The Beautiful Art (and Chaos) of Biscuits
American biscuits come in all shapes and sizes—flaky, fluffy, buttery, golden-topped. Some folks dress them up with honey or jam, others load them with butter, gravy, eggs, bacon, or sausage. No matter how you top them, they’re a true Southern comfort staple.
I grew up in the South, where biscuits weren’t just for breakfast—they were at every meal. Morning, noon, or night, there was always a batch on the table. Now, I’ll be honest with you... I make ugly biscuits. They’re a little lopsided, a bit uneven, but let me tell you—they’re good. The kind that steam when you tear them open and melt in your mouth with a bit of butter. Ugly or not, they don’t last long once they hit the plate.
There’s a certain mystery to biscuit baking. Some say it’s a science—precise measurements, cold butter, a gentle hand. Others say it’s an art passed down through generations. I’ve heard stories of grandmothers who didn’t even measure—just scooped flour into a bowl, threw in some lard, and slapped the dough into a hot cast iron skillet. No frills, just love and instinct.
On a recent trip to Glen Rose, Texas, I stumbled across a small gem of a place called Big Cup Eatery. And let me tell you—if you ever find yourself there, you have to try their biscuits. These things are no joke—each one is bigger than your hand and hot from the oven. I had one just the other day, and I’m still thinking about it. People were ordering biscuits and gravy like it was the most normal thing in the world—but I couldn’t wrap my head around how they managed to eat two of them! They were homemade, hot, and absolutely massive.
Whether they’re made from scratch or from memory, eaten with butter or smothered in gravy, biscuits carry stories, traditions, and a whole lot of heart. They’re messy, imperfect, and deeply nostalgic—which is probably why I love them so much.
No comments:
Post a Comment