to rise and rise. The top layer of dough began to slide off of the bottoms in weird shapes. She had us both in stitches laughing so hard, "Oh my god, they're growing," she squealed, "they're ... mutating ... they're alien mutant biscuits!" And so they were. But, they baked just fine and were honestly, flakey and delicious. We added fried eggs and blueberries/watermelon to our breakfast and kept giggling as we enjoyed our feast.

After cleaning up the kitchen (no small chore, there was flour and dough everywhere), I walked Trouble to the door. Before leaving she turned, threw her arms around me, and hugged me for, I dunno, it felt like forever. "You're the best teacher ever," she said and scampered out the door.