This is how it always starts. The bowl is never the same, the flour isn't a specific brand but this is how it begins. She pulls out this rusty old sifter, with holes in the mesh bigger than any lump in the flour and she pours. She sifts and sifts. It isn't like she adds leavening. She has always used self-rising flour. Somehow this process was passed down--regardless of the necessity and somehow it matters.
Next she always greases the pan with Crisco. Yes Pam is in the cabinet; no it will not produce a proper biscuit bottom. You know the stuff, crispy, almost fried and oh man that is good.
Here comes the salt. Why it isn't added into the sifter, I will never know. Also, as I mentioned, this is self-rising flour and really salt isn't necessary. At least that is what the back of the flour bag says. I am here to tell you it is. Next comes the Crisco and the lack of a measuring cup. I have watched her. I know full well she uses about double what any recipe calls for. That is what makes them flaky. They can barely hold country ham when sliced. Despite their delicate nature, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Notice the milk. It isn't buttermilk. I have never seen her use buttermilk. Even when it was on hand for cornbread, it never made it's way into the biscuits. Maybe she isn't truly southern (doubtful, don't you think) or maybe that is just the way her Mama did it but the tangy taste of buttermilk isn't one you will find here.
Next comes the most important ingredient...her hands. She works the dough just enough. She adds more milk and works some more. There is always flour left in the bottom of the bowl when she turns the wet, loose mixture onto her floured foil.
The next step forces me to hear "Patty Cake, Patty Cake" in my head. I don't know if it is my idealized version, or if she always used to sing it but seeing her pat that dough gives me an instant auditory memory.
When the dough is just right, not too thick, not too thin, she picks a cutter (most often a juice glass) and cuts. She cuts and folds cuts and folds until all that is left are the dough dodgers. These are my biscuits. Just for me. Imperfect in shape but distinct in my mind, I love them.
All of the biscuits make it into a hot oven and come out brown and beautiful. My whole life, when summer would come around and I would spend days and days outside my mom would always remark that I was "just brown as a little biscuit". Nothing sweeter was ever said and no higher compliment was ever given. In her eyes, I was the fruit of her labor and like her most famous dish, pure perfection.
This is how it always starts. The bowl is never the same, the flour isn't a specific brand but this is how it begins. She pulls out this rusty old sifter, with holes in the mesh bigger than any lump in the flour and she pours. She sifts and sifts. It isn't like she adds leavening. She has always used self-rising flour. Somehow this process was passed down--regardless of the necessity and somehow it matters. 
Next she always greases the pan with Crisco. Yes Pam is in the cabinet; no it will not produce a proper biscuit bottom. You know the stuff, crispy, almost fried and oh man that is good. 
Here comes the salt. Why it isn't added into the sifter, I will never know. Also, as I mentioned, this is self-rising flour and really salt isn't necessary. At least that is what the back of the flour bag says. I am here to tell you it is. Next comes the Crisco and the lack of a measuring cup. I have watched her. I know full well she uses about double what any recipe calls for. That is what makes them flaky. They can barely hold country ham when sliced. Despite their delicate nature, I wouldn't have it any other way. 
Notice the milk. It isn't buttermilk. I have never seen her use buttermilk. Even when it was on hand for cornbread, it never made it's way into the biscuits. Maybe she isn't truly southern (doubtful, don't you think) or maybe that is just the way her Mama did it but the tangy taste of buttermilk isn't one you will find here. 
Next comes the most important ingredient...her hands. She works the dough just enough. She adds more milk and works some more. There is always flour left in the bottom of the bowl when she turns the wet, loose mixture onto her floured foil. 
The next step forces me to hear "Patty Cake, Patty Cake" in my head. I don't know if it is my idealized version, or if she always used to sing it but seeing her pat that dough gives me an instant auditory memory. 
When the dough is just right, not too thick, not too thin, she picks a cutter (most often a juice glass) and cuts. She cuts and folds cuts and folds until all that is left are the dough dodgers. These are my biscuits. Just for me. Imperfect in shape but distinct in my mind, I love them. 
All of the biscuits make it into a hot oven and come out brown and beautiful. My whole life, when summer would come around and I would spend days and days outside my mom would always remark that I was "just brown as a little biscuit". Nothing sweeter was ever said and no higher compliment was ever given. In her eyes, I was the fruit of her labor and like her most famous dish, pure perfection. 
Posts
