Biscuits make things all right, most of the time

By: Joe Hudson | Statesville Record & Landmark
Published: September 25, 2010

While in the shower one morning, I noticed my used Dirty Hippie soap bar (Ashbury Street) looked like the state of Virginia, which reminded me of Smithfield hams, and suddenly, I wanted homemade biscuits.
I come from a long line of biscuit people who farmed tobacco and raised hogs. Though I’ve not seen government reports to back it up, I believe that most biscuit makers are Baptist and come from farms that require people to work — not just maintain miles of white fences with lush green fields — but farms where hogs break out, cows make manure and it never rains at the right time.
I have always been comfortable around people with flour on their hands. I was raised a Self Riser and believe that shortening, butter and flour is a Trinity, like God. I believe good biscuits can help prevent adultery, complement coffee and can be substituted for vegetables. To smell hot biscuits makes me feel that things aren’t so bad, that things will turn out all right.
So I made some biscuits from a recipe written on the back of a picture of my mother. I used self-rising flour, shortening and butter that I had put in the freezer beforehand so the biscuits would be nice and flakey (hint, hint). Later, as I took the biscuits out of the oven and smelled the baked flour, I suddenly remembered another breakfast long ago.
I lived alone and had cooked for a friend of mine who came over early one morning. He was leaving our little farming community in eastern North Carolina. Instead of learning to farm, he had gone to college, studied theater and had acquired some effeminate quirks — spoke using his hands, could quote poetry and used the word “fabulous.” He worked hard and had finally landed a contract to produce a stage production of “The King and I.” He would be working with Yul Brynner, had stopped to say goodbye and was moving permanently to New York City. He was excited.
In our community, a guy who pronounced his words properly, read books and studied dance was labeled “queer,” so he had a hard, cruel life growing up with us “normal” people. He tried to fit in but people can be mean, especially in high school and church. My friend was Champagne mistakenly shelved among canned beer — he had been waiting to leave home all his life.
Over biscuits and coffee he revealed he was in love and talked about the most wonderful woman in the world. He showed me a picture. She was a stage manager in New York and resembled a young Susanne Pleshette. Wowza. Who knew?
His life was about to take off — show business was brutal. He was worried and unsure if he should even try to maintain a relationship.
“You know what we say about women around here.” I grinned and with a Category 5 redneck drawl said, “If’n she’s got all her teeth and ’ooves, load ’er on the truck, Hoss.”
He threw half a biscuit at me and cussed — pronouncing each word perfectly. We both laughed. Later I walked him to the door, he left and he never came back.
My friend went on to marry the young lady and they raised a family. He lives in Los Angeles and has a pool of exotic fish in his backyard that costs more than my house. He never asks about home. He is happy and I’m glad.
See, that’s the way of homemade biscuits — you smell them and suddenly you believe things will turn out all right. And most of the time, they do.