I thought I’d written everything I had to say about cooking at the beach. But then came a Sunday morning when my family was gathered around the table, laughing and joking and fighting over that last piece of bacon, and the realization came in a flash. Biscuits! You really can’t have a Southern cookbook without including a great biscuit recipe.
Why? Because they are a little tricky to make. As a platform for bacon or a patty of sausage, as a late-afternoon snack with honey or jam, or at supper to sandwich a slab of fried chicken breast or to chase down and deliver the last bit of pot roast and gravy, biscuits are welcome on every occasion and at every table.
The trouble was, over the years, after some early failures at biscuit-making, I’d come to settle for OPB—other people’s biscuits. First, I used Bisquick, then biscuits from a can, and more recently, frozen bagged biscuits, which I think come pretty close to greatness if you’re pressed for time, or biscuit-impaired like me.
Finally, I was forced to confront my fear of biscuit-making. I tested half a dozen different recipes, consulted experts in the field (thanks, Facebook friends!), and worked on my technique. I went through a five-pound bag of self-rising flour and a quart of buttermilk in a single weekend—before Katie reminded me that we already had a superlative biscuit recipe given to us by someone whose memory we treasure.
Although most of the recipes in this cookbook emphasize easy, stress-free dishes, sometimes it really is worthwhile to do things the old-fashioned way. Sometimes it’s okay to use the whole-fat buttermilk, to take the time to sift flour, and to dig out your grater to shred the frozen butter into just the right size. You discover that sprinkling flour on a countertop and gently shaping the dough to the right thickness before cutting out the biscuits and placing them lovingly into a greased pan can be a transformative experience. Suddenly, you’re back at your mother’s or grandmother’s side, and their hands are guiding yours in a skill you didn’t know you possessed.
And then the biscuits come out of the oven and you break one apart, still warm and steamy from the oven, and let a pat of golden butter dissolve on the surface. Maybe you add some preserves, or a piece of ham left over from last night’s dinner. Or both.
Then the ultimate beauty of biscuits is revealed. Portability!
You take your biscuit, walk right down to the beach, and let your toes sink into the sand. Let the waves lap at your ankles and ponder how lucky you are to be at the beach and to taste the blessing of a humble biscuit, made with the simplest of ingredients: flour, buttermilk, butter, and your own two hands.
This, my friends, is beach house cooking.