I fought long and hard to not have special equipment or an inventory of appliances. Craft, I believe, is how well you can do something consistently with your hands. Biscuits require your full attention. As fast as they can get on the table, they demand an ideal environment to be nurtured in. Very cold butter is a must. Well refrigerated cultured dairy is non negotiable. Sugar, though hotly debated, will showcase the best qualities of what a biscuit can offer. Leavening in two forms works over time to lift and increase the Maillard reaction. Tending to a small batch of eight biscuits is a divine act of love. Softening the cubes of butter into the flour creating sheets is the best place to start. The flour gains weight as the butter becomes acclimated. If things feel like they’re heating up, you take a break and cool off, literally. Every pass of the rolling pin shan’t be wasted. Pull a page out of Viennoiserie and laminate the dough a few times. Every motion counts, don’t think. Have the oven ready, a cut biscuit prefers to get it over with. When the job is finished, dab a saturated pastry brush leaking butter onto the golden surface. Just one more necessary treatment of crystalline salt to ensure every bite remains remarkable.
Craft is practice. Mastery could never be achieved as that would deny the thrill of the process. The biscuit recipe I’m presenting has flavor in check with a working knowledge of technique. As life would have it, I could not make biscuits everyday. I simply would become one. I feel compelled to return to biscuits; as luck would have it I’d be able to fill my mixing bowl, grab the rolling pin and cut into what are the best biscuits I’ve ever made. I’m beyond satisfied with the recipe. Count me in every time if these biscuits are the centerfold. Craft has intimacy built into it. The act alone demands you to stop thinking about anything else but what’s happening right now. If you call me while I’m making biscuits, I’m ignoring that shit. It’s a gift to have time for craft. On social media, I watch previous coworkers refining their technique on the potter's wheel. The repetitious nature of craft is where the imagination can run wild. When my hands press the cold butter into the flour I envision the cottony enriched layers with a gorgeously browned exterior showcasing the craft invested. While I mention pottery it has me drawing a parallel between ceramics and baking. Preparation and attention are only validated by the kiln or oven. Alas the cycle is complete. I hope to one day cook in a completely meditative state in a sound bath of sizzling and simmering. For the time being, my forearms are getting ripped from making these biscuits.
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