A good biscuitis a miracle. Its own holy ritual and a hangover cure-all. No matter how foolproof your recipe may be, or how many generations have passed it down, the moment a biscuit departs an oven follows a familiar pattern: expectation, followed by suspense, before the elation payoff.
Success is immediately recognizable, weightless in your hands. You know it when you see it. You remember it when you taste it.
My first encounters felt routine. As a kid, I ate buttermilk biscuits after church, beside runny eggs, cheesy grits and fried catfish.
Even if I wasn’t stoked to face a pulpit for four hours, the thought of biscuits in the back room was enough to tide me over.