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.


a first iteration, the goal being to eventually replicate Grandma's fluffiness w/increasingly more hearty whole grain flours


Growing up in New Orleans, everything we ate was saturated in grease, salt or sugar.  Most times, the best tasting things included all three. (Hello, beignets and french fries!)  Vegetables?  Cooked down in some sort of fatty pork (picklemeat, in our house) until unrecognizeable.  Good for you?  Debatable.  But boy was it delicious!  Yet at the same time, a familiar refrain echoed through my ears between meals (never during, curiously):

“Don’t get fat.” ~Mom

“Don’t get fat like me behbeh” ~Grandma

“Don’t be gettin fat now, yahear” ~Dad

And the list goes on.  Of course, during meals, it was always:

“Clean your plate.”

“I want you to eat this ENTIRE plate of food.  Eat it!”

Or a more cloying, “What’s the matter baby?  Are you not feeling well?  Why aren’t you finishing your food?”

Or the standard, “Lord, these ungrateful children…  there’s children starving… DYING! In Africa today, and these kids don’t wanna eat this food…”

To which a “Why don’t you ship it to them, then?!” response would end in a swift smack to the cheek.  Or a longer, more protracted battle would ensue (depending on the grossness of the vegetable in question), ending in angry stomping on my part toward some corner or another for a time out.

At any rate, I was enrolled in dance classes at the age of three. By the age of 10, I could already down 5 chocolate glazed McKenzie’s donuts in a single sitting and polish off a man-sized plate of my grandma’s red beans and rice. Every Thursday after dance class, I had a McLean combo meal (because I preferred – and still do – my burgers with lettuce and large onion slices) from McDonald’s. I cried when they discontinued it, and switched to Quarter Pounders.

By the time I got to middle school, I was eating McDonald’s every day after school. I hated school lunch and used to tide myself over until Mickey D’s by eating plain Lays potato chips, hot pickles, and Cokes for lunch, sometimes substituting the hot pickles for plain M&M’s. I was enrolled in an after school dance program at New Orleans Center for Creative Arts (NOCCA, a wonderful institution) and would eat my #3 combo on the way to ballet 3+ times a week. I continued with private training as well as training at NOCCA, eventually abandoning them both to focus on my academic studies at more traditionally rigorous magnet high school. “You can be a dancing doctor,” they all said, “you need a stable career. Dancing is a hobby.” Meanwhile, when I transitioned schools, I rejoiced because my daily fast food fix became Wendy’s, where burgers and chicken sandwiches dallied among salad pitas and baked potatoes, always topped with fries and shakes of course. But because I was dancing four or more days a week for three or more hours, I burned through the calories like it was nothing. Not to mention I was growing like a weed.

All this fast food activity was, of course, in addition to the huge breakfast my mother fed me every morning and the huge dinner my grandma would serve every night. A typical weekday would start with fruit bowls, homemade biscuits, grits/eggs/bacon, and sandwich the fast food binge with stewed chicken, yellow rice, and stringbeans cooked in picklemeat. I tried to “go vegetarian” when I was about 15 (which consisted of me eating meatless Wendy’s pitas and french fries daily), but my grandmother *never* took the meat out of her veggies, and would ask me if I was ill every single time I would pick around the meat in any dish. It lasted about 8 months, and ended when my resolve crumbled in the face of a Port of Call hamburger.

Regardless, I never dreamed that I would ever gain actual weight, because I assumed that I’d be dancing for the rest of my life. So I never denied or learned to deny myself anything. I could eat half a chocolate cake or half a pan of brownies without blinking. Other girls my age had started dieting or developing eating disorders. The only diet I knew was the see-food diet.  Not to mention the attention that I was already getting from men was anxiety inducing.

To be continued…

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