Each week, one of our favorite writers is drafting a list of every instance their favorite food saved their life. From slices of pizza to bagels, tacos to tamales, these emotional eats remind us that food is so much more than fuel.
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By Katie Robertson
It’s true that you don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone. When I moved to the Northeast in my early 20s, I felt this way about biscuits. I recently relocated to the South after several years away, and I thank my lucky stars every time I see biscuits on a menu or wake up at my Mom or Nana’s house to biscuits fresh from the oven. There are few things better than a biscuit.
Recalling the life-saving powers of the simplest of baked goods, I can’t help but think of my life as a timeline of biscuit consumption, an odyssey of biscuit understanding. Biscuits are my Giving Tree.
You take a lot of things for granted as a child, and as the daughter of some top shelf home cooks, scratch cooking is one of them. I grew up in Arkansas and spent many summers in Alabama thinking elaborate meals and homemade apple pies were the norm. The biscuits I ate were nearly always made from scratch back then, but as plain and commonplace as they were, they didn’t catch my attention like the lofty meringues of coconut pies or the fuss of Osso Bucco. Yes, I’m painfully admitting to the world, right here, right now, that hot from the oven, fluffy, golden orbs of goodness, slathered with butter and preserves, carefully made by the loving hands of my Mother and Nana, were no big deal.
The College Hangover Biscuit
The simple fact is, in the South, you can go almost anywhere and get a decent biscuit. As a kid, I would say I just liked biscuits.
Fast-forward a few years to Monteagle, Tennessee on a brutal Sunday morning. It was my sophomore year at Sewanee: The University of the South, a tiny liberal arts school isolated on a plateau between Nashville and Chattanooga. Spring Party Weekend had wreaked havoc on my soul after being inducted into my second drinking society (a not-so-secret, by-invitation-only club of similarly steel-livered individuals that gather together from time to time and tie one on for giggles and bonding) and I. Needed. A. Biscuit.
At that time there were only a few places for breakfast off-campus where I could anonymously pick up something greasy from a drive-thru. There are some hangovers that not even Waffle House can cure. I had two choices: McDonalds or Hardees, and everyone knows Hardees has it going on when it comes to biscuits (I don’t care what you say, Garden & Gun , you blasphemous hooligans). Hardee’s egg and cheese biscuit and sweet tea in hand, I pulled out of the drive-thru and into a parking spot to assuage my hangry hangover. The salty, golden brown biscuit was perfectly pillowy on the inside, with just enough buttery greasiness to soak up the residual evil in my system. I no longer just liked biscuits. I respected biscuits.
The Homecoming Biscuit
It wasn’t until I moved away from the South that I realized good biscuits weren’t a birthright. It wasn’t like biscuits weren’t available, but no matter how homesick I was, the biscuits in the Northeast didn’t quite do it for me—I’ve had pretty good biscuits in New York, but the biscuits of desperation at a Connecticut Cracker Barrel did NOT save my life. I always had to go home for life-raft level biscuits.
There was the time I visited my Mother in Holly Springs, Mississippi and we couldn’t bring ourselves to cook one morning, so we drove into town from our rural farm just for a Popeye’s biscuit. The way the drive-thru employee pronounced our order when she repeated it back to us (“Ok, that’s four bee-yus-kuts…”) will forever give us happy memories of our time spent in Mississippi. Good biscuits and laughter can save you from anything.
The “Research” Biscuit
Biscuits saved my life the morning I was home visiting family in Alabama after my first semester of grad school in New York. At the time I was writing a paper on the racially targeted marketing practices of several fast food fried chicken chains. I took the opportunity to “research” Bojangles more thoroughly. I ordered a cajun filet chicken biscuit and my life, in no uncertain terms, was changed forever. As far as fast food biscuits are concerned, Bojangles is tops, and is the standard by which all other biscuits are measured. The biscuits have a slight toastiness on top, a perfect ratio of denseness to fluffiness in the center, and are salty and buttery on the bottom.
Needless to say, Bojangles biscuits have saved me every Mardi Gras of my adult life and the morning after every party within proximity to a Bojangles location.
The Heritage Biscuits
Every time I see my grandfather and he says, “When are you gonna make me biscuits?” I’m reminded that his incessant teasing is less about being a proper Southern woman than it is about understanding my heritage. I have a Masters Degree in Food Studies and am child of the South—it is almost obligatory that I master the art of biscuits, but to my grandfather, the importance is in knowing how to make the simplest, most delicious sustenance known to him, and, as I now realize, to me.
I’m working my way up the biscuit ladder—I’ve made drop biscuits and cathead biscuits and even highfalutin’ biscuits with expensive cheeses and whatnot, but not simple, round, fluffy, buttermilk biscuits. In a way, I think I’m intimidated (and stubborn enough to defy my grandfather just to be a jerk). I used to think that if I couldn’t make a real biscuit, the kind that make people feel like I feel about biscuits, then I’ll have failed at passing on that amazing experience, and that makes me so sad. That’s ridiculous, I know. I just have to practice—do I think my matriarch came out of the womb with those skills? No. Making biscuits is an element of my heritage and something I desire to do well—just look at the happiness it can bring. Getting over the act of not learning to make them because I don’t want to be held to antiquated ideas of what a Southern woman should be or just getting over my misplaced fears of failure is something I have to do for myself. Biscuits are forcing me form my own unique relationship with my heritage, oddly enough.
So, I’ll practice on my best friend from Georgia, who is visiting me this weekend—she loves me no matter what and will tell me straight if I make crap biscuits. I bet if we’re hungover hungry enough, they’ll taste fine. I’ll keep trying. Knowing how to make a good biscuit is a skill that requires practice, but once mastered, you have the power to save lives.
Craving more Southern food stories and history? We’ve got just the ticket. Join Curator Sean Brock at Taste Talks Brooklyn this September. Tickets on sale now !
