On Saturday morning, I woke up with a vision of chorizo biscuits dancing in my head. Not that I’ve ever eaten a chorizo biscuit, not that i’d even heard of a chorizo biscuit, not that i was even sure a chorizo biscuit could be baked or enjoyed. I simply sat up in bed, half-awake and thought, “what I’d really like, is to go into the kitchen and whip up some chorizo biscuits for breakfast”.
I envisioned these biscuits big and fluffy, with just a trickle of paprika-stained grease escaping through a single pinprick, some kind of chorizo insertion point, though the manner and insertion implement were yet to be determined, as was the possibility that a simple biscuit had the integrity to withstand the rigors of baking after being stuffed with spicy meat.
Had it been done before?
Was there a trick to doing it well?
Whether it should be done, was not one of those questions that immediately crossed my mind. But there was plenty of time to consider such things before embarking on the experiment, as we had neither chorizo nor biscuits on-hand. Instead, I ate two hastily fried eggs with a slice of wheat toast, and went about my day.
It was Sunday before I got around to googling “Chorizo Biscuit”. What I found was underwhelming. There was a recipe for chorizo biscuits and gravy, accompanied by this rather unappetizing photo. And another recipe for a Rachel Ray chicken sandwich on a chorizo and cheese biscuit, which was also, nothing like what I had envisioned, but at least gave me a little hope in the possibility of some kind of communion between biscuit dough and chorizo.
I explain all of this to my sister on Sunday afternoon, as we are driving over to a friend’s house, and when I realize that I’ve been rambling on and on about it for maybe seven minutes, I say, “You understand that this isn’t so much about eating something as it is obsessing over creating something, right?” She laughs. Later that night, it is Mr. J. who reminds me that we have one of those Ronco Flavor Injector thingies, normally reserved for shoving cloves of garlic and such into a roast, but
By Monday afternoon, I figure that I should stop talking and theorizing about the damn thing and just do it, so we went up to the store, tossed two rolls of Pillsbury Grands Buttermilk Biscuits into the shopping basket, as well as two packages of chorizo, one the traditional pork and the other, soy-based. (My preference is honestly for the pork, but I’ve used soy chorizo once or twice, as it reduced the fat content and therefore the guilt factor. (And yes, at some point we could could have a discussion about Food Guilt, but let’s save that for another day, alright?).
Ok, so last night, after dinner, I enlist Mouse to help with my experiment. We cook up half the soy chorizo, adding a bit of olive oil, because it fries up awfully dry and crumbly, and then we get the idea to mix in some crumbles of pepper jack cheese to help hold it together well enough to use one of those Flavor Injector thingies (normally reserved for shoving cloves of garlic and such into a roast) to shove the filling into the dough. We fill most of the biscuits this way, poking a hole in the side, shoving the injector in and then pinching the dough closed around the insertion point. They’re not particularly pretty, but at least they’re holding up to the poking and prodding.
On the last two biscuits, we experiment. Me, with slicing right through the dough, adding a layer of chorizo and cheese at the center and then flopping the top back on and patting the sides until they close up. Mouse shoves his thumb down into the top of the biscuit and makes a little well, which he fills and leaves uncovered. We give them one last look and then pop them into the oven. Fifteen minutes later, we have this:
On the top right, is one of the ones we shoved the injector into. It’s ok, but not particularly pretty. On the bottom right, is the one I sliced open. Happily it held both its shape and its filling. It is the Stealth Biscuit, with just a little trickle of paprika-stained grease on the edge. And on the left, well there’s Mouse’s lovely thumbprint biscuit, which kinda looks like a bagel, but is definitely the visual crown jewel of the collection.
I insisted that Mr. J come over and take a look. I called my sister out from her bedroom to see them too. I buttered the tops of the ones that had tops. I removed them from the tray and arranged them on a plate. I took photos of them and smiled at them and felt quite proud of myself and my boy.
And then it occurred to me that yes, we had solved the question of whether or not it could be done, but hadn’t considered whether or not it should be done. Was this going to be like the beef and vegetable pies I made with the wrong kind of pie crust, the ones that looked all kinds of lovely as they sprung from the oven, only to devolve into a soggy, weirdly sweet and inedible mess?
I broke open one of the ugly biscuits and shoved half of it at Mouse. He ate it and pronounced it good. But Mouse will eat anything, so then I called Ruby back out from her bedroom and shoved the other half at her. She ate it and nodded. I broke open a second biscuit, noting how the cheese kind of broke off little melty strings as it came apart, looking tasty and warm and gooey. And then I took a bite. And a second bite. And I knew, not only that it could be done and should be done, but that it had been done. That I did it and it was good. 
