I live in a big bad old city, with a whole lot of people whom I love and even more concrete. Technically, you could probably walk to the countryside from here if you kept at it, but there is nothing country about New York. Unless you squint. If you turn off the pot holed, traffic-upped Vernon Blvd. onto the bridge that takes you to the other worldly and weirdly calm, Roosevelt Island, there are stretches of stony paths on the East River that you can fly along on your bike with nothing in front or behind you. If you come back off the bridge and make a left, there is a beach down there. About the length of a living room. At low tide, there is enough room to sit on the sand. If you do a super squint in my backyard and cup your hands around the sides of your eyes, looking down at the dirt you could pretend you were on a farm. You would only be missing sound effects. If Ferdinand clears his dishes, makes his bed, ties his own shoes, does his homework, and receives the dinner that his mother has cooked for him with the grace of a gentleman, I have promised to consider getting 2 chickens. Sound effects.
Make biscuits.
2 cups of flour, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, a good pinch of salt, a better pinch of sugar, and 6 tablespoon of butter (if you have it add another tablespoon of lard–even decent bacon fat.) Combine the dry ingredients and then cut in the butter with your fingertips. Add just enough whole milk to make a super thick mud like consistency. You don’t want it to droop at all–it should stand up a bit. Put a good slather of flour on the board and scrape out the biscuit dough. Flip it over with the dough scraper so that both sides have a little flour. Pat with your hands or roll ever so gently with the pin, just until about an inch thick. Cut with a buttered and floured glass. Squeeze them together in the pan like my grandmother did, and paint their tops with butter or heavy cream. Serve them with anything.