Why don't my biscuits taste like my grandmother's?

I'm currently making a dessert. It's a recipe I got from my grandmother, Carolyn. Wait, let me rephrase. It's not a "recipe." It's a bunch of vague scribblings that I jotted down while trying to make sense of what my grandmother was saying as she explained how to make this dessert. You see, I have the same problem that I feel most women my age have when it comes to trying to recreate dishes that their grandmothers have been making for years. They. just. don't. know. how. they. do. it.

I must admit that I find this mind-boggling. I have several things that I make quite often. My signature Caesar salad, Paula Deen's gooey butter cake, chicken scallopini...to name a few. I. use. the. recipe. every. time. Furthermore, I insist on measuring every ingredient. All of them. Kiss that, Rachael Ray! You won't catch me "eyeballing" it! It's really quite inexcusable, I realize. I could make any one of these dishes in my sleep. But still I refuse. Call it paranoid. Call it OCD. I'm just so afraid of messing something up!

One of my biggest, most epic failures as a grown-up, domestic woman was the time that I tried to recreate my grandmother's biscuits. I should back up and explain that some of my favorite memories, growing up, were the times I would stay with my Grandmother Carolyn while my mother worked. Granddaddy would already be gone to work. Grandmother would be waiting outside on the porch swing when we pulled up. We'd sit on the porch for a while, swat mosquitos, talk or sing, and then go inside for...BISCUITS!

My grandmother makes the absolute, hands-down, BEST biscuits I have ever tasted in my life. They're small (read: you can eat three!), the perfect consistency, and have the best flavor...even without butter or jelly. She's made them for as long as I can remember, as long as my father can remember, and heck probably as long as SHE can remember. She mixes them up and cuts them out once a week and freezes them. Then she takes out enough for my grandfather and her to eat each morning and cooks them. Repeat. I always loved to help her when I was there. She'd let me use the rolling pin or cut the biscuits out with the small jar she uses...oh, how I wish I'd paid better attention to how she does it.

As I grew up, I always asked her for the recipe. She never would give it to me. It became a running joke between my cousin and me...how Gran was so desperately trying to keep her famous biscuits from being replicated. It was only years later that I realized the true reason. It wasn't that she wouldn't give out her recipe. It was that she COULDN'T! There WAS no recipe!

I'll never forget the day I came to this realization. My husband and I were out of town on vacation. My grandmother had called to say 'hello.' I jokingly kidded her about how she'll never give out her recipe, and the next thing I knew she was blabbing out ingredients. I quickly scrounged for pen and paper. (Luckily our hotel had provided a pad of stationery.) She started giving amounts of flour, Crisco, and buttermilk. At one point I stopped her and said, "Gran, I need to know the actual quantity." She replied, "Well, I have this little scooper that I use. It's probably about a cup, so, say, three cups?" Then she told me to add a certain number of cups of flour...and then a little more. "How much is a little more?" I asked. She couldn't really say. "Just enough until the dough is the right consistency."

I literally couldn't WAIT to get home. I had hit the culinary JACKPOT! I got up early the following Saturday to make what would soon be MY famous biscuits. Into the oven they went. My emotions were running high. I pulled out the pan. Success, I thought! They looked just like hers! I made a plate for my husband and one for me. I'm quite sure I was beaming.

(Cue the drumroll.)

They were awful.

(Insert clanking cymbal.) AWFUL! An outright disaster. My husband said they tasted like manna. I have to agree. Or at the very least, they tasted like the little squares of bread that we eat during Communion. The flat, stale crackers. Sustenance, yes. Flavorful...no. On a slightly more positive note...I did discover that, if I gave each individual bite approximately 3 squirts of Parkay, they weren't half bad. So, consequently, I'm quite sure the problem was too little Crisco. The truth is...I'll never know. I don't believe there will ever be an Attempt Number Two. Some things, I believe, are just better left to the experts.

I've since convinced myself that my failure is not an indication that I'm not a good cook. It doesn't mean I'll never be a domestic goddess. And it certainly doesn't mean my grandchildren will never envy my culinary skills. It just means that I, currently, do not have the qualifications required to bake an exquisite biscuit...Carolyn-style.

My grandmother was born September 11, 1934. Next month she will have been married to my grandfather, Bill, for 57 years. She's raised 2 children, and helped raise 3 grandchildren. She is now a proud great-grandmother. Good biscuits don't just happen overnight. Besides, she doesn't measure in cups and ounces. She's been using the same utensils to make her phenomenal biscuits for longer than my parents have been alive. It's not a matter of 1 teaspoon of salt or 1 cup of buttermilk. It's that orange scooper full of flour and a LARGE dollop of Crisco plus a "little more" flour until the consistency's right.

Going beyond that, it's a gigantic accumulation of love that's missing. My gran has been making the same breakfast for my grandfather (and whomever else decided to stop in) for over 50 years. Through thick and thin, 2 heart attacks (one apiece), and God-only-knows-what-else. Until I've experienced even half as much "life," I'm pretty sure it's arrogant of me to even begin to think that I could ever aspire to anything close to her flawless biscuits.

Until then, I will continue to carry out my recipe-guided, pales-in-comparison, trite little dishes. And when, on the offshoot, I try to recreate one of her masterpieces that I've scrawled down in a flurry...I will re-read my scribbled "bake crust until brown and flaky," shake my head, and make a mental note to go back and update the recipe with the ACTUAL bake time...lest my grandchildren think I'm conspiring against them.

Q: Why don't my biscuits taste like my grandmother's?
A: Because I took them out of the oven 57 years too early.