The Farmhouse Kitchen: Chicken, Biscuits, and New Beginnings

January may bring new beginnings, but don’t lose focus of old memories and what they can teach us.

Years ago I had a dream. I was sitting in a tiny log cabin in mybackyard eating biscuits with my maternal grandmother. She was sitting at one end of a little wooden table that was just big enough for the two of us. In the middle of the table was a pan of biscuits, made by her, and baked in her old black cast-iron cookstove. We never spoke the first word to each other — we just sat and ate biscuits. That singular, ethereal moment is still so strong a memory in my heart that I can close my eyes and be taken right back to that little table, and into my long-gone grandmother’s presence. It also began my personal quest to learn to bake a good pan of biscuits.

Other than that dream, I never remember seeing that grandmother make biscuits. She was known more in the family for her fried apple pies. My paternal grandmother, on the other hand, made biscuits every day of her life. I never walked into her house without seeing a poundcake on her counter or leftover biscuits on her stove. I’d watch her do that little pull and pinch trick with her hand, create exact portions of dough, pat them into her biscuit pan, and bake them off perfectly. It was magic as far as I was concerned. And what’s more, she’d perform this trick using a wooden bowl of self-rising flour that never, ever seemed to run low, much less run out. She’d put it away looking exactly as it did when she got it out. I’ve never mastered her technique.

All my food memories tell me that I come from a long line of fabulous southern cooks. Funny thing: I didn’t have brains enough to want to learn any of their “tricks-and-secrets” until AFTER I got married and moved five hours away. It’s kind of hard to get the nuances of baking or cooking anything over the phone. Some of the instructions my mother gave me made absolutely no sense. Ever tried to decipher instructions like, ‘add enough milk to make it more wet than dry, but not too wet’? It took me years to figure things like that out.

Now, when I’m thinking about my life-long cooking adventures, I remember that I never really wanted to learn anything about food until I was forced to (I had a husband to feed). Back in the dark ages when I was in high school, home economics was a requirement. Sewing was what I always wanted to do, but the classes were always full. And since it was a requirement, it was demanded that I be in cooking classes — with the football and basketball players — whether I liked it or not. But I was blessed with a teacher named Mrs. Hudson who was funny, smart, and patient. I would love to tell her what I do now, and that I still have (and use) every one of the recipes she gave us in high school. And that I probably appreciate her most for teaching me how to make sweet tea.

Funny how food gets into your soul.

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