Survival sangría

Part of the mission of this blog is trying things that will probably fail, just to see if they don’t. That isn’t really what I meant. I mean… things that are long shots. Unlikely to succeed. Spectacularly charming messes.

Like me.


So the other day, I had fifteen minutes to get to a picnic to which I had promised to bring “alcohol in a subtle container.” (I think drinking in Central Park is illegal.) I then discovered that, according to the Internet, sangría should chill in the fridge for a minimum of four hours. So I was like, screw it, I will do it anyway, and people will probably drink it.

(Survival anything is something you make under adverse circumstances but that you really really need. See also: survival cheesecake. Well, that wasn’t a post. It’s something that happened in college in the worst-smelling kitchen of all time.)

I chopped up 1 Gala apple and about half a pint (no… are pints the really small containers? Maybe half of two pints, then) of surprisingly ripe-looking strawberries. I put them in my bright red Nalgene, and then filled it to the brim with as much white wine as I could fit. (I bought extremely cheap wine—because I love you, dear friends—figuring that if you’re going to sangría-ize it the quality is maybe not so important. No offense, Barefoot Wine.) It was about 3/4 of the bottle. Maybe 7/8.

I poured in some quantity of sugar, without even remotely measuring, and added some lemon juice, hoping to counteract the sweetness of everything else and maybe add a dimension. (I finally figured out how to open my little lemon thing!)

Then… and this is the truly shameful part… I closed the Nalgene and SHOOK IT OVER THE SINK as if I were making salad dressing. I put it in the freezer for approximately three minutes.

Then we went to the picnic.

Douchey… or THE DOUCHIEST???

It was declared “drinkable” and “not bad.” Well, at the end of the picnic we found a full Solo cup (we’re still young, it’s OK), so someone didn’t like it, but I don’t know who. I was going to make disparaging comments about that unknown person, but actually they might just be a very classy person with good taste in wine.

So the point is, if you really need sangría, you might as well do this. But otherwise, well, you probably shouldn’t. Unless you’re so young that you’re allowed to have absolutely atrocious taste in drinks. (I think I still am? Well, I still act that way.)

Stop in the name of biscuits

I’m not sure why I make biscuits so often. (Once here and once before the blog, but I can’t remember much about that experience.) I’m not really a biscuit person (insofar as that’s possible while you’re still a human). I’m not from the South or anything. I love bread products, though, and hate kneading and long wait times. I also have a fear of white flour, possibly pathological, instilled in me by a psychopathic nutritionist I once consulted about my hypoglycemia. All of this led to whole-wheat biscuits.

I did extensive research and settled on this recipe, because you could use yogurt and I didn’t have any milk. It used a full cup more flour than the other recipes I found, relative to the baking powder and butter, but I decided to risk it; it sounds like she’s tested a lot of recipes, and her biscuits were very fluffy.

This is where things went south. While I was making these biscuits I was thinking, “This will either be a post about how my experimentation and idiocy make me a terrible cook… or how they make me a GREAT COOK.”

Ew why do they look so pink

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