Biscuits, Biskits or HoCake

by Sam Crenshaw

On an occasion of my youth, Mother had to go to a health clinic in Biloxi, Mississippi to be tested for allergies in hopes of finding some relief for her condition of bronchial asthma. The Queen of all biscuit makers—my mother—left my brothers and me at the mercy of Daddy to cook. Daddy was a good hard-working provider for our family, however when he made an attempt at biscuits, they always turned out big, flat and hard.

In later years, I wondered why that was, because he could cook a good HoCake. For the unlearned, HoCake is made up just like biscuits, only it is cooked in a cast-iron frying pan on top of the stove rather than in a 400 degree oven as biscuits. The only thing I could imagine happening was my father getting down plain flour instead of self-rising. The certainty of it was they were horrible. You could throw them out to the dogs, but they would throw them back.

Biscuits had always been an essential part of my life, and quite frankly I was spoiled when I had to eat store-bought bread instead.

When Mother had biscuits left over, they would go on a platter in her china cabinet. They were a treat with butter and sugar, eaten cold. They were also a treat when a hole was poked into the top edge and filled with cane syrup, eaten cold. They were equally good with a left-over piece of fat back or streak-o-lean meat, naturally eaten cold. Perhaps they were always eaten cold because microwave ovens had not been invented. Showing miraculous ingenuity, Mother could also crumble the left-over biscuits and make a real treat of biscuit pudding. Perhaps most who are reading this cotton patch column now are beginning to salivate.

My mother passed away some 31 years ago, but memories of her legendary cooking of biscuits and other treats remains in the memories of those whom she left behind. One of the difficulties of making successful biscuits is that there isn’t a real recipe that one can go by. It takes learning by observing a master and then much trial and error over a course of time. My biscuits, unlike those of my daddy, have become the things of which legends are made from in our family.

When it became clear to me that Sheila was never going to be a biscuit-maker, I began to study the art at the feet of my mother, eventually becoming the master that I am today. (No brag, just fact, as Walter Brennan used to say in the old western television series.)

Recently, I decided to venture out to see what would happen if I froze my biscuits in a manner not unlike those in the grocery stores. The difference is mine are still wonderful when cooked after being frozen. I’m thinking about the fortune which has escaped me in life, yet may be beckoning me to start a company of From the Cotton Patch Biscuits.

Wanna buy some stock?

© 2005 Sam Crenshaw

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If you enjoyed this story, you will want to read Great Lady of the Mill Village.

Contact Sam at sam@samcrenshaw.com