I love biscuits. Buttermilk. Cat’s Head. Angel. (Though I don’t care for a sweet biscuit. I also refuse to taint a crunchy biscuit with gravy. Sacrilege.) But I took them for granted my first 32 years when I lived in the South. You could get frozen biscuits at Wal-Mart. And at every restaurant.
But living in San Diego, biscuits are hard to come by. Naturally, one of the few places I’ve found sells sweet biscuits, since the owner is from South Carolina (biscuit recipes vary wildly from one region of the South to another). I’ve learned to make my own buttermilk biscuits, but still. I miss them being everywhere.
When I met my mother recently for a trip to Lafayette, our first breakfast was a no-brainer for me: biscuits and grits. And yea, sure, eggs too. But they were decoration.
The biscuit was heavenly. The perfect amount of crunch on the outside, while the inside completely melted once a generous dollop of butter was inserted.
I can die now.