making biscuits.

the staple of southern cooking

"Five cups of all purpose flour, two cups of cake flour."

Hazy late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the arched windows of Macen's kitchen, warming the pink-hued Etowah marble in front of him. Toby's eyes followed his pointing intently, putting the name of each ingredient with its appearance; he had watched him measure out flour and cut butter in preparation, but he was too wrapped up in admiring the way he moved so steadily between the pantry, cabinets, and counter.

"...one pound of butter, with a handful of cubes to spare." The final, perhaps most important, ingredient on Macen's memorized list would catch anyone born north of the Bible Belt by surprise. Some would make fun of him in response – can the South even function without butter? – but, with all the pride in the world for his cooking, Macen propped his hands on his hips confidently  before gesturing towards the flour. Toby perked up. "I already sifted the flours together n' cut the butter, so what we're gonna do is dump the cubes in and mix it with our hands. You grab the bowl of butter and start pourin' 'em in handful by handful while I hold this still."

"Alright..." Toby nodded, pausing for a moment, then reaching for the little red enamel bowl overflowing with cubes of butter. He shuffled closer to Macen, to the point where their shoulders touched, and slowly scooped them in to the mixture; the shorter man made small noises of approval with each scoop until they were all in.
"That's a lot of butter. You sure we can mix all that?"
"It might get messy, but yeah. The butter's nice n' soft, so as long as we gently pinch it between our fingers, it'll mix well. You want the texture of the dough to be kinda like...chunky sand, before we put the buttermilk in."
Without hesitation Macen dipped his hands in to the steel bowl and began pinching, sifting his fingers through the flour to coat each cube. Still a bit awestruck by the way the Georgian moved so knowingly, Toby blinked himself out of his daze and joined him, picking up on the delicate kneading fairly quickly.

It's not like Toby had never made biscuits before. For God's sakes, he was a tried and true southern man, the very heart of it all! Lowcountry cuisine would be nothing without the familiar flakiness of a homemade biscuit.
But in the midst of daily life – commuting, work, housework, obligations to the state – Toby had no time to sit down and bake homemade goodness. He had time to crack open a Pillsbury can against the counter and slide a tray into the oven, but nothing more, and it was starting to get to him.
There's no better self care, in my opinion, than spending time pouring love into the kitchen, Macen would tell him. When you come down this summer, we'll start simple. Biscuits.
So here he was, kneading, and admittedly the stress was melting away as easily as the butter in his fingers. But he figured just being in the presence of Macen ought to be helping, too.
Helping a lot, actually.

"Mm." Macen smiled and rested his wrists on the rim of the bowl, looking the dough over with his gold-flecked eyes that glittered in the light. "This looks good. I'm gonna make a well in the dough and knead in the buttermilk- you do me a favor, clear off this space on the counter n' cover it in flour."
Toby tilted his head, as if to ask did I hear you right?
"Cover it in flour?"
"Yessir. Just get a big handfulla flour and sprinkle it over the counter- spread it, though. We're gonna put the dough on the counter an' the flour will prevent it from stickin'." Hummed the boy as he lifted a measuring cup over the bowl. "Make it wide, 'cause we're gonna roll it out kinda thin."
The Carolinian nodded in understanding and went to the sink to rinse the slick butter off his hands briefly before returning to the island to move used cups and bowls around. At this point he would have just started ripping chunks out of the dough into vague ball-shaped lumps, but Macen could finesse the kitchen more than he ever could. "So..."
Macen glanced up from his dough.
"Biscuits have to go with somethin'. I know you said start simple, but we should make something to eat them with tomorrow..." Toby dug his hand into the flour container and began coating the marble, swiping his palm across it to cover it thoroughly. He trailed off, rifling through his memories to conjure up a meal suggestion, but Macen beat him to the punch.
"Oh, we could do anythin'. Brunswick stew, chicken an' collard greens, Frogmore stew...shame we ain't closer to the Altamaha, I could catch us a ton of honkin' catfish to fry." He clicked his tongue, then huffed a laugh. "We could drive on out t' Loganville and see if we can't wrangle some river trout. I know a good spot."
Toby found himself breaking into a wide smile.
"Is your good spot legal?"
"Hush, you. You'll eat whatever I catch and you won't ask questions."