Some people chase dreams. I chased biscuits.
Not just any biscuits – my grandma’s buttermilk biscuits. Light, fluffy, golden on the outside, tender on the inside… the kind that made silence fall around the dinner table. One chilly weekend, I decided it was time to finally master them.
See, I’ve tried before. It didn’t go well. My mom even gave me one of those tight-lipped “mmm!” faces when I proudly served her what I thought was decent. My cousin? He didn’t say a word. He just reached for the bread rolls.
That weekend, I wasn’t just baking. I was out to redeem every flat, sad biscuit I had ever made. What started as a small goal turned into something bigger.
The Early Morning That Changed Everything
Saturday morning. The kitchen was quiet, the coffee machine burbling in the background, and the sun just beginning to peek through the blinds. Everyone else in the house was asleep. I had set my alarm early on purpose. I wanted time, space – and honestly, privacy in case things went south again.
Flour was everywhere within minutes. It always is with biscuits, isn’t it? I had Grandma June’s voice in my head:
“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.”
Which is adorable, coming from a woman who once rearranged a pie crust because the crimp didn’t feel joyful enough. Still, I tried to listen.
I took my time. Measured the flour. Checked the butter twice to make sure it was cold. I folded the dough gently, like it might tell me its secrets if I were kind enough. I even whispered, “Please work,” as I slid the tray into the oven.
And then I burned them.
The first batch came out too dark on the bottom, flat on top, and smelled like disappointment. I stared at them. My hands were covered in flour, and my heart sank. Here we go again.
The Second Batch Was Magic
But I didn’t quit. Something told me to try again. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was pure biscuit stubbornness. Either way, I made another batch.
This time, the dough felt different – softer, more alive somehow. I placed the rounds on the tray carefully. I watched them through the oven window like a kid watches fireworks.
And when I pulled them out?
Golden. Puffy. Beautiful.
I could’ve cried. Honestly, I might have.
I took a bite and everything stopped. It was warm, buttery, and just the tiniest bit crisp at the edges. Everything I’d been trying to make for years, this was it.
What Happened When I Served Them
Later that day, I set the biscuits on the table with the rest of the meal. I didn’t say anything. I just waited. My cousin – the same one who never compliments food – bit into one, paused, and looked at me.
“These are ridiculous,” he said, wide-eyed.
No sarcasm. Just respect. Pure biscuit respect.
That night, I sent Grandma a picture. She texted back one word:
“Toldya.”
No emoji. No punctuation. Just that.
Lessons Between the Layers
That weekend, I learned a lot more than how to fold dough. I learned that:
- Sometimes failing first is part of the process. You burn the first batch so you can figure out what not to do.
- Simple things matter. Biscuits don’t need to be fancy. They just need care.
- Small wins feel big when you’ve worked for them. Especially when they come wrapped in butter and pride.
- You don’t need to be perfect to be proud. That first batch was a disaster, sure – but I didn’t let it stop me. And I’m so glad I didn’t.
That morning taught me how it feels to keep going, even when you feel like giving up over something as humble as a biscuit. It reminded me that growth doesn’t always look like a grand achievement. Sometimes, it looks like flour on your shirt and a tray of golden biscuits on the counter.
Conclusion
They say it’s just food, but to me, those biscuits were something else. A tiny win that reminded me I could figure things out, one try at a time.
Not everything works out the first time – and that’s okay. What matters is the second batch. That quiet moment when you try again and surprise yourself.
So, go ahead. Roll out the dough. Make a mess. Burn a batch if you have to. Then start again.
You never know – your own kitchen story might be waiting on the second tray
