Daily Bread

When I feel myself floating untethered in an ethereal mess of chaos and stuff, I reach for touchstones, something to connect me back to the people and places who ground me. Usually it’s a quick touch or snuggle from my husband or children. But sometimes I have to reach a bit farther. We were approaching what would have been her 95th birthday and I craved Grandmama.

I grabbed my apron and cups and canisters and made quick work of throwing together my grandmother’s ingredients for her biscuits recipe. 

I’m hardly at all like her, aside from the name we share. 
Picture a 90-pound lady, apron strings wrapped back around her tiny waist and tied at her front, perfectly coiffed hair (thanks, Aquanet), and a smoking cigarette resting perfectly on the edge of a silver plated ringed ashtray. By the time I began paying attention to such things, her nails were always polished in the same shade, her hands wrinkled and bumpy and spotted the way a grandmother’s hands should be. 

At double her size, I feel like a clumsy giantess when I call her spirit around me in the kitchen. Since I only bake these like twice a year (compared to her daily duty), I pale in comparison to her proper homemaking habits of daily biscuit baking. I work outside of the home (“I don’t know how you do it”), have independent political opinions from my own husband (“What would he say?”), allow my children to steamroll the dinner table conversation (“Ahem”), and frequently stare at a mountain of laundry that often includes unironed linens from a distant holiday meal (“It’s best if you freeze damp linens until you’re ready to iron them”-- that piece of advice only led to less freezer space until the following Christmas). 

We were very close, finding quality time in the kitchen, garden, and car rides. I felt adored.
I needed her the other day. And I found her in the flour and Crisco at the bottom of a mixing bowl. 

The simple recipe doesn’t even have formal measurements. An “Egg” of Crisco. A pinch of salt. 

Nothing about the recipe fits my modern life. 

Who has time to bake biscuits from scratch every night for dinner? Who has countertop space for rolling out and cutting circles of dough every day? My counter is covered in last week’s coupons and infrequently used appliances. Trying to cut down on gluten--Could the recipe work with rice flour? No one cooks with Crisco anymore--Can “heart healthier” options like olive oil or avocado oil be substituted? My anxiety ramped. I don’t need these carbs anyways.  And then what? We’re going to butter the damned things and put a dollop of jelly on them?! What was I even thinking?!

But I closed my eyes, and heard her ring scrape on the side of the metal bowl as I kneaded wet ingredients with dry, and brushed my hair out of the way with the back of my hand and recalled her doing the same. I took a deep breath and I breathed in the scents of flour and Aquanet and old smoke.

And my husband came home and kissed the back of my neck while my hands were busy in the bowl. 

And the inverted wine glass worked like a charm as a biscuit cutter. 

And the children giggled from a collective game of Minecraft in the playroom.

And all my pieces fell into place. 

As I refolded excess dough and rolled it out with a floured pin, she sat with me in spirit. As I slid each uncooked dough circle on to the pan in perfect formation, she smiled. As I used the edge of my apron in place of an ovenmit, she winked.

And when I sampled a too-hot biscuit straight from the oven, she laughed with me. It had absolutely no flavor. None. Just hot flour. 

It didn’t taste like hers. It wasn’t even worth putting butter and jelly on. 

I’m not sure where the mix up was in the recipe, but I know where I went wrong. 

I had slipped down the slope of comparison once again. I had tried to measure up against a system of nonstandard measurement. 

While part of me started to race down the rabbit hole of failure and measuring up, I took a breath and reminded myself of how I had loved every minute of the process, even if the product hadn’t turned out the way she or I would have liked. 

As Joe and the children smiled with full mouths, humoring my efforts and enjoying their meal, I reminded myself that no one had asked for biscuits. And rather than feel sad that they didn’t know what they were really missing out on, I untied my apron strings and poured another glass of wine and a second helping of grace, grateful for the lady who shared her name with me and her perfect biscuits.