It was a Friday evening and Weaver and I were going over our plans for the weekend. More specifically, I had some pretty definite plans for Weaver’s weekend, and I needed to make sure that he allocated the appropriate amount of time for them. Of course, I was doing this in a most casual and subtle way.
Weaver quickly caught on and responded appropriately, stating that he did not have any plans of his own but would be happy to devote his entire weekend to whatever it was I had on my list of things for him to do.
Oh, right. Like that’s ever going to happen.
But, fantasy aside, there was something noteworthy about the conversation, and that was the following statements he made: “Well, the one thing I absolutely have to do is buy some biscuits from Neal’s Deli on Saturday morning. Emily’s really been wanting some biscuits and I promised her I’d buy her some.”
What??? Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t have been more shocked if he DID say he would spend the entire weekend catering to my every to-do-list whim.
“Weaver, you’re going to BUY biscuits???” I reiterated, not wanting to believe what I had heard.
Granted, I may not have made them in awhile. Maybe even a long while. But everyone knows I make the best biscuits. At least anyone who knows anything about biscuits. How could Weaver even THINK of subjecting our child to a store-bought baked good?
Oh yeah, I know what y’all are thinking. There’s no way this girl from the North can make the best biscuits. I’ve lived in the South long enough to know how serious Southerners are about their biscuits.
And really, I don’t mean to brag or anything. I assure you, I write this with the most humble heart. It’s just that I know it to be true. I know it, because Weaver’s family told me so. And if anyone knows anything about biscuits, it’s Weaver’s family.
It all came about many years ago, on a Thanksgiving Day. I was in the kitchen making biscuits and Weaver and everyone else at the house were out in the backyard, staring at the turkey cooking in the deep fryer. At some point, Weaver’s sister, Pauline, having most likely grown bored of staring into hot oil, wandered into the kitchen. I told her she should try one of the biscuits that had just come out of the oven.
Now I know she was probably thinking it wouldn’t taste like anything too great, but she humored me and tried one, and the rest is history.
I’m sure to her surprise, Pauline loved my biscuit! She loved it so much that she proceeded to eat biscuit after biscuit after biscuit, saying that she might just forgo the whole rest of the Thanksgiving meal, just so she could continue to eat biscuits.
When my brother-in-law, Scott, came into the kitchen, she made him try one and he too loved the biscuits! Now Scott and his mother are two of the best Southern cooks I know, so if Scott says he loves my biscuits, well, let’s just say there’s not much greater of an endorsement than that.
The rest of Weaver’s family, upon sampling the biscuits, agreed with Pauline and Scott’s evaluation. So you see what I mean when I say that I have the backing of the highest authority. These are people who grew up eating great biscuits. And they’re not ones to lie to spare my feelings.
When I told Emily that in lieu of Neal’s Deli biscuits, I was going to treat her to my Southern-side-of-the-family-endorsed biscuits, however, she was dubious. “Moommmm! What do you know about biscuits? I want the ones from Neal’s Deli! You’re not even from the South.” She complained
Oh, that did it. I explained to her that you don’t need to have been born in the South to make great biscuits. I told her that her Uncle Scott and Aunt Pauline and every other family member in Georgia love my biscuits. Finally, I resorted to the tried and true favorite of all mothers: “You’re going to eat my biscuits because I say you’re going to eat them. And you’re going to like them.”
And, of course, the next day when I pulled those babies out of the oven, handed her a freshly buttered one and she took her first bite into that warm, soft slice of heaven, she smiled her hugest smile and told me what I wanted to hear. Then she proceeded to eat biscuit after biscuit until she couldn’t possibly eat another one. The other kids quickly followed suit.
Because I may be from the North, and I may not make the best grits or the best 12-layer cake or cook the best okra or the best collard greens. But I am all OVER those biscuits. Just ask my in-laws. They’ll tell you. Or better yet, ask the pickiest, most discriminating, most difficult-to-please, most food-anxiety ridden people I have ever known in my life – my four sweet children.
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