Here’s something you might not know about me...I can’t whistle. I’m a huge disappointment to my dad who can whistle a damned aria if he wants to. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I just can’t get my mouth and my tongue to do what they’re supposed to do. I can make one note. It’s not loud, and it’s not pretty, and it never varies. My uncles can whistle, my cousins can whistle. It seems like everyone in the entire world can whistle except me. Also, I couldn’t snap until I was 11. I just taught myself how by doing it over and over again, but I’m still not great at it and my snaps never get anyone’s attention. That’s a good thing though, because I hate hate hate people that snap to get other people’s attention. It’s just rude. I really hated it when I was a waitress...that’s a surefire way to get bad service, just so you know. Snap at your waiter once, and you will wait forever for your drink refills and anything else you ask for. Servers know that you’ll tip badly, but sometimes it’s worth it.
Another thing you might not know about me is that I basically grew up on a horse farm. It wasn’t my permanent address, but it might as well have been. My paternal grandparents have a small horse farm in western Pennsylvania. And while my mom and I might have actually lived about 2 hours away, that farm was and always will be home to me, no matter how long I live anywhere else. We spent at least one weekend a month, and sometimes more at the farm. All holidays from Christmas to Groundhog’s Day were spent there. It was an amazing place to grow up. There’s a ton of room to run, a pond to swim in, dogs and cats to play with, horses to ride. It doesn’t get any better. My grandparents have this big old white farmhouse with blue shutters and a screened in front porch with a porch swing. It’s not fancy it’s just comfortable, like your favorite pajamas. There are beautiful flower gardens in back, and the horse pastures are set up so that you can cozy up on the couch, and watch the horses run and play. There are always aunts and uncles and cousins to play with.
The feeling I get when I drive to the farm is like no other feeling in the world. You make that last right turn, and start up the mile long gravel drive, and you’re in this tunnel of old graceful trees that have been there forever, and you come around the bend, and there’s the paddock and the old metal barn and the big red wooden barn, and then there’s the house. It’s like being able to breathe after holding your breath for a minute. Like, “Oh yeah, that’s what was missing.” It’s just relief to be home. Just thinking about it now, I’m experiencing hard core pangs of homesickness, because I know it will be at least another year before I can manage a trip home. And I know I have another year of holding my breath, waiting for that feeling of relief to hit me. I miss my family so much sometimes it hurts. We were so close when I was growing up, and now that I’m grown and gone, I worry that they’ll forget about me.
I was always very possessive of the farm. It took me awhile to bring friends home with me, because I couldn’t bear it if they didn’t love it there as much as I did. My friends all knew that it was a big thing to be invited to the farm. It meant that I was inviting you to be a part of my family, because once you go to the farm, you don’t stop going. Birthday’s, holidays or just to visit, after one trip, you were invited to them all, because now you’re another cousin.
I brought my husband home with me for the first time just last summer. I was a nervous wreck about it for a week before hand. If he didn’t like the farm, could I still marry him? Could I spend the rest of my life with someone who didn’t get it? The best memories of my life are tied up in that 80 acres of land in western Pennsylvania, and if he didn’t see if like I did, does that mean he’s not the right guy for me? He did, in fact, love it there...or if he didn’t he’s smart enough not to say so. So, I married him, but there’s a part of me that, even though I had a beautiful wedding, still mourns the fact that I didn’t marry my sweetheart under an arbor in my grandparents backyard with the smell of grass and horses and my grandma’s award winning gardens all around. I know that most people don’t like the smell of horses, but to me it’s one of the best scents in the world.
My grandma’s kitchen is one of my favorite places in the whole world. It’s not a fancy kitchen by any means, and in fact, the layout of it is terrible for cooking, but it’s a true country kitchen. My grandma had a country kitchen long before Martha Stewart ever even dreamed about good things. There are always cookies to be eaten, and fruit plates in the fridge. The big meals were always eaten here. The turkey at Thanksgiving, and ham on Easter. It’s the in between meals, though, that I remember the best. Springetti, which is a casserole made with rotini pasta. And Ranger Cookies. We’ll get to those at some point on this blog, I assure you. Monkey bread is one of those things that feels like it could come from my grandmother’s kitchen. Homey and easy, and enough to feed an army. My husband didn't really like this version, because apparently chocolate chips don't belong in Monkey Bread. I liked it though, and so did everyone I work with, so my husband can suck it.
Ingredients Needed:
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 stick butter
1 cup chocolate chips
2 16 oz tubes of buttermilk biscuits
To Make:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly cover a bundt pan with butter or cooking spray and set aside. In a ziplock bag, combine the white sugar and 1 tsp of the cinnamon. Remove the biscuits from their tubes, and cut them into quarters. About 10 at a time, drop the biscuits into the ziplock bag, close and shake to coat. Layer the pieces in the bundt pan, randomly adding the chocolate chips.
In a small saucepan heat butter, brown sugar, and the other tsp of cinnamon until the butter is melted and the mixture is combined. Pour over the dough in the pan, making sure that all pieces get coated. Bake for 30-40 minutes until puffy and golden brown. Cool for 10 minutes before removing from pan.
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