Biscuits

When my mother died 14 years ago, my older brother delivered the eulogy. In it he talked about my mother’s cooking—especially her biscuits, which he described as “light as air and fluffy.”
    That set off a wave of spontaneous giggling on the part of two of my younger aunts. Of course, their older sister promptly gave them the evil eye and told them to shush, but I knew why they were laughing. Mama’s biscuits evolved over the years, and the ones my brother recalled were from the “shortening years.” The “lard years” produced results that were something else entirely, but those are the biscuits I wish I had every morning—flat, anything but flaky, and at the end of the week (when supply of dough she made up on Mondays “ripened”) tasting like sour dough bread. Hot from the oven and smeared with butter, they were perfection—just as good as her hot water corn cakes, buttermilk skillet cornbread, and yeast rolls.