The Story of the Invincible Biscuit

I am a victim of pre-menopausal memory loss. Which may sound bad, but actually comes in handy now and then. I can read a book, then enjoy it again six months later, having no idea whodunit. So when I read a blog entry a few weeks ago about somebody's cornbread that was not quite up-to-par, it reminded me of the biscuit story. That's not the bad part though. The problem is that I can't remember whose blog I read it on to give some linky-love, so whoever you are, thanks for the biscuit reminder. I appreciate all the verbal clues I can get.

On to the biscuit story.

I was born in DC and raised in New Jersey. I don't believe, in the first 23 years of my life, that I ever ate a biscuit. We had great breads from the Jewish bakeries, but nary a biscuit. I wasn't even sure what they were. So when Ben and I married, he gave me his biscuit recipe which he had written inside the cover of his Bible. It's that important to a southern man. But along with the biscuit recipe, he had a few others he considered crucial to life-as-we-know-it.

So trying to be the ultimate wife, I set to work making biscuits one day. I measured. I cut in shortening. I tossed wet with dry quickly. I folded and patted a few times. I cut them out and put them on the pan. Ungreased, of course. I happily put the pan in a 450 degree oven just like the recipe said, and set the timer.

For one hour.

I had already made a pot of soup which was simmering, just waiting for my very first biscuits to sop up the juice, so Ben and I were out in the yard playing with our neighbor's puppies, waiting for the timer to announce the hot, flaky goodness springing forth from my newlywed oven.

After about 30 minutes, Ben asked if I had set the timer. Yes, I assured him. Time drags when your mouth is watering in anticipation.

After 40 minutes we saw smoke coming through the screen door. Houston, we have a problem.

We ran in the house, threw open windows and doors, and Ben fairly flew out the door with the smoking pan. Turns out the 450 degrees was for the biscuits. The one hour was for the banana bread. Who knew?

Ben likes to tell this story to newlyweds and always tells them he actually ate one. That is not true. They were black as hockey pucks, all the way through. We tried to break one in half and couldn't. So Ben set one in the crook of the walnut tree he used to throw knives at and cocked back his arm. He let fly a solid steel throwing knife which hit the biscuit dead center and shattered into a million pieces. I believe the biscuit is still there.

For the record, he says I make the best biscuits on the planet now. I just needed a little practice.

Be thankful ~

Karen