Easy Sausage Pesto RingCook’s notes: Welcome fall today with this hearty sausage pesto ring dish. It's a great way to use up fresh basil from the garden. The dish can be served as a brunch or main meal. Try chorizo sausage which adds a bit of a kick to the dish. Recipe from BHG and serves 8-10.
- 4 TB. melted butter
- 2-16 oz. cans refrigerated Grands Buttermilk biscuits (16 total)
- 3/4 purchased basil pesto or homemade pesto
- 3 cups cooked, crumbled Italian or Chorizo sausage
- 2-1/2 cups shredded Italian cheese blend
- grated Parmesan cheese
- 3 TB. sesame seeds
- Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 10 inch fluted tube pan with 2 TB. melted butter or oil cooking spray.
- Lightly flour a sheet of wax paper. Place 8 biscuits on a floured piece of wax paper.
- Top each biscuit with 1 TB. pesto, 2 TB. sausage and 2 TB. Italian cheeses.
- Stack 4 biscuits together filling sides up. Press gently together. Turn stack on its side and place in pan.
- Repeat with remaining biscuits. Squeeze all the stacks of biscuits into the pan, end to end to make a circle or a ring.
- Drizzle biscuit ring with 2 TB. melted butter, grated Parmesan cheese and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.
- Bake 30 minutes. Use a wooden skewer to test center. Cool in pan 10 minutes, remove and serve warm.
by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.