Biscuits Forever

This morning I got up as usual and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. This time of year it’s dark at 6am so I switched on the overhead light, but I’ve been doing this for so long I’m sure I could do everything blindfolded if I had to.

I turned on the stove to heat it up, then got out the mixing bowl, the measuring cups, and the biscuit pan. I set the skillet on the stovetop and put a dab of lard in it so it would be ready to fry the eggs and bacon once I turned on the burner. 

I took the flour jar out of the cupboard, the wooden spoon from the drawer, and the buttermilk from the refrigerator. I gave the counter a wipe with a dishrag to clear off some breadcrumbs from last night’s supper, then I got down to business.

Making biscuits for breakfast is something I’ve been doing since I was little. I used to watch my mother as she created her biscuits every morning—a dozen perfectly browned, fluffy mounds of deliciousness—and I knew I was destined to be a biscuit maker.

Mom taught me all her biscuit making techniques—how much lard to use, the right number of times to fold the dough, exactly when to put the biscuits in the oven and when to take them out.  It didn’t take long before she decided I was ready to be the family biscuit maker. For most kids that wouldn’t be something to get excited about, but I couldn’t wait to start getting up every morning before everyone else and make biscuits.

Dad wasn’t a big fan of my new responsibilities. “The boy needs his sleep,” he said. “Besides, his biscuits aren’t all that great.”  Mom said he was just making excuses so I wouldn’t be in the kitchen when he woke up. He hated change and his morning routine was set in stone years before I was born.  The idea of his son flitting around the kitchen making biscuits when he walked in to get his coffee didn’t sit well with him.

Mom came up with the idea of a blind taste test. She told him that if he picked her biscuits, she would go back to making them in the morning. If he picked mine, I was the family’s official biscuit maker. 

The next morning Mom and I made our biscuits and served them to dad on two plates. He picked one, buttered it, spread blackberry jam on it and ate it. He pondered for a moment, wiped his mouth, then chose one from the other plate. This one he covered with sausage gravy, shook a healthy dose of salt and pepper on it, and polished it off in three bites.

We waited for his verdict. “I got to admit, they both taste good, but I’m going with the gravy biscuit.” I grinned and dad knew his mornings were never going to be the same again.

That was forty years ago and here I was still making biscuits every weekday morning. Now it was just my son Jimmy and me, so I made a half-dozen biscuits instead of a dozen, but my technique hasn’t changed, only the amount of ingredients.

I worked the dough on the floured countertop then cut it into biscuits and put them in the oven. I turned on the skillet and got the eggs and bacon out, then laid out the butter and strawberry jam and honey. Jimmy likes a sweet biscuit, whereas I prefer a savory one, so I always mix up some sawmill gravy with the grease from the bacon to put on my biscuits.

The coffee was ready, so now that everything was ready to go, I poured myself a cup and sat down. Jimmy would be down any minute, ready for his first day on the job. Hard to believe he was going to be leaving for work before me from now on; it felt kind of strange, but I suppose I’d get used to it.

I was finishing up my coffee when I heard Jimmy clomping down the stairs. He came into the kitchen tucking his shirt into his pants with his hair slicked back and a tie neatly cinched around his neck. The boy looked good, I had to admit. Then I looked down and noticed one of his shoelaces was untied—some things never change.

I got up to check the biscuits and start the eggs and bacon. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee,” I said. “Now that you’re a working man you need it to get started for the day.” “Appreciate it, dad,” he said as he zipped up his pants, “but I have to get going. I don’t know exactly how long it’s going to take me to get there, and you never know about the traffic.”

The biscuits were done so I pulled them from the oven and set them on the counter. Wisps of buttermilk-scented steam rose from pan as I went back to the stove to turn the eggs. “You can sit down for a couple of minutes. At least have a biscuit.” Jimmy shook his head. “I hear they have breakfast snacks and coffee for free at work. I’ll just eat there from now on.”

I flipped the eggs and bacon and watched him walk out to his car and get in. I took two biscuits out of the pan and put them on a plate and went back to the kitchen table. I studied the strawberry jam for a moment. I wasn’t a big fan of sweets in the morning, but I unscrewed the jar top and scooped out a spoonful of jam and dropped it on a biscuit. If Jimmy wasn’t going to eating breakfast, I’d have to scale back my biscuit ingredients.

The door opened and Jimmy walked back into the kitchen and looked at the biscuit on my plate. “You know what, dad? How about I take a couple of biscuits in with me to work every morning?” He took the other biscuit off the plate, buttered it, swabbed it with honey, took a big bite and headed back out the door. His shoe was still untied.