I like it here in Indiana - I really do. The people are nice, the weather is (mostly) mild, and they're even getting a few decent barbeque restaurants. But, every now and then I run into something that completely offends my southern sensibilities.
While dining at a new barbeque restaurant, I found something on my plate that did just that. They call them "Brown County Biscuits." I've met these poorly named pastries before. They are yummy little discs of deep-fried dough rolled in cinnamon sugar and served with apple butter.
Apparently, these little culinary wonders hail from Brown County, Indiana which is right where the ginormous glacier that flattened the midwest stopped, leaving a lovely little mountain community. You can imagine how the flatlanders flock down there when the leaves change. Our leaves are pretty, but you literally can't see the forest for the trees. It's flat up here, folks. When they plow the corn, you can stand on a dining chair and see the next county.
I have no beef with these tasty little deep-fried devils, but I have a semantics problem of major proportions:
People, I cannot stress this enough; they are NOT biscuits! I know what biscuits are. I can make them from scratch blindfolded. Biscuits are baked - end of story. They are also a flexible food item - they're equally fantastic with supper as they are with breakfast. They complement both sweet and savory, and I will not stop enjoying them even if modern science discovers white flour makes you grow extra toes.
These Brown County Biscuits are what we call homemade doughnuts in the deep south. Here's the rule people: if you can't eat them with gravy, they are not biscuits. Thank you for your time and attention to this important matter.
