Son of a son of a biscuit maker

My father was born in the throes of the Great Depression and grew up in Tallapoosa County in a small wood-clad house in a mill village down the hill from the textile factory where my grandparents worked.

While I heard stories about those times throughout my growing-up years, my father's origins could not have seemed more alien had he said he'd grown up in a crater on the moon. But as I grew older, I realized how my own life had been informed by father's childhood experiences.

For instance, we didn't eat a lot of chicken at our house, which doesn't make a lot of sense from a fiscal standpoint. The grocery budget was usually tight, but we'd have pork or beef – or hot dog wieners — even though chicken was a more economical protein.

But if my father was out of town on business, my mother would cut up a whole chicken and fry it up in Crisco. The problem, it seemed, is that among my father's duties as a youngster was wringing the neck of the yardbird du jour.

My dad was the youngest of five children, and there was another kid in the house, his oldest sister's son, who was a couple of years younger than my father and his partner in mischief. Behind the house was a kid's wonderland hemmed in by tall hedges on two sides and a creek – or "crick," as they called it – along a third. There was an old wooden garage to hide behind and smoke rabbit tobacco, swarms of fireflies at dusk, and ubiquitous chickens pecking away endlessly at the ground.

While they may not have been considered pets, or even had names, those chickens were part of my father's world; after slaughtering scores of them in such a visceral way time and again in his formative years, it was no wonder that he'd lost a taste for that particular ingredient, despite its versatility and economy.

However, my father's mother – Mawmaw to us grands – had the magical ability to turn meager foodstuffs into bountiful feasts. And front and center at every meal was her magnum opus, the cathead biscuit.

There's a legend in the annals of Perkins lore that my Uncle Pete would get mad every morning when he'd return from his paper route to find the rest of the horde had eaten breakfast without him. "Mama," he'd protest, "they only saved me seven biscuits!"

The humble biscuit was such a staple on the table of the Tallapoosa Perkinses that when my father married my mother, a city gal from Montgomery, the new bride consulted her mother-in-law for lessons because my dad wanted "Mama's biscuits."

She gave my mother a bowl and they stood together in the small kitchen measuring out ingredients by how a quantity looked in the palm of the hand, and then in the bowl itself. There was no recipe or even written measurements. They made biscuits until Mother got the hang of it, and when it was time to go home, Mother packed her newfound knowledge – and her bowl – into the Chevy headed home.

All this occurred before I ever made my appearance on earth, and to my recollection, I never experienced a biscuit from Mawmaw's hand. She died when I was around five years old, and if I ever had breakfast in the house on Hatcher Street, I don't remember it.

Biscuit-making at our house was all well and good until Mother dropped the biscuit bowl, watching in horror as it shattered against the linoleum floor. She was sure she'd never be able to make Mawmaw's biscuits again.

Whether she ever replicated that recipe remains a question for the ages, but Mother did churn out a sea of biscuits over the years, and eventually "Mama's biscuits" ceased to refer to my paternal grandmother's creation.

Mother's been gone a decade now, and I regret never having asked her to teach me to make biscuits. It's apparently an elusive skill, as I have been disappointed by virtually every homemade biscuit I've been served anywhere since. (A caveat: There is a particular frozen brand we like from the Piggly Wiggly; I don't remember what it's called but I recognize the sack.)

All this makes me wish I knew Scott Peacock, a renowned Southern chef who grew up in Hartford. Scott, it turns out, could teach me to make a proper biscuit. He has a recipe passed down from his mentor, legendary Southern cook Edna Lewis. In fact, scores of people have traveled from near and far to stand in Scott's kitchen in his Perry County farmhouse to learn to make a biscuit the way the Good Lord intended.

One of these days, I'm going to find the time for Chef Scott Peacock's Biscuit Experience . I imagine it would be time well-spent.

Bill Perkins is editorial page editor of the Dothan Eagle and can be reached at or 334-712-7901. Support the work of Eagle journalists by purchasing a digital subscription today at dothaneagle.com .

Editorial Page Editor