I didn't grow up kneading biscuits at my grandmother's knee. I don't think my mother ever made one that didn't pop from a can. There is no genetic reason I should have become a biscuit eater much less a biscuit maker. But I love the feel of the cool, short dough in my hands. For years I have been trying variations, new recipes and flours hoping to pinpoint the masterful fluffy biscuits of Southern breakfast lore.
On Easter Sunday with a bag of White Lily flour and plenty of butter I finally achieved a biscuit so light the golden brown top reached skyward forging open holes and a shaggy crevasse crying out for melted butter. A movie star biscuit made with my own hands.