New Boy Biscuit

I hate a setup. I worry that my well-intentioned friends will talk me up too much or talk the guy up too much or I’ll do that heavy drawn out nervous laugh with the high pitched finish…too much. Really, it’s all too much.

“You guys would be perfect,” they say. “You have the SAME sense of humor,” they promise. “He’s a great lay,” — wait, what? How would you know?

I am more interested in meeting people organically or frankly not at all. What’s wrong with being 27 and spending your weekends making pizza (re: No-Time Naan Pizzas), slothing around and practicing your British accent in the privacy of your own home?

Love-Grump that I may be, I couldn’t dim the enthusiasm of a girl friend eager to introduce me to a guy she knew. She thought we’d be great. So he and I met, with my lady friend and others in tow.

I didn’t sweat through my sweater, so that’s good. He was nice, weirdly calming. His beard had flecks of gray that kept catching my eye. He seemed thoughtful or maybe just quiet compared to the rest of the crew. He dressed really well, not like intimidatingly well but attractively well. I had to actively stop myself from touching his shoulders when I talked to him. I’m a mess.

When he excused himself and made for the restroom my pals turned on me like lovable vultures.

“Well?”

“What do you think?”

“Are you into it?”

I gave him an accurately positive review, not feeling the need to festoon my feelings with any falsehoods for my friends’ sake. I was genuinely intrigued.

He returned quickly and we all acted naturally.

Weeks passed and I gave this new boy an occasional thought or two…or three…perhaps four but definitely not five. Alright, it was eight. But nothing came of it, so I decided to turn my attention back to my priorities: pizza, pajamas, Potter.

Then out of the blue, he texted me, apologized for the delay (It’s fine… I wasn’t thinking about it, worrying I’d embarrassed myself and googling the steps to assume a new identity) and asked to see me again. Woah. WOAH. woah.

I asked if he’d meet at a coffee shop nearby. It’s a place where I feel comfortable – tea, baked goods, no frills, no fuss. He agreed.

We got our teas and a gigantic buttermilk biscuit to split. Warm. Rich. To be slathered in butter and honey. We talked for five hours and I haven’t the foggiest idea what about. A little of everything, I suppose. It was natural, comfortable. He was funny.

I lost track of time – happy to be in the company of someone who seemed happy to be in the company of me. Our teas turned cold and our biscuit to crumbs as rain sprinkled the street and we judged passersby.

When we parted ways I felt full… full of something. Biscuit for sure, but there was something else too. Contentment. Content to split a buttery biscuit with a handsome-faced man on a rainy day.

And isn’t that just the thing about interesting boys and buttermilk biscuits? They are soothing, warm, a little surprising. Tasty. Straight forward but layered all the same. And this boy… I mean biscuit.. okay boy too, what a looker! Tall, golden, crisp exterior, fluffy inside. Is there anything more satisfying than splitting a hot biscuit, watching the steam rise, slathering it with butter and drizzlin’ with sweet sticky? After review, that sentence seems a bit pornographic…

Here’s to new boys, rich biscuits, and putting yourself out there.

Get those ingredients going – I weigh everything – but because I’m nice I put cup/teaspoon/etc. measurements for you at the bottom. You’re welcome. Put all the dry in a bowl and whisk!

Grate ya buttah!

Put the grated butter in with dry ingredients. Toss to coat then, using your hands, rub the butter into the dry.

Add the buttermilk.

Mix until just combined.

Place on a floured surface and pat together.

Roll into an 8″x8″ square and mark for cutting.

Cut your biscuits.

Place them into a greased and parchment-ed 8″x8″ brownie pan. It will be a snug fit. This is good!

Brush with egg wash and place into a preheated 400° F oven.

Bake for 30 minutes until golden brown and lovely.

Let cool slightly before cutting into and eating all in one sitting.

So flakey and delicious! Great alone, better with butter, best with butter, honey and an attractive dude to look at.

Update: We went on a second date. I got a little (a lot) tipsy and spoke in a British accent (good thing I practiced) for longer than I care to remember. I am now sitting in my office with my sunglasses on cursing Chardonnay. He hasn’t texted. What’s wrong with me?