Homemade Biscuits Quotes

Sweetened ice tea is one of the things I love about the South, right up there with homemade biscuits and cheese grits.

Because the problem with having tried something new and amazing was that you could never go back and take the same pleasure in the thing you used to enjoy. You could never erase the awareness that somewhere out there was a better experience you weren't having. You knew you were eating a canned biscuit after you'd tried a fluffy, tender homemade one with a crisp buttered top, the whole of it split open and doused with honey.

homemade donuts made from taking biscuit dough from a tube, punching a hole in the middle of it, deep frying it and then slathering it with frosting.

Glasgow was home-made ginger biscuits and Jennifer Lawson dead in the park. It was the sententious niceness of the Commander and the threatened abrasiveness of Laidlaw. It was Milligan, insensitive as a mobile slab of cement, and Mrs Lawson, witless with hurt. It was the right hand knocking you down and the left hand picking you up, while the mouth alternated apology and threat.

Language, Sweet," said Magnus's mother, arriving with a plate full of homemade biscuits. She didn't scold him too harshly about his talk these days. Magnus suspected this was because Mama shared Uncle Sweet's opinion about the Nazis. Yet despite the shortages and rationing, she had managed to turn out the most delicious biscuits Magnus had ever tasted. They were redolent of butter, which Mrs. Gundersen up the hill traded for apples from the family orchard. Uncle Sweet made a great show of fanning himself and swooning as he ate a biscuit. "Language," he said, "is nothing but a bunch of words, and there are no words to express how wonderful this cookie is. I swear, if you were not already married, I would have you locked in a workroom like Rumpelstiltskin's daughter, forced to bake for me all day." He stole another biscuit from the platter and headed for the basement, lighting his way with an oil lamp. No one ever asked where his photographic chemicals came from- no one wanted to hold the answer like a piece of stolen fruit.

then they walked back to the wicker picnic basket and sat on a plaid blanket eating cold fried chicken, salt-cured ham and biscuits, and potato salad. Sweet and dill pickles. Slices of four-layer cake with half-inch-thick caramel icing. All homemade, wrapped in wax paper. He opened two bottles of Royal Crown Cola and poured them into Dixie cups—her first drink of soda pop in her life. The generous spread was incredible to her, with the neatly arranged cloth napkins, plastic plates and forks. Even minuscule pewter salt and pepper shakers. His mother must have packed it, she thought, not knowing he was meeting the Marsh Girl. They talked softly of sea things—pelicans

Beatriz breathed in the sweet aromas that lately appealed to her. Those at the forefront were of various honeys in the wooden honey pots anchoring the tablecloth: lavender, orange blossom, and eucalyptus. But the room was a cornucopia of visual and olfactory treats. Marcona almonds were roasting in Reuben's old wood oven, and from the kitchen downstairs wafted scents of all the spices they would be offering their customers fresh over the counter in cloth bags: cinnamon stalks, cloves, anise, ground ginger, juniper berries, finely grated nutmeg. Nora and Beatriz packaged all the spices themselves. They would also offer ribbon-tied bags of Phillip's tea creations served in the café: loose leaves of lemon verbena, dried pennyroyal, black tea with vanilla. All around the room, on the floor, shelves, and counters, were baskets and baskets and baskets of irresistible delights: jars of marmalades and honeys and pure, dark, sugarless chocolate pieces ready to melt with milk at home for the richest hot chocolate. Customers could even buy jars of chocolate shavings, to sprinkle over warmed pears and whipped cream, or over the whipped cream on their hot chocolates. They sold truffles white and dark, with or without rum, biscuits with every variation of nuts and spices, bars small or large of their own chocolate, and dried fruits dipped in chocolate.

Grace rolled up her sleeves and joined the group in the kitchen, where Gladys, Pablo's wife, had worked all day directing many other women who kept food pouring out the front and side door, onto a long series of folding tables, all covered in checkered paper table cloths. While some of the women prepped and cooked, others did nothing but bring food out and set it on the table- Southern food with a Mexican twist, and rivers of it: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, chicken mole, shrimp and grits, turnip greens, field peas, fried apples, fried calabaza, bread pudding, corn pudding, fried hush puppies, fried burritos, fried okra, buttermilk biscuits, black-eyed peas, butter bean succotash, pecan pie, corn bread, and, of course, apple pie, hot and fresh with sloppy big scoops of local hand-churned ice creams. As the dinner hours approached, Carter grabbed Grace out of the kitchen, and they both joined Sarah, Carter's friend, helping Sarah's father throw up a half-steel-kettle barbecue drum on the side of the house. Mesquite and pecan hardwoods were quickly set ablaze, and Dolly and the quilting ladies descended on the barbecue with a hurricane of food that went right on to the grill, whole chickens and fresh catfish and still-kicking mountain trout alongside locally-style grass-fed burgers all slathered with homemade spicy barbecue sauce. And the Lindseys, the elderly couple who owned the fields adjoining the orchard, pulled up in their pickup and started unloading ears of corn that had been recently cut. The corn was thrown on the kettle drum, too, and in minutes massive plumes of roasting savory-sweet smoke filled the air around the house. It wafted into the orchards, toward the workers who soon began pouring out of the house.

The coffee table was laid out with a full Royal Doulton tea service and a selection of freshly baked scones, hot buttered teacakes, little lemon curd tarts, and home-made shortbread biscuits.

I hacked an old Crock-Pot and turned it into a sous vide machine, and did a turkey breast, and then seared the skin on the stovetop, so it is totally crispy, but the meat is BEYOND juicy. And the stuffing is a combination of homemade corn bread, homemade buttermilk biscuits, and brioche, with sage and thyme and celery and onion and shallot. And I tried the Robuchon Pommes Puree, and thought that there was no way to put THAT much butter into that much potato, but holy moley is it amazeballs! And I did a butternut squash soup with fried ginger and almond cake with apple compote." All the bustle has roused Volnay, who wanders over to greet Benji, and receives a dog biscuit for her trouble from Eloise. "Honey, breathe a little," I say, laughing. "It's just... I... I mean... THANKSGIVING!" he says, which cracks us all up.

During the meal I consume every last bite of my shrimp and grits, relishing the uniquely Southern combinations: tart lemon juice, savory scallions, crisp bacon, and a dash of paprika all mixed in with freshly grated Parmesan and creamy white cheddar. It's been tossed with sautéed wild mushrooms and minced garlic, cayenne pepper, and Gulf shrimp, all atop a bowl of steaming Mississippi Delta stone-cut grits. My belly sings a psalm of thanks with every flavor-punched drop, and that doesn't even count the homemade biscuits baked big as fists and the silver-dollar pickles fried deep with salt. Drown it all together with a swig of syrup-sweet tea, and the name of this country song would be "Welcome Home.

Phillipa placed one tray of appetizers after the other on the table---the jambon sec-wrapped chipotle figs with the cocoa-balsamic glaze; the crab cakes with the rémoulade dipping sauce; the varying star-shaped canapés, the bottoms buttery, toasted bread topped with different ingredients and garnished with chopped fresh herbs; the verrines filled with bœuf bourguignon and baby carrots; and the smoke salmon, beet carpaccio, and mascarpone bites served on homemade biscuits and sprinkled with capers. Everybody dug in, oohing and aahing. "I don't know which one I like best," exclaimed Marie, licking her lips. "They're all so delicious. I can't choose a favorite child." Phillipa winked. "Just wait until you see and taste Sophie's plat principal," she said, turning on her heel. She returned with a large pressure cooker, placing it on the table. She lifted the lid, and everybody breathed in the aromas, noses sniffing with anticipation. "This is Sophie's version of pot-au-feu de la mer, but with grilled lobster, crab, abalone, mussels, and large shrimp, along with a variety of root and fresh vegetables, a ginger-lemongrass-infused sauce, and garnished with borage, or starflowers, a smattering of sea salt, a dash of crème fraîche, fresh herbs, and ground pepper.

Debbie served them home-made Anzac biscuits.

Tree nuts and peanuts ≥ 3 servings per week Fresh fruits including natural fruit juices ≥ 3 servings per day Vegetables ≥ 2 servings per day Seafood (primarily fatty fish) ≥ 3 servings per week Legumes ≥ 3 servings per week Sofrito† ≥ 2 servings per week White meat In place of red meat Wine with meals (optional) ≥ 7 glasses per week Discouraged Soda drinks < 1 drink per day Commercial baked goods, sweets, pastries‡ < 3 servings per week Spread fats < 1 serving per day Red and processed meats < 1 serving per day *Adapted from Estruch, et al. (2013) † Sofrito is a sauce made with tomato and onion, and often includes garlic, herbs, and olive oil. ‡ Commercial bakery goods, sweets, and pastries included cakes, cookies, biscuits, and custard, and did not include those that are homemade. December 2014 Page 100 of 112

She always had a big pot of oatmeal going on the stove and was happy to whip up a short stack of pancakes at the drop of a hat, but she pretty much made the rest of the plates to order. After the first week she had a good handle not only on what each man liked for his morning meal, but what he needed. Mr. Cupertino still loved the occasional inspired omelet and once she had made him Eggs Meurette, poached eggs in a red wine sauce, served with a chunk of crusty French bread, which was a big hit. She balanced him out other mornings with hot cereal, and fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese. Johnny mostly went for bowls of cereal washed down with an ocean of cold milk, so Angelina kept a nice variety on hand, though nothing too sugary. The Don would happily eat a soft-boiled egg with buttered toast every day for the rest of his life, but she inevitably got him to eat a little bowl of oatmeal just before or after with his coffee. Big Phil was on the receiving end of her supersize, stick-to-your-ribs special- sometimes scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes, and bacon, other times maybe a pile of French toast and a slice of ham. Angelina decided to start loading up his plate on her own when she realized he was bashful about asking for seconds. On Sundays, she put on a big spread at ten o'clock, after they had all been to church, which variously included such items as smoked salmon and bagels, sausages, broiled tomatoes with a Parmesan crust, scrapple (the only day she'd serve it), bacon, fresh, hot biscuits and fruit muffins, or a homemade fruit strudel. She made omelets to order for Jerry and Mr. Cupertino. Then they'd all reconvene at five for the Sunday roast with all the trimmings.

Numerous people recalled their shame as children at bringing homemade biscuits in their school lunches.

Willow wondered if it caused resentment: these confident, educated incomers, buying up the nice houses, subtly changing the character of the place. She’d always thought Shetlanders were certain enough of their own culture, hospitable enough, not to mind too much, but now she wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t it feel like an invasion? She left her bag where it was and wandered down. The baby was sitting in a bouncy chair. He was soft-skinned and content, with downy hair and serious eyes. Willow had seen him the day of his birth and had been so jealous of Rosie that for the first time she’d understood how women could steal newborns from a hospital ward. ‘What did you decide to call him in the end?’ ‘Michael,’ John said. ‘We thought he looked like a Michael.’ Willow drank tea and listened to the couple chat. They offered her a meal, but she made do with a bannock and a slice of cheese and some home-made ginger biscuits. Soon she’d had enough of their company. She said she’d go up to her room; there was no need for them to show her, if it was the same as last time. It was jealousy again that sent her away. She knew that even if Perez had welcomed the news of her pregnancy, they would never have this sort of relationship: tender, calm, unflustered. There would always be something to come between them. Work, or Cassie, or Fran Hunter’s ghost. Her child would never live up to Cassie, in Perez’s mind, and she would never live up to Fran. In the room, she wondered if she should call Perez to find out how the interview with Magnie Riddell had gone. On any previous investigation she would have done that, or she’d have gone round to see him late in the

It’s okay, Ellie, don’t worry about it. I’ll use what I have.” “No.” This admission comes out so fast, so true, that it surprises me. “I’m in.” “In?” Dan asks. “I hope by ‘in’ you mean you’re in for some of my homemade ice cream!” But Jack’s smiling back at me with a level of gratitude I haven’t seen in years. And I want to feast on this instead of ice cream or biscuits, and revel in this strange warmth.

good ideas. Junior was there, saying hi to people and getting petted like crazy. We also had homemade dog biscuits from Grandma Dotty to give away. And I drew the T-shirt designs myself. “Step right up! Check it out!” Flip kept saying. Georgia was signing up customers. And I helped Magic Murray

So this is sweet. Some sort of fruit, right? Not just sugar." She nodded. "Mango and peach." He looked surprised. "No kidding." He tasted it again. "Got it. Now that you tell me, I can taste them. What kind of chilies?" "Mostly fresno. A cherry pepper here, a poblano there. A little habanero." She hadn't gotten enough fresnos, so the truth was she just used everything she had. Fortunately she'd written it down. "Some honey too. Seasonings." "But there's something I can't quite put my finger on." He tasted more than looked at his finger and said, "No pun intended." She smiled. "Curry." "Curry." "Yup." She nodded. "I needed something to segue between the sweet and the savory and I thought of curry." "It's incredible." "Wow, you're actually selling me on my own sauce." She upended the bottle and put a few drops on her own finger. It was just as good as she'd remembered, exactly as he'd said, with the heat that snuck up and away. Suddenly her mind reeled with the possibilities. She could use it as the base for a barbecue sauce and start serving pulled pork on the menu. That, with the beer cheese, Aja's cheese soup, and the biscuits Margo had made, she had a theme developing suddenly.

Cakes and pies lined the parsonage countertop and the church refrigerator was stacked with casseroles. They baked spicy apple harvest cakes and angel biscuits so light they seemed to hover above the pan. They brought him jars of homemade bread and butter pickles, plum preserves, and chow-chow. Every morning cars lined the sidewalk in front of the church, and ladies bearing gifts of honey buns and banana bread still warm from the oven filed into the church. After a particularly moving sermon on "Faith, Fishes, and Loaves," they whipped up enough salmon croquettes and tuna casseroles to feed the masses.

Her family hasn't had a full-blown Thanksgiving dinner since LeMar fell ill a few years ago, so she's making all of the old favorites: rice and gravy, oyster pie, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and pickled artichokes. And of course, her mama's homemade biscuits that just melt in your mouth. She's even dusted off the old cornucopia basket she used to put out when the girls were little, and she's created a table centerpiece that Ray would be proud of with dried corn, pumpkin gourds, plums, apples, and tangerines.

When I was growing up, the taste of pancakes meant the kind that my great-uncle made for me from Bisquick. If condensed cream of mushroom soup was the Great Assimilator, then this "instant" baking mix was the American Dream. With it, we could do anything. Biscuits, waffles, coffee cakes, muffins, dumplings, and the list continues to grow even now in a brightly lit test kitchen full of optimism. My great-uncle used Bisquick for only one purpose, which was to make pancakes, but he liked knowing that the possibilities, the sweet and the savory, were all in that cheery yellow box. Baby Harper wasn't a fat man, but he ate like a fat man. His idea of an afternoon snack was a stack of pancakes, piled three high. After dancing together, Baby Harper and I would go into his kitchen, where he would make the dream happen. He ate his pancakes with butter and Log Cabin syrup, and I ate my one pancake plain, each bite a fluffy amalgam of dried milk and vanillin. A chemical stand-in for vanilla extract, vanillin was the cheap perfume of all the instant, industrialized baked goods of my childhood. I recognized its signature note in all the cookies that DeAnne brought home from the supermarket: Nilla Wafers, Chips Ahoy!, Lorna Doones. I loved them all. They belonged, it seemed to me, to the same family, baked by the same faceless mother or grandmother in the back of our local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. The first time that I tasted pancakes made from scratch was in 1990, when Leo, a.k.a. the parsnip, made them for me. We had just begun dating, and homemade pancakes was the ace up his sleeve. He shook buttermilk. He melted butter. He grated lemon zest. There was even a spoonful of pure vanilla extract. I couldn't bring myself to call what he made for us "pancakes." There were no similarities between those delicate disks and what my great-uncle and I had shared so often in the middle of the afternoon.

Michael's house was on Magazine Street across from a little diner called Johnny River. It was a local, homemade-looking place with a screen door and dishes that didn't match. The kind of place tourists never find unless they're visiting a friend in New Orleans who happens to live in the neighborhood. The eggs came three on a plate, over easy but still hot in the center, perfectly done, with two biscuits, gravy, sausage, grits, and hot sauce on the side, and because of them I liked Michael just a little bit more after breakfast than I had before. I walked across the street listening to the screen door slam behind me. His house was the second in from the corner. A narrow Victorian painted lilac on the outside with cream-colored steps, chipped and sunken in the middle from who knows how many years and how many footsteps.

Velma had chunky dark homemade bread or biscuits and a slice of meat or sausage.

Eamonn Carr was coming in with tea on a tray, and what looked like home-made biscuits. Paula took her drink gratefully, but saw that Guy just sipped his and put it down on a well-placed coaster.