“This morning is Saturday - a regular, sunny Saturday morning in April - which should seem quite normal, but it isn’t normal because we are in the midst of a world-wide quarantine.

But for some reason, I woke up and it felt like it would be the perfect morning to bake biscuits. Maybe it was just my need to feel that something was normal and familiar in the midst of a not-so-normal world right now.”

Saturday morning. Waking up to “Spirit in the Sky” or some other upbeat song playing lively through the house. My dad busily working away in the kitchen. His most offered brunch bakery item - homemade biscuits - made from scratch biscuits that are tall with lots of layers.

My sleepy childhood self would wander in and watch him work away with his eyes on the prize - and the counter. Flatten with the hands, fold, turn, fold, flatten again - until he was perfectly satisfied with the biscuit dough. Then came the rolling out, the precision cutting, the delicate transfer to the baking sheet, and the reforming of the dough. The process repeated until he was at the end of all of the usable dough for cutting. At that point, my favorite point, he would inevitably ask me if I wanted to make something from the scraps of dough. The tiny ones that couldn’t form a full-size biscuit anymore, but were like a golden prize to my eyes. Because, as I see in my youngest daughter now, I too loved all the tiny things. So, being offered the end of the dough - that I could make teeny-tiny biscuits from was the best reward for waking up to watch my dad’s in-real-life baking show.

I have enjoyed this baking ritual my whole life. At some point, my dad moved on to baking other things: His very special chocolate chip oatmeal cookie recipe that he perfected himself, the family-famous sourdough pancakes that he made from a starter that he bought in Jackson Hole, Wyoming on one of his layovers, and eventually bread-making…which had a similar, methodical method as I remember during the early days of watching him make biscuits.

There is something about watching someone make something with their hands. There is, perhaps, extra love in it.

This morning is Saturday - a regular, sunny Saturday morning in April - which should seem quite normal, but it isn’t normal because we are in the midst of a world-wide quarantine. But for some reason, I woke up and it felt like it would be the perfect morning to bake biscuits. Maybe it was just my need to feel that something was normal and familiar in the midst of a not-so-normal world right now.

I turned on the music - I set out the ingredients, the bowl and biscuit cutter, and got to work. When it was time to work the dough on the counter, I paused for a minute, considering my options. Sprinkling flour on the counter felt almost a bit, perhaps…excessive today as I thought about friends who have recently had trouble finding flour in their stores during the Corona pandemic. But, it was a necessary part of the process, so I sprinkled and spread it out. Then, I carefully set the biscuit dough on the floured surface and began working it, like I remember my dad doing so many times. As I pressed it out, I noticed how prevalent my handprints were in the dough and the floured surface - and I couldn’t help but think of how much my dad’s handprints were a part of mine. While I worked away, I wondered if one of my girls might wander downstairs to see what the hustle and bustle was in the kitchen early on a Saturday morning. Sure enough, a few moments later, a sleepy-eyed little girl came around the corner and peered onto the counter.

She quietly asked, “What are you making?”

“Biscuits,” I replied.

“Oh! I know what those are. Poppa makes those! I have had those at Poppa and Gia’s house before,” she excitedly replied before heading to play in the living room with her dolls.

Yes, sweet girl, you sure have. Our family, full of southern roots, has been making biscuits for years. Even into my adult life, no matter what house my parents lived in - if I woke up early enough - I would sit across the counter and watch my dad work his magic with the biscuit dough.

And so, today, the process continued.

One generation, to the next - and beyond.

As I finished cutting perfectly round circles and placing them on the baking sheet, I gathered up the tiny scraps of dough that were left. And, for old time’s sake, I happily formed a teeny-tiny, perfectly-imperfect, little round biscuit and proudly placed it on the sheet next to the others.

It baked up tiny, flaky, and golden brown.

Perfectly Flaky Rolled Biscuits

3 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cream of tartar
1 cup of butter
1 cup milk or buttermilk

In a large bowl combine all dry ingredients. Using a pastry blender or fork, cut in the butter until you have what looks like coarse crumbs. Using your fork, make a well in the center of the flour mixture. Add milk all at once and use a fork to mix until the mixture is just moistened.

Place the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead the dough by folding and gently pressing it. Turn and repeat. Roll the dough with a rolling pin until it is 1/2” thick. Fold the dough in half or thirds if you would like triple-stacked biscuits. Cut dough with a floured 2-1/2-inch biscuit cutter; reroll scraps and repeat.

Place biscuit circles 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet (I prefer using baking parchment paper on the baking sheet). Bake at 450 F or 230 C for 8 to 12 minutes or until the tops are slightly golden brown.

Serve warm with butter and honey or preserves. Our family favorites are strawberry or fig preserves.