Thanksgiving great biscuit caper

Family secret lies in potato rolls

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

— Carl Sandburg

My mother was not born a great cook, but she sure became one. She channeled her creativity into her food, creating her own recipes through trial and error until perfected. Pot roasts, beef stew, fried chicken, lasagna — each transformed to near perfection under her steady eye. But Thanksgiving was the ultimate showcase for her: A huge golden-brown turkey, thick gravy, butter noodles, stuffing she made in the shape of a patty to give it a distinctive crunch and, finally, the piece de resistance, her potato biscuits. Made with fresh mashed potatoes and yeast, baked to a fluffy tan tint — they would fly off the table and cue massive compliments.

Most families have secrets that, if disclosed, would disrupt a negotiated fragile equilibrium that has been maintained within the members privy to the information. Early on, it became clear my mother was not the sharing type. These recipes represented something intensely personal to her, and as part of her calculated strategy, there was never a written record of any of her masterpieces — all of it was stored in her head. These secrets were closely held by her, and she seemed determined to withhold them, even from her sweet, lastborn son.

After moving to Arkansas, and unable because of work and family to go to my mom’s home in Florida for Thanksgiving, I began the slow process of learning how to replicate my childhood Thanksgiving feast. Not that my mom was any help — she would say things like, a pinch of this or of that, never any specifics. She was guarding her recipes tighter than the gold is watched at Fort Knox. Slowly but surely, I mastered the bird, the stuffing, even the gravy. But one final item eluded my grasp: those potato biscuits. She just would not give me the recipe.

Previously, I have briefly mentioned in a past column about my shameful attempt to force the recipe from my mother, but in the spirit of the holiday, I think it is time I reveled the extent of my familial perfidy.

Obviously, I was dealing with a trained master of evasion. There was too much at stake for me to back out, so then I went for what I thought was her weak spot: “The kids always ask when they can have ‘Granny rolls’ for Thanksgiving,” I told her one October. Having her name on the product for posterity seem to move the needle, and she promised to write it down and mail it to me. I was elated.

Sure enough, the next week, the famed recipe arrived, written out in her own hand as advertised. After a careful reading, I realized it did not have what temperature or time to bake them written down. Her last line simply said, “Bake until golden brown.” A quick phone call revealed she was not releasing these secrets so easily. “Oh, I don’t know how long, I just check on them till they are done,” she replied to me breezily. Yeah, right, I thought, but the apple never falls to far from the tree, so I hatched my own plan.

My mom typically served Thanksgiving at 2 p.m., while my family feast in Arkansas was usually around 4 p.m. or so. I enlisted my sister Linda in my plot. She was to station herself in the kitchen when my mom went to preheat the oven then cook the biscuits, surreptitiously record the temperature and time and then call me. Mission accomplished.

Later that evening, when I called, she asked if I made the Granny rolls. “Absolutely,” I replied enthusiastically. “They were delicious! Thank you so much for finally sharing your recipe with me.”

“Oh, you’re more than welcome,” she replied.

Call me sentimental, but I’d like to think she meant it. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.