Sometimes she really cooks for real.

Because The Man is a good boy (for a guy), I occasionally do him a "big favor" and cook for real. (Actually, Bunny wants some real food and feels like cooking but she tells herself that she's doing it for The Man.) The Man requested a special anniverserary dinner, and here is what he got:

From the market, truffle pate on baguette. Then, Filet Mignon. We split one. I split one so we each get a thinnish medallion, and just sear them, so they're still fairly rare in the middle. And what's a Filet (sez The Man) without Bearnaise sauce? I use St. Julia's recipe from The Way to Cook. Use that whisk, baby! Work it hard! Also, I know how to fix a separated bearnaise/hollandaise: just whisk in a little acid, baby! Magic! And we had some yummy spud mash, and some steamed green beans. And for dessert: cherry cobbler. Sez The Man: Have you made this before? It's amazing! Of course I've made it before, you dope. I made it tonight specifically because it's a special meal for you and I know you particularly love cherry cobbler. Duh. I swear. Sometimes I wonder if I should pin a note to his shirt in case he gets lost.

So the cobbler. Unlike when I was a little Bunny and more people cooked, and more people had a passing acquaintance with the tart cherry, it has become more difficult to find plain canned tart cherries that haven't already been turned into pie filling or preserves of some kind, even at the Glutton Place Gourmet. And let's not even joke about finding fresh, especially in November. So, as usual, I had to doctor up some tart cherry preserves to make a respectable filling. Then, I ignore the recipe, and just make a nice buttermilk biscuit dough, only with a little sugar, and with a little extra buttermilk so it's looser. And I top the whole thing with a dusting of turbinado for a little crunch.

What goes in buttermilk biscuits, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Buttermilk biscuits contain: buttermilk, butter, and self-rising biscuit flour. That is all. If you think biscuits come from a can or a box (heart-smart, my ass), you are living a sad, deprived little life. Please, find yourself someone who can make you a real biscuit so you know what one tastes like before you die.