Biscuits or Bust
As they say on Steel Magnolias, “There’s a story there….”
I’m sure you can tell what this present is 
š My good friend TammyLynn (the one who almost got eaten by a bull shark at Douglas last week) brought it to me this morning.
Here’s what happened, although I’m ashamed to admit it.
It all started last year, when I got it in my head to be a good wife & make my husband homemade biscuits. I’m not a fan of homemade biscuits (just hush) & every time I say that in the presence of a baker, they gasp aloud, & say, “You’ve never had mine!” all scandalized. I have determined that in most of my experience eating them, I have found them dry & hard. I much prefer the frozen type, it’s really hard to mess them up. Anyway, so I went to Pinterest, found the prettiest picture, & used the accompanying recipe. This particular endeavor involved putting the dough in the blender. Johnny chose that moment to walk in the kitchen & took in the scene, blender whirring, flour dusted on every still surface (including my hair).
“Never seen my granny use a blender to make homemade biscuits,” he commented drily.
“You might not live to see these,” I replied icily, as he beat a trail back to the living room.
Well, those biscuits came out edible, but they were neither beautiful nor mouthwatering, as I recall. And I had hung up my biscuit making hatĀ again, until about two weeks ago.
Biscuits come up in conversation at the Co-op pretty often, as you might imagine. It was one morning, & TammyLynn was here, visiting, & Marshall Dykes got to talking about cathead biscuits. I was choosing to remain silent for once, as I knew my opinion would not be well received. But then they pressured me, “Wouldn’t you like to have some big ole homemade biscuits?” they asked. And I made my comment.
They were both aghast.
“And then everybody always says, ‘but you ain’t had mine!'”
“We-eeellll….” TammyLynn starts. “I’m just gonna go ahead & say it. You ain’t had mine!”
“Well, bring ’em on,” I challenge.
Plans were laid. We were to have homemade biscuits the next morning, with homemade strawberry freezer jam, courtesy of TammyLynn.
I was I in charge of bringing the butter.
I was all excited the next morning. They were theĀ most beautiful golden brown, fluffy biscuits that ever existed in the history of the world.
š My good friend TammyLynn (the one who almost got eaten by a bull shark at Douglas last week) brought it to me this morning.Here’s what happened, although I’m ashamed to admit it.
It all started last year, when I got it in my head to be a good wife & make my husband homemade biscuits. I’m not a fan of homemade biscuits (just hush) & every time I say that in the presence of a baker, they gasp aloud, & say, “You’ve never had mine!” all scandalized. I have determined that in most of my experience eating them, I have found them dry & hard. I much prefer the frozen type, it’s really hard to mess them up. Anyway, so I went to Pinterest, found the prettiest picture, & used the accompanying recipe. This particular endeavor involved putting the dough in the blender. Johnny chose that moment to walk in the kitchen & took in the scene, blender whirring, flour dusted on every still surface (including my hair).
“Never seen my granny use a blender to make homemade biscuits,” he commented drily.
“You might not live to see these,” I replied icily, as he beat a trail back to the living room.
Well, those biscuits came out edible, but they were neither beautiful nor mouthwatering, as I recall. And I had hung up my biscuit making hatĀ again, until about two weeks ago.
Biscuits come up in conversation at the Co-op pretty often, as you might imagine. It was one morning, & TammyLynn was here, visiting, & Marshall Dykes got to talking about cathead biscuits. I was choosing to remain silent for once, as I knew my opinion would not be well received. But then they pressured me, “Wouldn’t you like to have some big ole homemade biscuits?” they asked. And I made my comment.
They were both aghast.
“And then everybody always says, ‘but you ain’t had mine!'”
“We-eeellll….” TammyLynn starts. “I’m just gonna go ahead & say it. You ain’t had mine!”
“Well, bring ’em on,” I challenge.
Plans were laid. We were to have homemade biscuits the next morning, with homemade strawberry freezer jam, courtesy of TammyLynn.
I was I in charge of bringing the butter.
I was all excited the next morning. They were theĀ most beautiful golden brown, fluffy biscuits that ever existed in the history of the world.
And they tasted every bit as good as they looked. TammyLynn was kind enough to include the recipe. And, as an added bonus, it did not include the blender. Johnny would be pleased. So, the following Sunday, I went for it.
You talk about a sticky mess. My rolling pin had some accumulated grease on it from years of disuse (let’s be honest, decades…) so it had to be washed in the middle of getting my loaf mixed, so that probably didn’t help matters. Then the recipe card lacked the temperature to bake them at, so I opted for 350. That turned out to be another mistake, in a long line of fails for the morning. I rolled them out best I could, the heavy marble pin sinking deeply into the dough, so I ended up folding the dough over itself (which I learned is how you make flaky layers). I had been warned not to work up the dough very long, keeping it to strictly less than 30 seconds I had my hands in it. So here I was worried about that, picturing the bombs from Candy Crush counting down. I was careful not to twist my cutter as I stamped them out. Now or never, I thought, sliding them into the oven. I looked at the clock. They were supposed to be done in 10-12 minutes. Twenty minutes later, I’m still waiting on them to brown.
Johnny tentatively says, “Maybe they’re done & just not turning…”
So I retrieved them, & sure enough, they were brown on the bottom. And just as thin as they’d started.
I sighed.
We ate them with sausage, or butter & plenty of jam. They were fine, other than dry & short.
I text TammyLynn, as per request, to hash it out. She basically told me to keep trying. Meanwhile, Johnny was eating them as fast as he could. “Nothin’ wrong with these biscuits,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Just a little flat.”
The week went by & I puzzled about what I could change to make them better. I didn’t broach the subject with anyone besides TammyLynn, though. I didn’t feel like getting barraged by suggestions. Sunday, I tried again.
I was ready with a clean & dry rolling pin this time. I dusted my wax paper. I jacked the heat up on the oven to 400. Bring it on, I thought.
My biscuits did not rise.
I flew into a rage.
I flung the two pans across the kitchen, Johnny ducking. “Well, there ain’t no sense in getting mad about it,” he drawled sensibly.
“I CAN’T suck at this. I suck at sports. I don’t like working in the sun. If you are terrible at more than one or two things, you suck as a person. I refuse.” I’m slung the biscuits of one pan on top of the other, & went to digging in the freezer for the tried-and-true Pillsbury brand. In the meantime, Johnny is sampling off the “ugly” one, the pieced one. “They taste fine, babe.”
So here we went to eating flat biscuits for the second Sunday in a row. “If it was easy, everybody would do it,” he tried to console me as tears welled in my eyes.
I was sure I was still rolling them out too thin, but I couldn’t help it, due to that unwieldy rolling pin. And I was afraid to pat them out, because that would put me waaaaay over the thirty second mark & make them hard.
At this point, I was ready for suggestions from the experienced biscuit makers at work. I consulted Robin.
“Well, first of all, what kind of flour are you using?”
I was a step ahead, already checking that the morning before. It IS self rising, but it’s the unbleached kind. Because, didja know, “Enriched” means BLEACHED. Yeah, that’s right, you’re eating BLEACH.
“I don’t know. I don’t use buttermilk, & I don’t use butter, but I just sift my flour–”
“Wait. What? Sift?” My ears pricked like a hunting dog.
“Oh, you haven’t been sifting it? Always, always sift it.”
“I don’t,” Clint interjected. He starts telling me how he does it, & what a mess he makes. Robin thinks I need more milk. She also urged me to take a fork & punch holes in the top, she’s heard it works. Tuletta says I need to use buttermilk. Kay told me to put an egg in there, it adds fluffiness. Yes, that’s right, an egg. Willie (yes, tire shop Willie, even HE can bake biscuits) says to mix my flour & milk first, then add Crisco. Some lady overhearing a conversation said to use a wooden spoon.
I think I don’t have biscuits in my heart. I think I’m oozing bad juju & karma in my dough & my biscuits know I hate them. I need love for my biscuits.
I’m gonna keep after it. Oven is going to 425. I’m gonna use my new rolling pin, courtesy of my professional biscuitĀ baking buddy,Ā & I’m gonna add a little more milk. I’m gonna put on some Gillian Welch & sing. I’ll let y’all know Sunday how it goes.
You talk about a sticky mess. My rolling pin had some accumulated grease on it from years of disuse (let’s be honest, decades…) so it had to be washed in the middle of getting my loaf mixed, so that probably didn’t help matters. Then the recipe card lacked the temperature to bake them at, so I opted for 350. That turned out to be another mistake, in a long line of fails for the morning. I rolled them out best I could, the heavy marble pin sinking deeply into the dough, so I ended up folding the dough over itself (which I learned is how you make flaky layers). I had been warned not to work up the dough very long, keeping it to strictly less than 30 seconds I had my hands in it. So here I was worried about that, picturing the bombs from Candy Crush counting down. I was careful not to twist my cutter as I stamped them out. Now or never, I thought, sliding them into the oven. I looked at the clock. They were supposed to be done in 10-12 minutes. Twenty minutes later, I’m still waiting on them to brown.
Johnny tentatively says, “Maybe they’re done & just not turning…”
So I retrieved them, & sure enough, they were brown on the bottom. And just as thin as they’d started.
I sighed.
We ate them with sausage, or butter & plenty of jam. They were fine, other than dry & short.
I text TammyLynn, as per request, to hash it out. She basically told me to keep trying. Meanwhile, Johnny was eating them as fast as he could. “Nothin’ wrong with these biscuits,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Just a little flat.”
The week went by & I puzzled about what I could change to make them better. I didn’t broach the subject with anyone besides TammyLynn, though. I didn’t feel like getting barraged by suggestions. Sunday, I tried again.
I was ready with a clean & dry rolling pin this time. I dusted my wax paper. I jacked the heat up on the oven to 400. Bring it on, I thought.
My biscuits did not rise.
I flew into a rage.
I flung the two pans across the kitchen, Johnny ducking. “Well, there ain’t no sense in getting mad about it,” he drawled sensibly.
“I CAN’T suck at this. I suck at sports. I don’t like working in the sun. If you are terrible at more than one or two things, you suck as a person. I refuse.” I’m slung the biscuits of one pan on top of the other, & went to digging in the freezer for the tried-and-true Pillsbury brand. In the meantime, Johnny is sampling off the “ugly” one, the pieced one. “They taste fine, babe.”
So here we went to eating flat biscuits for the second Sunday in a row. “If it was easy, everybody would do it,” he tried to console me as tears welled in my eyes.
I was sure I was still rolling them out too thin, but I couldn’t help it, due to that unwieldy rolling pin. And I was afraid to pat them out, because that would put me waaaaay over the thirty second mark & make them hard.
At this point, I was ready for suggestions from the experienced biscuit makers at work. I consulted Robin.
“Well, first of all, what kind of flour are you using?”
I was a step ahead, already checking that the morning before. It IS self rising, but it’s the unbleached kind. Because, didja know, “Enriched” means BLEACHED. Yeah, that’s right, you’re eating BLEACH.
“I don’t know. I don’t use buttermilk, & I don’t use butter, but I just sift my flour–”
“Wait. What? Sift?” My ears pricked like a hunting dog.
“Oh, you haven’t been sifting it? Always, always sift it.”
“I don’t,” Clint interjected. He starts telling me how he does it, & what a mess he makes. Robin thinks I need more milk. She also urged me to take a fork & punch holes in the top, she’s heard it works. Tuletta says I need to use buttermilk. Kay told me to put an egg in there, it adds fluffiness. Yes, that’s right, an egg. Willie (yes, tire shop Willie, even HE can bake biscuits) says to mix my flour & milk first, then add Crisco. Some lady overhearing a conversation said to use a wooden spoon.
I think I don’t have biscuits in my heart. I think I’m oozing bad juju & karma in my dough & my biscuits know I hate them. I need love for my biscuits.
I’m gonna keep after it. Oven is going to 425. I’m gonna use my new rolling pin, courtesy of my professional biscuitĀ baking buddy,Ā & I’m gonna add a little more milk. I’m gonna put on some Gillian Welch & sing. I’ll let y’all know Sunday how it goes.
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