At least once a week, both my mother and grandmother would make homemade biscuits from scratch for breakfast. They’d always make a big batch, enough to freeze into “individual” serving sizes of 2 or 3 (“snack” vs. “meal”). Grandma would make buttermilk biscuits, impossibly fluffy and light, and I would eat them with Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup and butter. Mom went all macrobiotic when I was in high school and started making them with whole wheat flour. Which was disastrous at first and they came out like hockey pucks. But she gradually learned how to adjust her recipes so they weren’t terrible, and whole wheat or unbleached all-purpose flour became more easily available. I also discovered the love of my life at that point – Steen’s 100% Pure Cane Syrup – and never willingly ate anything else on a biscuit or pancake ever again.
Anyhow, I can’t shake the weekly biscuit habit. I use the JOY recipe, with unbleached flour, sometimes with buttermilk, sometimes drop biscuits instead of rolled (only if I forget and flub up the recipe). I take great pleasure in kneading, punching, and making little shapes with the dough. The problem is, with my singleton status, I end up eating them all myself. Between that and my potato habit I’m likely to ruin my bid for bikini shape. I’ve started walking an average of 10 miles a week to try to justify my carb intake. Because I will forever be entranced by those fluffy little bites of love.