Biscuit Hacks

My grandfather always said we came from a long line of good cooks, and good eaters. It doesn’t take a detective to surmise the latter to be true. But I’m not here to talk about overweight excellent cooks, but to share my grandmother’s secret for mouth-watering biscuits.

My mother never saw the need for homemade biscuits, felt it was a better use of her time simply to whop a can on the counter's edge. Watching Big Mama make biscuits in the early morning hours was like seeing an artist create the most beautiful sculpture, and I suppose, in her way, she was an artist, as talented in the kitchen as any other artist in their studio.

In the summer of ‘82, I was setting up a house of my own, curious about new things that interested me, wanting to grow as a writer. I was a dreamer and a ferocious letter-writer, pages and pages to my best friend and others, documenting my summer days, my feelings and surroundings in letters, filling journals. I realized so much of who I was, who I was becoming, resulted from family experiences. The stories I wrote always included characters drawn from family personalities, quirky and complex.

One weekend I went to visit my grandparents, stayed overnight and pulled myself out of the bed the next before dawn to learn how to make Big Mama’s biscuits. My current project was to write a family cookbook, including all the family's favorite dishes, and secretly go about gathering them now in time to gift the books for Christmas.

That morning, still shaking the sleep from my head, I watched and asked questions, writing down every detail. I now look back and wish I had an audio recording of the 90-year-old matriarch of the family. Regardless, I attempted to write as she spoke, capturing the person as well as the task.

Preparing to bake, she tied off her apron, crisp and clean from yesterday’s wash. “I’m not sure I want to tell my secrets. I don’t want my sisters getting ahold of it and start saying their biscuits are as good as mine. Besides, I don’t think they put joy into theirs, and that’s my big secret. Making biscuits shouldn’t be a chore but a labor of love. Enjoy each step.”

I laughed at her reluctance to divulge her secret tricks, always in competition with her sisters, especially when it came to cooking. I assured her my book would not be published nor appear on the best-seller list, just preserving the recipes for future generations.

“Alright then, but you know I don’t measure anything, just eyeball it. You can use a measuring cup and spoons today, but I’m still going to use my hands. That’s the love.”

As she gathered all the ingredients on the counter, along with a large mixing bowl and her cast iron skillet, which was flavored by years of use. I dug out the measuring cups and spoons from the back side of the cabinet, looking as new as when given. Kay Kay bought those when she was trying to learn to cook. “She never could get the hang of a handful, cup, or pinch,” Big Mama stated as she frowned at the utensils.

“All right here we go.” Turning the oven to 450 degrees, then she used a coffee cup, two heaped with,all-purpose flour, which I poured it into the measuring cup. “What’s that, about 2 ½ cups?” She was exactly right.

“You be consistent in your measuring. I know two of these is right,” waving the cup around. “I always use this cup.”

She then poured baking powder in her hand, and I raked it into the tablespoon over the bowl, measuring exactly 1 tbsp. She was a magician in measuring. Next was the baking soda, a much smaller amount in her hand, which measured ½ tsp. She then grabbed the salt dispenser off the counter and made a circling sprinkle around the bowl. There was no way to measure that, but she said, “It’s just a pinch.”

Taking a large wooden spoon, one I had seen her use for hundreds of dishes, she stirred the powders. Then she dove in, running her fingers through the mixture. “This is when the joy starts.” She looked so happy, feeling the light powder like gold had just been discovered.

“Now the secrets are next.” She put the wooden spoon into Crisco’s can and came out half full. I attempted to measure it, which was close to 2 tbsp. She laid the spoon with shortening into the bowl of flour mixture and set it in the refrigerator, bowl, spoon, and all. “You have to chill it so it will work right.”

After about ten minutes of chilling, she poured buttermilk into the same cup she used for the flour, but this time did not fill it to the rim. I poured that into the measuring cup, and then she filled the cup again, a little shy of the rim. The buttermilk measured to be almost 2 cups.

She put her hands back into the flour mixture and said, “Pour that slowly in, making circles around the bowl.” As I did, she was weaving the cold liquid into the mixture, smiling at the bowl like a newborn baby she admired. Not someone to smile often, and it looked odd, out of place, with her eyes sparkling. Years ago, I remember her telling me never to trust anyone whose smile didn’t reach their eyes. “Look at the eyes, and you can tell if they are real.” Her smile that day was real. She felt joy all over.

Once the buttermilk was folded into the mixture, she washed her hands and pulled out her hand grader.

“What is that for?” I asked, totally confused about the need for the instrument.

“Got to grate now so it mixes good and you end up with buttery spots in each biscuit. You’ll see. It’s one of my secrets. My mama taught me, and now I’m teaching you, but I guess it won’t be a secret anymore.” She sounded a bit perturbed, but her whole face was still smiling.

With the grater in one hand propped on the edge of the bowl, she removed the chilled Crisco from the spoon and grated it into the mixture. She then grated the hard, cold butter into small pieces, stopping half-way to mix that and turn the fresh side over. After she grated the rest of the butter, she began to hum some tune I couldn’t quite catch as she pulled out a wooden chopping block, almost as big as the counter itself, made of oak and black walnut, cut down by Papa John when they first started farming the home place. They did such things during the winter when the crops were harvested, nothing to do until Spring, clearing trees and pulling up stumps.

She took a handful of flour from the canister, sifting it through her fingers around the block. With a bit more flour on her hands she turned the dough onto the block, dusted another handful of flour over the top. She began to knead the dough, pushing it in with the heels of her hands, then with her fists. “This works the lard and butter into the dough more. Wash your hands, get some flour on them and put some love into this dough!”

I just couldn’t believe how much joy she was getting from the process, so I didn’t hesitate to follow her lead. I had never seen this sign of Big Mama. She was usually tired and grumpy, but she looked younger. Her excitement was infectious, the sun beginning to rise, light pouring in to the kitchen window. I pressed my hands into the mound and kneaded it just as she had, feeling the coolness as I pressed it down, rolled it back in, folded it into itself, and pressed down again. I could feel it then – the joy was there, and I discovered it too.

I hadn’t seen her pull it out, but with a wooden rolling pin in hand, she began to work the dough, spreading to the far edges of the wooden block. I washed my hands again, watching her with new interest.

“How do you know how thick to roll it?” I asked.

“Go back to what I said before. Be consistent. I know that this amount of dough should cover this block. Oh I guess it’s about a ¼-inch thick. But if you use the same everything, you don’t have to worry about it each time.” She was still grinning, seemed to be growing with excitement. The artist at work.

When she had it all rolled to the edges, she picked up the left side of the dough and pulled it across to the right side, then did the same thing, bottom to top. At that point, she moved the dough back to the center of the block and rolled again, about an inch from each side. When done, she repeated the folding process and then rolled out one more time.

“Why do you do all the folding?”

“That’s one of the secrets to fluffy biscuits. The folding creates layers that stay even when gently rolled back out. The more you fold, the more layers you’ll have. You just don’t roll as hard after you’ve folded.”

When she had rolled it back out, appearing to be about ½-inch thick, she took her 2-inch biscuit cutter, dipped it in the canister of flour, and started cutting in one corner.

“Now, hear this—another secret. Put a little flour on your cutter. Press straight down on the dough, and lift straight back out. Some folks twist when they cut, and that crimps the sides. You want a straight cut for fluffy biscuits.” I was beginning to get a picture of why no one could compete with Big Mama’s biscuits.

She removed the outside edges when she completed the cutting, putting the “snakes” aside. She gently lifted each biscuit and arranged them in the cast iron skillet. “Using the skillet is the trick to have crisp bottoms. Don’t forget to grease the bottom with a stick of butter so they don’t stick.”

“Butter. Right. Couldn’t get too much of that.” I laughed.

“That’s right child. None of that artificial margarine either. Real butter. And we’re going to need the rest of that stick melted.” She pointed to the ¾-stick left on the counter, the leftovers from her greasing the pan.

I pulled a small pan from the cabinet, put the stick in and turned the gas on high. It melted quickly, one of the many benefits of a gas stove, not electric.

Big Mama had finished putting all of the biscuits in the skillet and retrieved a brush from the drawer. She began painting the top of the biscuits. She looked at me and grinned. “Another secret.” She actually giggled. I had never heard her giggle. It was as if this process turned back the years for her, she was a young woman again, full of life and love and laughter.

She used all the butter to top the biscuits, dripping into the spaces around the dough. “Even that extra will crisp up the biscuits.” She was very pleased with herself. I knew a little about baking and understood that the butter would caramelize and create crunchy bottoms and sides.

“Last secret.” She lifted the skillet filled with dough, opened the freezer and set it inside. “Your dough with butter has to be really cold and your oven temperature really hot to get the lift of the biscuit. Let’s clean up and have another cup of coffee while we wait.”

The coffee sounded good since I had not even had my first cup. “How long do you leave it in the freezer?”

“Oh, 15-20 minutes should do it.” She was already rinsing the bowl and utensils, putting them in the dishwasher. Big Mama had only recently agreed for Papa John to put in a dishwasher. Big Mama had said that was just being lazy, and there was no way a machine to make sure they are all clean. But she could no longer stand for hours to cook and clean and had become rather fond of that dishwashing machine.

“I saw you put that leftover dough in a ziplock. What’s that for?”

“The snakes? I save them to make something later. Sometimes will roll them in sugar and cinnamon for a treat. I don’t waste nothing. Those of us who lived through the Depression know how to use every bit of what little we have. Although we live in prosperous times now, you never know what can happen and you’ll wish you had saved everything. Keep that in mind child. Be frugal and grateful.”

She retrieved the skillet after about 15 minutes, sliding it onto the oven rack, preheated at 450 degrees.

“How long do they need to cook?”

“Only takes about 15-20 minutes. You have to know your oven though. Electric ovens cook different, sometimes run hotter and you end up with burned biscuits. You want to check them after 12 minutes. You can use a toothpick to check if you can’t tell how done they are. Stick it in the middle of one and it’s ready if the toothpick comes out clean, just like you do with cornbread. With these I can touch a couple and tell by gently pressing down. Leave them in for about 18 minutes if your tops aren’t getting too brown.”

The whole house filled with the aroma of those secret biscuits, could pull anyone from a deep sleep. Most times I visited my grandparents, I slept in, only to wake with the smell of those buttery delicacies. Today I had been a part of the baking, and experienced a side of Big Mama I had never been privy to. I was full of joy from this experience, treasuring the memory all my life, and teaching others what she taught me.

The family cookbook was a hit with all the family, gifting a copy to all the women. Along with the recipes, I shared stories of family and fun and food. Even today my cousin will text me to get a recipe from the book – his sister inherited the cookbook from their mother. There’s something comforting about using recipes that have traveled through generations, and continues to be shared. Remember – long line of good cooks and good eaters.