Mystery of the Ballooning Biscuits

After ten years of no biscuits (because I can’t have wheat gluten) I had a craving for one. I shuffled through my recipe books and decided to go with a very impressive book from an impressive culinary school. I shopped for potato starch, tapioca starch, white rice flour, brown rice flour, guar gum, turpentine and candle wax. Actually, I stopped at the guar gum. Thinking I had everything, I set out bowls, utensils and a cookie sheet. Dang! I needed buttermilk. (not exactly a staple at our house) So the biscuits were put off for another day. A drive to the store means twenty minutes down and twenty minutes back, and an investment in gasoline. The biscuits would now cost two dollars each, but I was so far into it I had to follow through. The big day finally came. I was already drooling over the biscuit I was about to create. Carefully I measured all the dry ingredients and stirred them together with baking powder and sugar in a large bowel. In a smaller bowl, I mixed 2 eggs, melted butter and 2 ¾ cups buttermilk, just like the recipe said. Why think about it when the recipe does all the thinking? But I had a feeling something was wrong. Traditional biscuits are made with very little liquid. The batter should be stiff—hard to stir. I poured the wet ingredients into the dry and stirred. I had soup! I rechecked the recipe. I had done everything correctly—now I had to think for myself. I began tossing in more and more dry ingredients until the mixture was thicker (but not stiff) and threatening to overflow the bowl. Still salivating over a possible warm biscuit with butter and honey, I decided to go ahead and bake the not-stiff batter. I baked tray after tray of three-inch Frisbees, ending up with close to four dozen pancake-biscuits. I have a food-rule I follow religiously, “If it’s not rotten, freeze it.” Our two little freezers are bursting with frozen biscuits which I sample periodically with great pleasure. Lightest little things you’ll ever find. They work well as toaster popups. The moral to this story is: "Just because it’s in print—doesn’t make it so” Author Joyce Oroz Mystery Novel: "Secure the Ranch" (Available in Paperback and Kindle Format)

Excerpt from The Mystery Novel "Secure the Ranch" By Author Joyce Oroz

"Secure The Ranch" By Author Joyce Oroz
Mystery----Suspense ---Mystery Series
(Available in either Paperback format of Kindle)

Hope you all enjoy!




July's full moon rose above my head, revealing itself occasionally through a canopy of leafy tree limbs stretching over the creek. I watched beams of moonlight turn ordinary splashes of water into silvery jewels as the creek cut a path through the dark, pervasive forest full of wild animals. Fortunately I was an adult and didn't have to worry about unseen lions, tigers and bears. I told myself I was safe because nature's creatures were asleep for the night. I only had to watch out for the meanest animal of all, the armed pot farmer. That animal gave me shivers of dread.

Somewhere in the dark, an owl gave two hoots and a second later, hot breath and terrifying guttural snarls were inches from my face. I recoiled automatically, falling into the water, butt first. I scrambled toward the middle of the stream, half walking, half crawling over and around the rocks.

Glancing back, I saw Thor in the moonlight, thrashing around on his hind legs, trying to rid himself of the short rope tied around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a tree at the edge of the water. So that was where Kenneth left the mastiff. I was pretty sure the dog knew my scent and would like to tear me apart for old-time sake. The growling, slobbering canine tried over and over again to break free as I hurried past him and continued my trek down stream.

I thought about Solow and remembered that I had left his dinner bowl on the porch near his bed. He would need water, but I was sure he could find some on his own. Bet he's upset with me right now, I thought.

In my head I calculated the number of hours since my last meal. It had been about twenty-eight hours, give or take two, since I wasn't wearing a watch. Solow's kibble, with a little salt and pepper, would have been a welcome gourmet treat at that point.

I was wet up to my waist and the tiniest breeze sent my teeth chattering uncontrollably, but I refused to let anything get in the way of my plan to follow the river ... follow the river … follow the river. The creek offered short stretches of beach from time to time, but usually I just sloshed through the water, one foot in front of the other, sometimes hopping rocks I could barely see in the dark.

Author Joyce Oroz

Take a Peek Into Josephine's World...

Excerpt from Secure the Ranch:

Then I heard it, coming up fast from behind, the roar of an engine propelling a truck with major muffler problems. It backfired. I jumped a couple inches in my seat and my heart skipped several beats. Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror. Solow howled again, his head stretched out the window as far as it could go. I made a right turn onto Central Avenue, stifling the urge to stomp on the gas pedal. The truck behind us followed at the same speed until we left the streetlights behind.

Highway nine was a windy two-lane road that followed the San Lorenzo River through the redwood forest from Boulder Creek, all the way south to Felton. There were no street lights, just sharp turns, narrow bridges and steep drops down to the river.

“Brace yourself, big guy.” I put my foot down hard, the engine coughed, and we sped up only to slow down for a sharp turn.

And so it went, turn after turn with the Dodge bearing down on our tailgate like an eight-cylinder cat playing with a four-cylinder mouse. I had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, sweat running down my back and my jaw was tighter than a double-knotted shoelace. I had driven through the valley many times and knew my way around, but the McFee's had the “home advantage”.

I felt a hard jolt from the right rear of my truck. Solow yipped.

In slow motion, we spun to the left on two wheels, across the other lane and instantly turned a closed garage door into a million toothpicks. The one-car garage, perched high above the river beside a rustic cabin, stood about five yards from the highway. The little house was typical of many in the area, probably built in the thirties or forties when building codes were lenient or nonexistent.

Thankfully, we stopped before my pickup could break through the back wall of the garage and drop eighty feet down to the river. I heard Solow whine and didn't blame him. I felt like a good cry myself.

Shaking like crazy, I cautiously opened the door and climbed out. Once I had my balance, I stumbled down a dark path to the cabin. The porch light blinked on and the front door opened. A very distraught elderly couple dressed in pajamas looked at me as if the Martians had landed.

I stepped into the light and apologized profusely. Feeling wobbly, I wrapped my arm around a porch pillar. I always hated it when females fainted in the old movies, and I never wanted to be a fainter. But there I was, feeling numb and shaking like a maple leaf. Next thing I knew, I was laying on a couch too short for my body. My feet were up on the armrest. Pieces of peanut butter sandwich clung to the toe of my right sandal. “So that's where Theda's sandwich went,” I mumbled.

The plump little old lady patted the goose egg on my forehead with a wet cloth. “I'm so sorry I ruined your garage door. I'm sure my insurance will pay for a new one.” I looked up and thought I was hallucinating. A huge caribou head hung on the wall behind the couch. Its yellow marble eyes glared down at me accusingly.

“Relax, dear,” the frizzy-haired woman said. “You've had a terrible shock.”

The elderly man stomped into the house with his pajamas in a twist and announced that his collection of stuffed animals was a complete loss. It seemed odd to me that he wasn't nearly as concerned about his garage door as he was about some silly stuffed animals.

“I'd be happy to buy you some new ones,” I said, feeling horribly guilty. The little lady looked like she was ready to split a gut. “Honey, you can't buy them. You have to kill the mangy animals and then they're stuffed and ready to spend thirty years in the garage, or until a nice accident takes them out.” She couldn't hold back any longer and let loose with uncontrollable laughter, slapping her knees and wiping her eyes. Her husband stomped out of the house.

Secure the Ranch - A Josephine Stuart Mystery

Josephine Stuart, a fifty-year-old widow, is blessed and cursed with an overactive curiosity, a strong sense of right and wrong and a willingness to put herself on the line for her friends. Josephine has been hired to paint murals in the secluded Munger mansion, located at the top of a wooded mountain. Certain local reprobates have their reasons for wanting the Mungers to leave. Accidents, fires and the death of a forest ranger have everyone on edge. Josephine's curiosity drives her down the mountain, into the world of illegal activities and nefarious characters. Her situation becomes dire - no way to escape. One captor has a knife, the other has a rifle. Can she save herself and her friends?

Available on Amazon & Kindle