Poppin' Fresh Dough

The biscuits were burnt. 

Disappointed, Justin and I stared at the charred, not-so-flakey, but rather crispy, carbohydrates. But we didn't stare for long because there was some blaming to be done.

ME: "Justin! I told you not to turn the temperature up!"

Justin didn't think the biscuits were cooking fast enough, so he cranked the oven up to 475 degrees.  I told him the temperature wasn't the problem and took matters into my own oven mitts as I moved them from the top to the bottom rack. 

JUSTIN: "Abbie, look at these things! I told you not to move them to the bottom rack."

Now, these biscuits were not supposed to be complicated. These were a place-and-bake Great Value variety that come popping out of the can. Justin won't open the can. He has  poppinfreshdoughaphobia - meaning that he squeals, screams and jumps up onto a chair when the dough pops free from the tube. Though he has no problem popping the finished baked product into his mouth. That is, unless they're burnt. Then we have a problem.

While we were blaming each other for our baking blunder, I recalled a sweet story I had recently read on a friend's Facebook wall. The story went something like this:

"A loving husband sat down to dinner with burned biscuits that his wife had made. Their daughter noticed that her father ate every bite of the biscuit paying no attention to the fact that they'd been charbroiled. Later the father explained that he ate the biscuits because, in life, everyone makes mistakes and that a burned biscuit isn't all that important."

Well, bullshit.

In my house, you burn a biscuit - you better have a damn good explanation.

I relayed the story to Justin and told him that we should think about the lessons we're teaching our children and that, like the loving couple in the story, we should strive for tolerance.

He grumbled and sat down to eat his drunken pork chops. Yes, drunken pork chops. Apparently, there are farmers somewhere drinking moonshine with their livestock. Sounds like a party I'd like to go to, that is, until all the slaughtering begins.

Anyways, I resolved that I would take the lead. I would teach him by example. Surely, over time, he would mimic my loving nature and patience and we would set an example that our children would someday write about.

"Abbie," Justin said, "Try these pork chops. They're really good."

I took a bite off his fork. Chewed a bit. Then let that drunken pig meat fall right out of my mouth onto the plate.

"I'm sorry but that tastes like vomit."

Yes, someday, these are the stories my children will tell.....Mommy used to make us burnt biscuits. Daddy used to get drunk with pigs and we all lived, mostly, happily ever after.