I'm closing in on BISCUIT NIRVANA. I received a very descriptive Southern recipe from a Mississippi-born Manhattanite for work (soon to be posted over there). And, I'm telling you, it was as close as I've come to the perfect little morsel.
It was tender.
It was flaky.
There was an awful lot of "biscuit dander" (my brother's phrase, I love it!), signifying a healthy butter : flour ratio.
It was the perfect vehicle for D's slow cooked scrambled eggs and blackberry jam made last summer, squirreled away for this very purpose. The bright flavor of August bursting forth with each greedy bite.
The buttermilk yielded a slight bounce, yet left no sour taste as I secretly feared.
The golden tops peeled right off into my anxious little paws, as I tasted the first crusty bite pure and unfettered with luscious condiments.
I had a moment with my biscuit. And then I ate another one. Slathered with butter, bien sur.