As I get older, I often think back to great childhood memories. Those wonderful times such as holidays with family, playing in the yard on those hot summer evenings, and vacations with the family. However, none of these compare to the time I spent visiting my grandparents in the mountains of Northwest Georgia. These visits were some of the most important times of my life, and really provided me with the values I would need to become a decent member of society. You see, at this time in my life I was in the middle of my family dissolving. My parents were in the middle of a divorce and it was a brutal situation. These two people helped me through these times by simply being the anchor by which I could attach myself to and weather a storm I didn’t understand at the time. They provided me, and all of the family, with a stronger than life love and sense of family that we would need to advance through life.
My visits were amazing journeys into a life style that was filled with love and adventure. From fishing with my grandfather and helping him with the animals, to learning how to cook from my granny, every moment with them seemed magical. My granny was an early riser and if I was lucky enough to wake when she did, I received a cooking lesson that most people would pay big money for.
She would put the coffee on, we would wash our hands, she would turn on her southern gospel music, and the lesson would begin. It was during these times that I learned how to make the best buttermilk biscuits known to man. Always made the same way and with the exact same ingredients, the same way she had learned so many years before.
Flour that she would sift over and over until it was extra fine, buttermilk, and pure lard. She began mixing the dough by hand, slowly to make sure to incorporate all the ingredients. Next, she would put the dough on the countertop and kneed it until it was the perfect consistence. She explained that there was a certain texture that you just had to learn to detect in order to make the perfect biscuit, and she had found the ability to feel it years ago. Once the dough was perfect she would roll it out and cut the biscuits out with a small cup.
The anticipation was over whelming while they cooked to light golden-brown perfection. These delightful items were sent from heaven and always light enough to float there. It often seemed that granny put as much love into making the biscuits as she showed each one of us throughout the years. Now that she is gone I miss those times when she would cook breakfast and I was lucky enough to be sitting on the counter watching.
Mike Cannon - Contributing author
A southern boy, born and bred. He was born in Atlanta Georgia, and has lived in some part of the state all his life. He currently resides in Ringgold Georgia which is a bedroom community to Chattanooga Tennessee. Growing up in the south has given him a unique prospective of the culture and tremendous knowledge of the food that the southeastern United States is so proud of. He enjoys watching the Braves in the summer, the Bulldogs in the fall, and NASCAR in the late winter. He is an avid hunter and fisher. He loves a good party and once you get to know him you have a friend for life. Mike will be a regular columnist on our site, sharing stories about his life in the south, it will be up to you to determine which of these are true and which are simply tales.