There’s not much that equates to your own mother’s cooking, right? My mom is a great cook, but her specialty is biscuits. Warm, flaky, perfectly moist biscuits. It’s a household favourite when paired with her homemade raspberry jam. I took it upon myself to attempt baking said biscuits this week.
It started out great. I was confident, collected. I spooned flour into the measuring cup, as instructed. I grated the butter and cut it into the flour with ease, smiling all the while as I remembered how my grandma taught me to "cut" butter into flour while baking Thanksgiving pies. My phone rang – my mom was calling – and I answered as I mixed in the rest of the ingredients. I asked her a few questions about the recipe as we spent time catching up. I threw flour on my counter and rolled out the dough to the half-inch specification. I buttered the baking sheet and cut out the biscuits, mouth watering as I envisioned how they would turn out.
I threw the biscuits in the oven and went to work making sausage and gravy. Ten minutes passed and my biscuits were done, so I opened the oven door to observe the ugliest, saddest little biscuits I’d ever seen. I stood there for a minute, recounting my steps. I pulled up the recipe again and triple-checked the ingredients. Milk, check. Flour, check. Butter, check. Salt, check. Baking powder, check.
I shrugged and decided that just because they didn’t look like my mom's didn’t mean they wouldn’t taste as good. I grabbed one and ate myself a slice of humble pie. They were dry. I twisted my face in disgust and then started gagging as a metal taste hit my tongue. Where did that come from?
I racked my brain again, trying to recall where I slipped up. I tried another biscuit, thinking maybe it was just one bad one. Wrong. I thought to earlier in the day, when I’d washed the cooking sheet after a failed attempt of chocolate chip cookies (perhaps I should’ve taken that as a sign) and wondered if I hadn’t rinsed thoroughly enough after soaping the dish?
I snapped a quick photo and sent it to my mom. She quickly replied and offered a few suggestions: in the oven too long, too much flour, maybe the new(ish) pan is causing the metal taste.
My husband came home from work and snagged one off the sheet. His eyes went wide as he swallowed, and he kindly asked what I had put in the biscuits. I explained my predicament and frustration. He took another bite and said, “Baking soda?”
My stomach dropped as my brain flashed back to grabbing the baking soda instead of the powder. I thumbed through my phone to check the recipe and realized it was true – I had used baking soda instead of baking powder.
We laughed for a few minutes and dinner was saved by Pillsbury. No harm, no foul.
In the season of gratitude, I'd like to quote a friend of mine – “I’m grateful to be able.” I’m grateful to be able to cook. I’m grateful to be able to do laundry. I’m grateful to be able to work. I’m grateful to be able to make mistakes. I’m grateful to be able to share the stories of amazing dairy producers like the Plett and Warkentine families. I’m grateful to be able to love. I’m grateful to have faith in God. I’m grateful to be able to live the life I love.
I invite you to find the small things to appreciate. I’m grateful for baking soda biscuits.
