Mom's Biscuits

Have you ever smelled homemade biscuits cooking in the oven? I am guessing you have not. Do not feel bad that that is not a cherished memory of yours. We have become a different world, and few folks actually make biscuits. No, today we open a can of biscuits that Pillsbury made, and we cook them according to the instructions on the can. Those biscuits are great, and I eat them myself, but I remember the smell of biscuits cooking in the oven, and canned biscuits from Pillsbury do not compare to the real thing.

                  I remember the smell of biscuits cooking in my childhood kitchen. If you were inside the house, the smell of hot biscuits was the signal to come to the table; our meal was almost ready.   Notice I did not say dinner; biscuits were made for every meal in those days.  I never gave much thought to the smell associated with biscuits being cooked, but there is a distinct odor that overrides other succulent odors in the kitchen. 

In my youth, I took those odors for granted.  It simply meant we were about to eat.  I did not consider the love that prepared the meal or the logistics of a particular meal.  My father occasionally cooked a meal, but the task of preparing meals was my mom’s, and she was very good at taking care of us with her culinary skills. It was what we did back then. As a family, we gathered at “the” table and ate the meal mother had prepared. I still don’t like liver, but back then, I ate liver very slowly, one very, very small piece at a time. It was that simple, yet I see the biscuits my mother made as the foundation of our futures. 

There was no central air conditioning back then, and even when it was cold outside, the kitchen was tight and warm. Many years after we left home, our favorite gathering place was the kitchen, where we gathered once again around the table of our youth. In the summer, we could smell biscuits being cooked from the backyard. We knew we needed to go ahead and wash our hands because when the biscuits were done, the meal was ready. We didn’t know life could be any different. We didn’t realize some families never sat together for a meal, and we didn’t know how special it was for us then. We passed the biscuits and deepened our love for each other without giving it much thought. It just happened. 

All of us watched Mother as she made the biscuits. She could have taught the class about multi-tasking because she could mix the ingredients, stir the lima beans, and set the table simultaneously. She never measured anything when she made biscuits. She would sift the flour into the big wooden bowl and then create a large, inverted cone in the middle with her hand. Then she would put some lard (shortening) in the middle, and as she began to work the lard and flour together, she would add the buttermilk. She never made a mess and knew precisely how much to use to fill the bread pan. When the ingredients were thoroughly mixed, she would pull off a small piece of dough and form it into a biscuit. Again, she knew exactly how much to pinch off to create a biscuit. The last thing she did to the biscuit was put a finger dimple in the middle. It was like her stamp of approval. 

Mom’s biscuits were the same size, and she cooked them at around 425⁰ until they were golden brown. Occasionally, she would create what we called a “hotdog” biscuit that was long instead of round. Those biscuits were the prize we all wanted. If we saw mom making bread, we would ask if there would be a hotdog biscuit. If we saw a hotdog biscuit being formed, we claimed it before it entered the oven because everyone wanted a narrow and crunchy biscuit.

Since we all watched Mom make biscuits, we knew how to make biscuits in theory. Several months after I was married, I called my mother and asked her to guide me through the process as I was going to surprise my wife by making biscuits for the first time. The surprise would include a full meal with biscuits being the most surprising part. I had all the ingredients on the kitchen table and was ready. Mom told me to put some flour into my bowl. I asked her how much flour I should put into the bowl, and she said just put some in there. Mother had made biscuits so many times that it never occurred to her to write any of the process down. Then she told me to make a hole in the middle of the pile of flour, and I moved my hand in a circular motion in the flour just like I had seen her do so many times in the years before. 

“Now, put your lard in the middle,” she instructed. 

“How much lard do I need,” I asked.”

“Just get some on the ends of your fingers,” she replied.

I had no idea how much of anything I should have used as things progressed. Before I knew it, I had dough up to my elbows. The kitchen was a pure mess. I hung up the phone and threw the pan full of good intentions into the trash can. We dined that night on the meal I had cooked and some loaf bread. The next time I cooked biscuits, they were edible. My brothers and sisters could make biscuits, but they were never as good as mom’s.

Our table was crowded, but if one of us was missing, we all felt their loss. It wasn’t the same, and we all knew it. Our food did not have fancy names but came from the garden we toiled with our hands. We all knew how to hoe the beans, pick the tomatoes, shuck the corn, and snap the beans. We knew how to lay a row and drop the seeds at the proper intervals. We also learned how to break up crusted cow manure with our hands to make things grow bigger and better. It was how we lived then; we took it for granted since we were kids. Perhaps we even silently told ourselves that when we grew up, things would be different.

Chickens in our yard made many a Sunday meal. It was incredible how mom fried up a chicken, using all the parts, including the neck. There was a crust on the chicken that would have made a staunch vegetarian a chicken lover. No one could fry chicken like Mother did. She would use the grease from frying that chicken to make a delicious brown gravy. We poured that gravy over crumbled biscuits and mashed potatoes, and perhaps some of the gravy was poured over a piece of the "hoecake.” Mom would add some green beans or corn, and we were set to go. 

Christmas in the days of my childhood was a very special time, not so much because of what we received from Santa, but because of the cooking mother would do. There were numerous pumpkin pies, sweet potato pies, real chocolate cake with cooked icing, and a coconut cake with real coconut. These were made from scratch, not a mix. Our mother had a way of blending everything and adding just the right amount of love to make it a banquet. 

The most memorable part of this was no limit on how much you could have. I once ate a whole pumpkin pie before breakfast on one Christmas morning. It was just so good that I could not stop eating it. The presents we received soon faded, but the beauty of our kitchen was something that lives still.

Growth is a natural part of life, so it happened to each of us. David left first to be a US Marine, and we felt the significant loss of his presence. Gloria followed when she and Del were married. Later, I left to be a Marine and served in Vietnam. I was followed by Doug, who left home to be a Soldier in the US Army. Doug worked hard in the grocery business and achieved accolades for his management and creative skills. Karen graduated from college and shortly thereafter served in Japan for two years as a Journeyman Missionary. Seminary came after Japan for Karen, then to the great state of New York to serve her calling. Joyce amazed us all by being the most tenacious at everything she did. She brought laughter to all of us because she was so much like Mother. Mother encouraged Joyce to learn to play the piano by buying a piano and purchasing lessons. That was a benefit that served all of us for many years. Joyce and I would play and sing with great harmony. 

We have each taken our paths in life and established our kitchens. Professionals in every sense, our families embody the essence of the kitchen of our childhood. We still hold the family table as something honorable and sacred. We still abide by the table as a meeting place, a reference point, and a common point of contact. Even though the scriptures tell us in the book of Matthew that “Man does not live by bread alone,” we continue to smell the bread in the oven of our childhood and embrace the hands that prepared the meals that enabled us to become adults. I may not have understood the value of mom’s biscuits when I was young, but today, the memory of the odor of bread in the oven carries me home and to a time of uncompromised love.