“Things Every Southern Woman Should Know How to Make”
Alice clicked on the headline, mildly curious about what yet another stranger thought should be in her kitchen repertoire. Pictures of China plates mounded with crispy fried chicken, greens, cobbler, and a pile of biscuits a mile high flooded the screen, all set off with a pitcher of sweet tea beaded with condensation. The table was set; an apron draped off to the side next to a box labeled “Gramma’s Recipes” in fine calligraphy. She closed the browser and put away her tablet. She was born a Georgia peach, but she couldn’t make a cobbler to save her life. Did that mean she wasn’t southern? Or maybe just not “Southern.”
For Alice, there was no recipe box full of family traditions. Her younger years were filled with rental homes in different states and her father’s voice coaxing her toward a text book rather than a cookbook. Metalworking and fabrication held more interest than learning to flambé or sauté.
Did it make her less of a woman that her cooking skills consisted of fresh salads and calling for takeout?
She’d visited her grandmother occasionally during the summers if they were close enough, and her vague memories were of hot evenings on the porch listening to the cicadas in the trees and her grandmother complaining that she couldn’t cook because it would heat up the house.
One year, though, they’d visited in the fall, when the air was cool and leaves crunched underfoot, and on her grandmother’s counter had set a fresh pan of biscuits and a jar of honey from the beekeeper down the road. Even now, Alice remembered the rich, golden sweetness and the soft warmth of the first bite.
Her grandmother died several years ago without passing on her knowledge, and Alice had grown up, gone to college, and had never thought of what she had lost until now.
She swept up her tablet and pulled up a recipe; maybe she could reclaim this one piece of her heritage.
With her tablet propped against the knife block, Alice laid out her tools: cutting board, bowl, measuring utensils, a whisk. She carefully measured her dry ingredients and mixed them with the whisk before cutting her butter into cubes. The cold butter was hard to cut, but the recipe had insisted it be chilled. Alice had her doubts, but she didn’t dare deviate from the instructions. Finally, the dough resembled the photo on her screen, and she confidently made her hollow in the center of the flour. In went her buttermilk; she hummed a song her grandmother used to sing as she mixed it in.
She kneaded it lightly--the recipe’s author had stressed the importance of not overdoing it--and turned the dough out onto her cutting board.
The oven beeped. Alice rolled her dough once again and cut it with a glass--her one sacrilege, and only because she hadn’t been able to find a biscuit cutter in the store.
Her grandmother’s song played again in her head as she waited, eagerly watching the dough rise through the oven window. She froze; suddenly disappointed. She’d forgotten the honey.
But honey wouldn’t matter if the biscuits weren’t good. If this first batch was a success, she could find honey for the next.
Alice inhaled deeply as her kitchen filled with the aroma of baking biscuits. And then, at last, it was time. She slipped her hands into oven mitts and moved the pan from oven to counter. They seemed fluffy, and the tops were nicely browned.
Humming, she transferred one to a plate to try. Steam curled from the soft middle as she split it open and placed a pat of butter in its center. When it had slightly cooled, she took a bite, and her eyes lit in excitement. She swiped away the recipe to video call her father.
His weathered face brightened with a smile. “Alice! How’s my girl?”
“I did it, Dad. Look!” She held the tablet’s camera towards the pan. “I didn’t think I could do it, but I made Grandma’s biscuits!”
“Those look tasty, but what do you mean your grandma’s biscuits?”
“It’s silly, really, but I was reading an article and realized I never learned to make any of Grandma’s recipes. So, I thought maybe I could recreate it.”
Her father rubbed a hand over his face. “Alice, you’re Grandma didn’t make those biscuits. She was a terrible cook; burned everything she tried to bake.”
“But, then who made them?”
He cleared his throat and his eyes shifted away from the camera.
“Dad?”
“You remember Mr. Johnson? The beekeeper neighbor?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, he used to bring your grandmother a pan of biscuits and a couple gallons of honey in trade for her homemade cough remedy.”
Alice studied the golden biscuits, her excitement slowly fading. Her grandmother had been as southern as sweet tea, and if she couldn’t cook, what did that mean? “What cough remedy?”
Her father sighed. “Grandma made moonshine. She was the biggest supplier in the region.”
“Oh.”
“Well, they look great, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Dad. Want to get together for dinner this week?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll bring the biscuits. I have all this flour to use anyway.”
“Can’t wait to try them.”
“See you then. Bye.” Alice wrapped up the biscuits and cleaned up her mess. In a worn, cedar jewelry box was a slip of paper with a list of ingredients scrawled in her grandmother’s handwriting. She hadn’t known what to make of it before. A slow smile curled her lips as she thought about the copper sheeting in her shop, just waiting for a purpose. Maybe her grandmother had passed on a recipe, after all.
Author Note: My recipe is a modified version of Cristen Clark's, who writes the blog Food & Swine. The original recipe can be found here: https://foodandswine.com/fluffy-biscuits-fire-alarms/
For Alice, there was no recipe box full of family traditions. Her younger years were filled with rental homes in different states and her father’s voice coaxing her toward a text book rather than a cookbook. Metalworking and fabrication held more interest than learning to flambé or sauté.
Did it make her less of a woman that her cooking skills consisted of fresh salads and calling for takeout?
She’d visited her grandmother occasionally during the summers if they were close enough, and her vague memories were of hot evenings on the porch listening to the cicadas in the trees and her grandmother complaining that she couldn’t cook because it would heat up the house.
One year, though, they’d visited in the fall, when the air was cool and leaves crunched underfoot, and on her grandmother’s counter had set a fresh pan of biscuits and a jar of honey from the beekeeper down the road. Even now, Alice remembered the rich, golden sweetness and the soft warmth of the first bite.
Her grandmother died several years ago without passing on her knowledge, and Alice had grown up, gone to college, and had never thought of what she had lost until now.
She swept up her tablet and pulled up a recipe; maybe she could reclaim this one piece of her heritage.
***
Alice surveyed the items spread across her counter and glanced at the recipe on her screen; she’d gathered everything on a shopping adventure that took three times as long as it normally did. She’d stared at the different brands of flour for ten minutes before a kind elderly woman took pity on her and suggested her favorite. Embarrassed but relieved, Alice had asked the woman for help with the others.
The woman had smiled. “It’s nice to see a young woman interested in cooking. I’m sure your beau will be happy.”
Alice fought the temptation to explain how a click-bait listicle had challenged her identity or that she didn't need someone else for a reason to cook. Instead, she smiled and said, "Thanks. I hope they come out okay."
“Oh, they’re the simplest thing! I’m sure they’ll come out fine.”
The woman had smiled. “It’s nice to see a young woman interested in cooking. I’m sure your beau will be happy.”
Alice fought the temptation to explain how a click-bait listicle had challenged her identity or that she didn't need someone else for a reason to cook. Instead, she smiled and said, "Thanks. I hope they come out okay."
“Oh, they’re the simplest thing! I’m sure they’ll come out fine.”
With her tablet propped against the knife block, Alice laid out her tools: cutting board, bowl, measuring utensils, a whisk. She carefully measured her dry ingredients and mixed them with the whisk before cutting her butter into cubes. The cold butter was hard to cut, but the recipe had insisted it be chilled. Alice had her doubts, but she didn’t dare deviate from the instructions. Finally, the dough resembled the photo on her screen, and she confidently made her hollow in the center of the flour. In went her buttermilk; she hummed a song her grandmother used to sing as she mixed it in. She kneaded it lightly--the recipe’s author had stressed the importance of not overdoing it--and turned the dough out onto her cutting board.
Alice rolled and folded, and then checked her social media while it chilled in the fridge and the oven preheated. For a moment, she thought about posting her progress, but she hesitated. What if she missed a step? Or burned them? Would her friends tease her? She could imagine them asking, “Are you really from the south?”
She’d heard it before. Her drawl had faded over the years, traded instead for an accent so generic that it had become a game to bet people that they couldn’t guess where she was from. When they gave up, and she revealed her southern roots, most didn’t believe her.
The oven beeped. Alice rolled her dough once again and cut it with a glass--her one sacrilege, and only because she hadn’t been able to find a biscuit cutter in the store.
Her grandmother’s song played again in her head as she waited, eagerly watching the dough rise through the oven window. She froze; suddenly disappointed. She’d forgotten the honey.
But honey wouldn’t matter if the biscuits weren’t good. If this first batch was a success, she could find honey for the next.
Alice inhaled deeply as her kitchen filled with the aroma of baking biscuits. And then, at last, it was time. She slipped her hands into oven mitts and moved the pan from oven to counter. They seemed fluffy, and the tops were nicely browned.
Humming, she transferred one to a plate to try. Steam curled from the soft middle as she split it open and placed a pat of butter in its center. When it had slightly cooled, she took a bite, and her eyes lit in excitement. She swiped away the recipe to video call her father.
His weathered face brightened with a smile. “Alice! How’s my girl?”
“I did it, Dad. Look!” She held the tablet’s camera towards the pan. “I didn’t think I could do it, but I made Grandma’s biscuits!”
“Those look tasty, but what do you mean your grandma’s biscuits?”
“It’s silly, really, but I was reading an article and realized I never learned to make any of Grandma’s recipes. So, I thought maybe I could recreate it.”
Her father rubbed a hand over his face. “Alice, you’re Grandma didn’t make those biscuits. She was a terrible cook; burned everything she tried to bake.”
“But, then who made them?”
He cleared his throat and his eyes shifted away from the camera.
“Dad?”
“You remember Mr. Johnson? The beekeeper neighbor?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, he used to bring your grandmother a pan of biscuits and a couple gallons of honey in trade for her homemade cough remedy.”
Alice studied the golden biscuits, her excitement slowly fading. Her grandmother had been as southern as sweet tea, and if she couldn’t cook, what did that mean? “What cough remedy?”
Her father sighed. “Grandma made moonshine. She was the biggest supplier in the region.”
“Oh.”
“Well, they look great, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Dad. Want to get together for dinner this week?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll bring the biscuits. I have all this flour to use anyway.”
“Can’t wait to try them.”
“See you then. Bye.” Alice wrapped up the biscuits and cleaned up her mess. In a worn, cedar jewelry box was a slip of paper with a list of ingredients scrawled in her grandmother’s handwriting. She hadn’t known what to make of it before. A slow smile curled her lips as she thought about the copper sheeting in her shop, just waiting for a purpose. Maybe her grandmother had passed on a recipe, after all.
Author Note: My recipe is a modified version of Cristen Clark's, who writes the blog Food & Swine. The original recipe can be found here: https://foodandswine.com/fluffy-biscuits-fire-alarms/
… I may have watched too much Moonshiners while writing this.
Comments
Post a Comment