Ahh, holidays...

That time of year when (at least in my family) husbands hug their wives and reminisce about the food that Mom used to make...and wives grit their teeth and try yet again to recreate the godsdamned dish, hoping this year they'll find The Secret Ingredient and get their husbands to shut up.

You want in on the secret?

It came from a box and/or a can.
Every time.

My Gramma's pumpkin pie? A box and a can.
My ex-mother-in-law's beef-and-noodle casseroles? A box, not even the brand name one.

Mark's mom is from New Orleans; I've been quietly dreading the "My mom used to make this really great..." conversation since we got married. Well. Now I can relax.

See, there's a little coffee shop across the street from the apartment. Every Saturday, they make beignets. Last week, Dae and I snuck out of the house while Mark was still asleep and got a couple sackfuls to go.

Halfway through his second beignet, Mark tilted his head at me and said The Words.
"My mom used to make this thing..."

Oh, well, here it comes, I thought. I can always call Olga and get the recipe if he doesn't remember it, I guess...

"She'd get a tube of those cheap canned biscuits and cut them into quarters, then deep fry 'em, roll 'em in powdered sugar. Kindof like beignets, but we just called 'em doughnuts."

... This is the part where I mentally smack myself for forgetting how low the bullshit tolerance in my husband's family runs. Gods, I'm glad.

"Whomp biscuits?" I asked. "How'd they turn out?"

"Pretty good, as I remember. If we ever get your Fry Daddy out of storage, maybe we'll give it a go."

"Maybe."

So today, I got impatient and poured an inch of oil into my cast iron skillet. Broke out the whomp biscuits.

Ohmygod, they're better than you'd think.
Light, fluffy, bitesized...

I ate more of them than I really should've; I can feel the glucose buzz behind my eyes.
But so worth it, for the taste and for the way Mark grinned as he shook sugar onto the little puffballs.

~bounce!~