"Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart." -Erma Bombeck

Desserts matter. I hold this truth to be self evident, because for me, the entire fate of the meal hinges upon that last, delicious morsel of food which you put into your mouth. It is the taste which lingers on your palate long after the meal is over. It is the last scent, memory, and thus, representation of the repast. So yeah, desserts matter.

I will, occasionally, post solely on the topic of dessert. It is one of the trickier things to alter sometimes, because baking is so notoriously temperamental; the unforgiving, unwavering, strategically-minded military dad to cooking’s artsy, hand-holding, herb-loving hippie aunt.



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That being said, whenever possible, I will always order dessert. 17 course tasting menu? Dessert please. Whole roast pig? What do you have that’s chocolate? I could pretty much put away anything and still have room for something sweet. I was mildly self-conscious about this fact until a roommate in college introduced me to what she called “The Chamber Theory.” You know how cows’ stomachs have 4 compartments? Well, Adrienne postulated that we have chambers in our stomachs as well, and, even though your “entrée chamber” might be full, your “dessert chamber” is still wide open. Additionally, I should point out, in college we both made really compelling arguments in favor of a “wine chamber.”

This week, after a particularly delicious grilled steak dinner, my dessert chamber’s needle was still hovering on empty, and Aaron decided to introduce me to his southern roots. By “southern roots,” I mean, “lived in West Virginia for two years and ate a lot of biscuits.” And peaches.





Until recently, the only thing I really knew about “peach” was that she gave blondes a bad name.

Apparently, they also make a delicious cobbler.

Aaron picked up some white peaches at the farmers market which were so fresh and delectably fuzzy looking that they would have warmed the cockles of Roald Dhal’s heart. The perfect patches of pale pink blended seamlessly into a warm yellow that was absolutely picturesque just sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter, glowing in the warm summer sun, like a page right out of Little House on the Prairie.

He sautéed the peaches in a little bourbon (because why the hell not?) and sugar, brown sugar, cinnamon, and Gluten Free Pantry’s All Purpose Flour Mix (Whole Foods). I find this mix to be one of the most accessible, and can be substituted cup-for-cup in almost any recipe. He layered this warm, sugary, nectar-y love into buttered ramekins and topped it with the recipe for biscuits found on the back of the box of Gluten Free Bisquick.

Let me pause for a moment to give mad props to Betty Crocker for making gluten free baking accessible to anyone who lives in a 20 minute radius of Acme or Superfresh and can combine eggs and butter. They now offer gluten free cookie, cake, and brownie mix, along with gluten free Bisquick, dumbing down baking to a level even I can usually manage to not screw up.

This was my first experience with the Bisquick, and the biscuits on top of the cobbler puffed up like little moist pillows of what my incredibly limited experiences with illegal substances force me to only assume must be laced with heroine. Seriously. Biscuits should be considered narcotics and regulated by the Board of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Dangerously Addictive Carbohydrates. They were crispy on the outside and delicate and flaky and buttery on the inside.

But it was the prize which lay unassumingly beneath the layers of fragile, crumbly goodness which was the real reward. Layers of sweet, sugary peaches basked in the glory of their sachariferousness, coated in the crystallized granules of goodness. Bits of biscuit clung to their syrupy flesh, reveling in the sticky, saccharine juice, soaking up every bit of nectar they could before they dissolved onto my tongue.

Next thing you know, I’ll be found in an alley somewhere, heating up peaches on a spoon with a lighter, a makeshift tunicate tied around my arm, laying in the filth of my own half-eaten biscuit crumbs, with a look of sheer bliss forever imprinted on my face.

This is what true love tastes like, with ice cream on top.