Adult Jack in the Box

By principle I have tried not to buy biscuits from a can, instead opting to make them from scratch. There is something vaguely metallic about canned biscuits. Maybe it's the shreds of aluminum foil that ALWAYS get stuck in the dough. Maybe it's left over bitterness that the flour felt at being turned into a plain ol' biscuit instead of a fancy triangular scrap that would become a croissant. I'm not a biscuit snob (if there is such a thing), I eat Bisquick more than willingly, but I'm not a huge fan of pillsbury or any other canned biscuits.

This Christmas though I wanted to make a traditional family Christmas breakfast, and of course that included pillsbury biscuits. Homemade ones would not do.

At the store I browsed the rolls of biscuits, shiny blue labels, glistening bronze wrappers, bold red casings. And then I saw the simple store brand variety. The no nonsense school marms that blandly advertised themselves as biscuits, no frills, just biscuits. I looked at the price and noticed they were 1/4 the price of the fancy brands and joyously grabbed 2 rolls and thought no more of my sensible purchase.

Two days later however, I realized that the store brand was not in fact a school marm, but a well camoflaged child's play toy. A jack-in-the-box to be exact.

Have you opened a can of biscuits lately? It can be quite terrifying.

I'll be honest, I feel apprehension when tearing the little triangle that unleashes the biscuits into the world. It's a little nerve wracking waiting for the pop and release of the dough. But store brand biscuits are the worst. They have a mind of their own. They do not pop when appropriate, they pop when they feel like it.

I slowly peeled back the strip of paper. Half way down the canister the biscuits were still firmly secured and I started to get a little nervous. I tugged a little more, held my breath, and nothing. I tugged yet more, shielded my eyes with my shoulder, nothing. With a nervous laugh I yanked the wrapping off, expecting a burst of dough.

Nada.

Then I panicked. What if this is not a can of biscuits after all... What if this is a covertly smuggled nuclear bomb and I'm going to kill everyone by opening it? On Christmas. Or, what if the dough comes out so forcefully that it pops me in the eye and I have to explain that I lost a fist fight with a yeasty bit of bread, to my ever lasting shame? Or, what if I have a heart attack from the anticipation? A more likely possibility.

"Do it!" I shout at the trapped dough as I poke the seam of the unsplit paper. "Do it now!" (At this point Jarom poked his head in the kitchen and asked who I was talking to. I denied saying anything of course. )

Still nothing. It was like a jack-in-the-box that plays its whole song and then plays half of another one before randomly popping out.

And then, when I finally gave up, it burst, scaring the dickens out of me. I swear I heard it chuckle a deep demonic laugh as it's devious purpose was carried out.

Of course I had the pleasure of sending it back to it's own hell at 350 degrees for 20 minutes with a delicious orange glaze, but that is a different blog.

So, I discovered that store bought biscuits are the adult jack-in-the-box. And I vow to make someone else open them for me next time. Don't say I didn't warn you.