For the last few weekends, I’ve been seized by the desire to make homemade biscuits for our morning breakfast. Making biscuits is always pleasing, one of those kitchen rituals that always makes me feel like a grown up, but in a good way, like I am part of something bigger than myself. Stirring together biscuits feels like a timeless kind of cooking. I cut the shortening in just as countless cooks have always done for many years before me. Then I mix the dough together with a few firm stirs of the spatula against a bowl that has made my family hundreds of biscuits over the years. I pat out the round of dough and make swift cuts with my biscuit cutter, patting out the dough until there are no more biscuits to be cut.
The biscuits are set to bake nestled against one another.
Twelve minutes later there is a platter of hot homemade biscuits to serve alongside jam preserved the summer before.