The Continuing Fall of VF and Doug Phillips is a tool-Part 4

[salex]

Keep a tight hold on those smelling salts, I have a question.

So does sausage gravy have big bits of sausage in it, kind of like a stroganoff, or is it all strained out and just used for flavor? The only time I've had biscuits and gravy is in a Denny's, and it sounds different than what people are describing here.

I make sausage gravy every new years day for brunch for a crowd. I use 4 or 5 lbs of sausage and it is all in the gravy, not just used for flavor. I am not "Southern" however, so not sure if this is authentic, but it is good.

[debrand]

Gravy mix? Vinegar and milk instead of real buttermilk? Lawd a mercy! (Clutches pearls). Where are my smellin' salts? No decent Southern lady cooks that way. :shock: :D

I do but I'm not decent and I am definitely not a lady. :lol: (JK) I can not remember what forum I was asked this on but no biscuits are not cookies. Biscuits are non yeast dinner rolls either. A friend of ours traveled further north to visit inlaws. For breakfast they went to a restaurant. My friend asked the waitress if they served biscuits and gravy. The waitress expressed surprise that at his request but assured him that she could get something for him. He was excited until she brought back a yeast, dinner roll and brown gravy left over from the night before.

edited to add: I answered this and saw that Formergoth(Can't spell) answered the same way. Damn it FG, stop reading my mind.

[Palimpsest]

Translation into Normal People's English:

"I really love Virginia-style peanut soup, so I asked my wife to scare up a recipe and make me some. It was delicious! Thanks, hon!"

Quite aside from the revoltingly flowery language, I'm pretty sure Doug and/or Beall have got the instructions wrong. This method will run the risk of getting very lumpy and tasting of raw flour. No wonder she has to use a blender. :ew:

The flour be should be added to the butter, onion and peanuts to make a roux before slowly adding the stock, stirring constantly so it doesn't get lumpy. Bring to a simmer then add the peanut butter and finally the cream.

Not being from Virginia, I'd substitute a bit of coconut or almond milk for the cream, add a big splash of hot sauce or red pepper flakes and serve topped with peanuts and chopped scallions. Virginia peanut soup sounds a bit like West African Groundnut stew diluted with cream.:D

[RosyDaisy]

Keep a tight hold on those smelling salts, I have a question.

So does sausage gravy have big bits of sausage in it, kind of like a stroganoff, or is it all strained out and just used for flavor? The only time I've had biscuits and gravy is in a Denny's, and it sounds different than what people are describing here.

No. When the sausage is done take it up and add flour to the grease and bits in the pan and make a roux. Add a little salt and pepper. Slowly add milk and stir well so there are no lumps. The amount of milk depends on how thick you want the gravy

ETA: I have used this same recipe using left over bacon and ham grease.

[ThatSnark]

We have sausage gravy mix... in the "Southern" section of the grocery store, which is in the "International" aisle. :lol:

I've tried it a few times but it's always too watery if you follow their directions, so I'd probably be better off taking the extra time to make it from scratch.

I am LOLing that there is a Southern section in your grocery, but I'm LOLing from North Carolina. :lol: :lol: :lol:

[debrand]

No. When the sausage is done take it up and add flour to the grease and bits in the pan and make a roux. Add a little salt and pepper. Slowly add milk and stir well so there are no lumps. The amount of milk depends on how thick you want the gravy

ETA: I have used this same recipe using left over bacon and ham grease.

I have had it both ways, with sausage crumbled in it and the sausage served on the side. I've never had it made with ham. That sounds wonderful Rosy Daisy. I think that I have some ham in the fridge now. Can you just use leftover ham?

[RosyDaisy]

Oh yeah. I fry leftover Christmas ham, make the gravy, and put it over toast if I don't feel like making biscuits. A ham for Christmas has been a tradition in my family for years, and this is how we use the leftovers.

[church_of_dog]

Translation into Normal People's English:

"I really love Virginia-style peanut soup, so I asked my wife to scare up a recipe and make me some. It was delicious! Thanks, hon!"

Speaking of translations…

(And I must note that I am a grown woman and you'd think this would have gotten tiresome, but it still never fails to make me giggle:)

Recipe fo' Top Billin Thanksgivin Dizzle Soup up in tha World

Every true-blue Virginian wit a ludd fo' tha pimped out providence of Dogg up in tha history of tha Oldskool Dominion knows dat da most thugged-out delectable delicacy of ghetto cookin antiquitizzle is none other than peanut soup. Forget yo' chowdaz n' forsake yo' cheese, chilled, n' cream soups fo' realz. Away wit yo' bisques, borscht, bouillabaisse, bouillon, n' broths. Those patriotic palates whoz ass relish genuine gustatory glory know dat only tha peanut can produce a chronic of such phat n' culinary excellence dat could rightly deserve tha title - "America’s Soup."

I first hustled of peanut chronic while a hustla up in Williamsburg, Virginia fo' realz. At tha time, I was sufficiently impoverished such dat I was able ta prevent tha onset of addiction by limitin mah intake ta bout two bowls a month. In dem days, I discovered dat tha top billin cooks from tha finest dinin establishments up in Williamsburg secretly compete fo' statuz of "grand masta peanut chronic chef."

When I hooked up mah hoe, there was straight-up only one culinary condition: Interview tha top billin chefs up in Williamsburg. Bribe dem if necessary yo, but whatever you do, capture they secret recipes, test dem against each other, then present ta yo' homeboy a well-executed bowl of peanut chronic fo' Thanksgivin Day. (Of course, even a cold-ass lil code-red mission like dis one is no problem fo' "super-wife.")

Beall went ta Williamsburg, reconnoitered, conducted covert meetings wit top chefs (I be dead serious), talked dem tha fuck into relinquishin they secret recipes, returned home, entered her kitchen laboratory, n' conducted experiments until her own peanut potion was perfected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch is now a expert up in peanut chronic cookery - n' I be a straight-up delighted n' satisfied homeboy of a biatch whoz ass has pimped her household n' truly taken dominion over soup. For dat I be grateful.

And tha drum roll, please.... To tha uninitiated, tha thought of drankin peanuts may seem a lil' bit daunting. Fear not, neither fret thy taste buds, O weary Pilgrim. This is Gangsta chronic at its dopest - a simple chronic fo' tha common dude yo, but distinguished wit such peanutty accents as ta satisfy da most thugged-out discriminatin palates.

For dis Thanksgivin Day, I be pleased ta reveal tha secret recipe fo' tha last time:

Peanut Soup (makes 10-12 servings)

1 medium onion, chopped

¼ cup butter

3 tablespoons all purpose flour

2 quarts chicken stock or canned broth

1 cup smooth peanut butter (only natural, please)

1¾ cups heavy cream

1½ cups peanuts, chopped (only tha dopest Virginia peanuts, please)

Saute onion n' peanuts up in butter until soft yo, but not brown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Add cream n' brang ta a soft boil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stir up in flour until well blended. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Add chicken stock or broth n' salt, stirrin constantly, n' brang ta a funky-ass boil. Remove from heat n' rub all up in a sieve. (I aint NEVER rubbed it all up in a sieve. I always put it up in a funky-ass blender until tha consistency is fairly smooth.) Add peanut butter, stirrin ta blend thoroughly, almost boil. Return ta low heat yo, but do not boil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Serve bangin' or cold, garnished wit chopped peanuts.

[thoughtful]

I couldn’t help imagining Doug making chocolate milk:

In the course of human events in my domain, the lovely ladies graciously take on all actions to satisfy our gustatory cravings. However, today I found myself with the urge to choclify my burgeoning, bulging buds of taste. None of the ladies was at home, so it fell to me to take personal action.

I did not shirk my duty.

Manfully grasping the handle of the massive stainless steel refrigeration compartment, I pulled, feeling my biceps flex as they do when I perform my 100 (plus!) pushups every dawn.

Inside, coolness enveloped me. A myriad of hues assaulted my vision, but I was not distracted. Straight to my mission, with firm deliberation, I grasped the intricately folded waxed cardboard, like an Origami vessel promising cool, rich joy, that contained magnificent milk of the mooing bovine.

On I marched to the flatware drawer, whence, like a cavalier drawing his sword from its scabbard, I withdrew a slick silver spoon, petite, polished, and poised to do my bidding.

To the cupboard my hazardous mission proceeded, to find that which would cradle my beloved beverage. Which to use? The vessel with the pestle? The flagon with the dragon? The chalice from the palace?

He who hesitates is lost, so I made a swift decision. I bestowed my favor on a vintage glass, one that had held the finest of jellies in the halcyon days of my childhood – a glass festooned with those denizens of Eden known as Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty.

To yet another of the perfectly polished cabinets I proceeded, quickly seeking the Nesquick nestling twixt the Twix and the Twizzlers. Manfully, I removed the lazily lingering lid, ignoring its foolish resistance to my needs.

And now came the greatest challenge; to delicately, deliberately, dip the spoon, to bring up the petulant puffy powder without losing any to the hungry air, to avoid a shameful cleaning of the counter due to clumsiness.

Deeply the shining metal plunged into the soft, yielding contents, reminding me that from dust we come, and to dust shall we return. My dexterous fingers manipulated my weapon, bringing the rich product of the cacao bush to the surface, just as, no doubt, an intrepid harvester had brought the original beans out from the Dark Continent.

Trembling with anticipation, I drew the spoon closer to the glass, and, gently, caressingly, let the magical brown powder fall, as all mankind is fallen, to the bottom of the glass.

Wasting no time, I seized the milk, and poured it, bubbling, foaming and already tawnily tinged with the color of chocolate, to the brim.

My trusty weapon served me once again, to stir, to mix, to draw me closer to a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Ay, there’s the rub – fool that I am, I forgot that the milk should go in first. I am man enough to admit my error, my sin that has given the enemies of God reason to rejoice. This was heartbreaking to me, but I plunged on.

Stubborn streaks of chocolate clung to the innards of the glass, resisting my command to achieve normativity and become one with the milk. But I defeated them utterly, bringing them to their true purpose, to join with the milk in its mission to satisfy me.

Just then, in a poignant moment of irony, my beloved bride, Beall, arrived home. Settling softly into my favorite masculine easy chair, liquid treat in hand, I called a loving, lilting greeting:

“Hon, the kitchen counter needs to be wiped down!â€

[church_of_dog]

I couldn’t help imagining Doug making chocolate milk:

In the course of human events in my domain, the lovely ladies graciously take on all actions to satisfy our gustatory cravings. However, today I found myself with the urge to choclify my burgeoning, bulging buds of taste. None of the ladies was at home, so it fell to me to take personal action.

I did not shirk my duty.

Manfully grasping the handle of the massive stainless steel refrigeration compartment, I pulled, feeling my biceps flex as they do when I perform my 100 (plus!) pushups every dawn.

Inside, coolness enveloped me. A myriad of hues assaulted my vision, but I was not distracted. Straight to my mission, with firm deliberation, I grasped the intricately folded waxed cardboard, like an Origami vessel promising cool, rich joy, that contained magnificent milk of the mooing bovine.

On I marched to the flatware drawer, whence, like a cavalier drawing his sword from its scabbard, I withdrew a slick silver spoon, petite, polished, and poised to do my bidding.

To the cupboard my hazardous mission proceeded, to find that which would cradle my beloved beverage. Which to use? The vessel with the pestle? The flagon with the dragon? The chalice from the palace?

He who hesitates is lost, so I made a swift decision. I bestowed my favor on a vintage glass, one that had held the finest of jellies in those halcyon days of my childhood – a glass festooned with those denizens of Eden known as Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty.

To yet another of the perfectly polished cabinets I proceeded, quickly seeking the Nesquick nestling twixt the Twix and the Twizzlers. Manfully, I removed the lazily lingering lid, ignoring its foolish resistance to my needs.

And now came the greatest challenge; to delicately, deliberately, dip the spoon, to bring up the petulant puffy powder without losing any to the hungry air, to avoid a shameful cleaning of the counter due to clumsiness.

Deeply the shining metal plunged into the soft, yielding contents, reminding me that from dust we come, and to dust shall we return. My dexterous fingers manipulated my weapon, bringing the rich product of the cacao bush to the surface, just as, no doubt, an intrepid harvester had brought the original beans out from the Dark Continent.

Trembling with anticipation, I drew the spoon closer to the glass, and, gently, caressingly, let the magical brown powder fall, as all mankind is fallen, to the bottom of the glass.

Wasting no time, I seized the milk, and poured it, bubbling, foaming and already tawnily tinged with the color of chocolate, to the brim.

My trusty weapon served me once again, to stir, to mix, to draw me closer to a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Ay, there’s the rub – fool that I am, I forgot that the milk should go in first. I am man enough to admit my error, my sin that has given the enemies of God reason to rejoice. This was heartbreaking to me, but I plunged on.

Stubborn streaks of chocolate clung to the innards of the glass, resisting my command to achieve normativity and become one with the milk. But I defeated them utterly, bringing them to their true purpose, to join with the milk in its mission to satisfy me.

Just then, in a poignant moment of irony, my beloved bride, Beall, arrived home. Settling softly into my favorite masculine easy chair, liquid treat in hand, I called a loving, lilting greeting:

“Hon, the kitchen counter needs to be wiped down!â€

:clap: :clap: :clap: :worship: :worship: :worship:

[Hane]

I couldn’t help imagining Doug making chocolate milk:

In the course of human events in my domain, the lovely ladies graciously take on all actions to satisfy our gustatory cravings. However, today I found myself with the urge to choclify my burgeoning, bulging buds of taste. None of the ladies was at home, so it fell to me to take personal action.

I did not shirk my duty.

Manfully grasping the handle of the massive stainless steel refrigeration compartment, I pulled, feeling my biceps flex as they do when I perform my 100 (plus!) pushups every dawn.

Inside, coolness enveloped me. A myriad of hues assaulted my vision, but I was not distracted. Straight to my mission, with firm deliberation, I grasped the intricately folded waxed cardboard, like an Origami vessel promising cool, rich joy, that contained magnificent milk of the mooing bovine.

On I marched to the flatware drawer, whence, like a cavalier drawing his sword from its scabbard, I withdrew a slick silver spoon, petite, polished, and poised to do my bidding.

To the cupboard my hazardous mission proceeded, to find that which would cradle my beloved beverage. Which to use? The vessel with the pestle? The flagon with the dragon? The chalice from the palace?

He who hesitates is lost, so I made a swift decision. I bestowed my favor on a vintage glass, one that had held the finest of jellies in the halcyon days of my childhood – a glass festooned with those denizens of Eden known as Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty.

To yet another of the perfectly polished cabinets I proceeded, quickly seeking the Nesquick nestling twixt the Twix and the Twizzlers. Manfully, I removed the lazily lingering lid, ignoring its foolish resistance to my needs.

And now came the greatest challenge; to delicately, deliberately, dip the spoon, to bring up the petulant puffy powder without losing any to the hungry air, to avoid a shameful cleaning of the counter due to clumsiness.

Deeply the shining metal plunged into the soft, yielding contents, reminding me that from dust we come, and to dust shall we return. My dexterous fingers manipulated my weapon, bringing the rich product of the cacao bush to the surface, just as, no doubt, an intrepid harvester had brought the original beans out from the Dark Continent.

Trembling with anticipation, I drew the spoon closer to the glass, and, gently, caressingly, let the magical brown powder fall, as all mankind is fallen, to the bottom of the glass.

Wasting no time, I seized the milk, and poured it, bubbling, foaming and already tawnily tinged with the color of chocolate, to the brim.

My trusty weapon served me once again, to stir, to mix, to draw me closer to a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Ay, there’s the rub – fool that I am, I forgot that the milk should go in first. I am man enough to admit my error, my sin that has given the enemies of God reason to rejoice. This was heartbreaking to me, but I plunged on.

Stubborn streaks of chocolate clung to the innards of the glass, resisting my command to achieve normativity and become one with the milk. But I defeated them utterly, bringing them to their true purpose, to join with the milk in its mission to satisfy me.

Just then, in a poignant moment of irony, my beloved bride, Beall, arrived home. Settling softly into my favorite masculine easy chair, liquid treat in hand, I called a loving, lilting greeting:

“Hon, the kitchen counter needs to be wiped down!â€

thoughtful, move to Connecticut and marry me NOW. It's been legal here for years, and I won't even make you put out.

[thoughtful]

thoughtful, move to Connecticut and marry me NOW. It's been legal here for years, and I won't even make you put out.

But will you expect me to wipe the kitchen counter? :D I don't drink chocolate milk, but have a tendency to spill coffee.

[Hane]

But will you expect me to wipe the kitchen counter? :D I don't drink chocolate milk, but have a tendency to spill coffee.

Hon, we'll clean up after ourselves, like grownups. Besides, my midnight-blue-speckled countertop hides the dirt. ;)

[Marian the Librarian]

OMG, I am laughing so hard...a peanut soup recipe leads us to sausage gravy mix, smelling salts, a "Southern food" aisle in the grocery store, and a wickedly florid description of manly chocolate milk mixing. I worship you all!!!

:worship:

[happy atheist]

Moving on to Part 5: viewtopic.php?f=8&t=20492