Dad’s Flying Biscuits
Every weekend, you’d find my Dad in the kitchen, his blue apron wrapped around his waist, The Williams Brothers record playing. He’d sing along while standing over the stove, cooking either sugar rice with bacon and scrambled eggs or fried potatoes with onions, eggs, and sausage. Whatever he made always came with his incredible flying biscuits.
After finishing breakfast, my Dad’s first plate was always for my Mom. On weekends, she’d linger in bed, and Dad would present her a plate. With charismatic flair, he’d bow like performers after an act, declaring, ‘Breakfast is served!’ Then, he’d warn her to keep a hand over those biscuits because they were so light and fluffy they might just up and take flight. Her laughter would fill the room and spill out into the hall, and sometimes, just to prove his point, he’d pluck one of the biscuits from her plate, toss it into the air, and watch it soar.
At some point during my youth, I decided that I wanted to learn how to cook. I mastered the art of fried potatoes, seasoning them liberally with every spice available from my parent’s exhaustive spice rack. Rice came out pretty well too, but my eggs were a bit lacking, but not terrible. It was the biscuits that were the main challenge. My dad jokingly said that they were so hard that if he threw them up in…
