By Amara is one year old. One year. Marcus sent photos — a tiny girl with frosting on her face, a birthday cake with a single candle, a smile that shows two bottom teeth and all the hope in the world. She is walking now — not walking, toddling, that drunken-sailor stagger that babies do before their legs figure out the plan. Marcus says she's into everything. Tasha says she's exhausting. I say she's perfect.
I sent a birthday package: a blanket I knitted (yellow, because I still don't have a gender-based color scheme and yellow is the color of sunshine and safety), a jar of hot sauce for Marcus (he's developing a taste), and a card that I wrote with my own hand that said, "Happy first birthday, Amara Mae. Your great-grandfather would have loved you so much. He already did. Love, Granny Dot."
The church Thanksgiving dinner was Wednesday night. One hundred and sixty people this year — more than last year, which means word is spreading or hunger is spreading, and either way, we fed them all. The turkey was golden. The dressing was Mama's. The greens were Sister Johnson's best. Deacon Harris's rolls could have ended wars. And I stood at the serving line and I put food on plates and I said, "You're welcome here, sugar," to every single person who came through, because that is what Thanksgiving is — not the food, but the welcome. The food is just the evidence.
The homeless man came back — the one from last year, the one I didn't ask his name. He remembered me. He said, "You're the lady who said there was a plate with my name on it." I said, "There still is." He ate three helpings. He told me his name is Carl. I said, "Carl, you come back next year." He said, "Yes ma'am." He will. They always come back when you feed them without conditions.
Now go on and feed somebody.
Every year at the church Thanksgiving dinner, it’s the bread that does people in — Deacon Harris’s rolls have a way of making grown men go quiet and grateful, and I’ve spent more than one Wednesday night thinking I need to have something like that ready in my own kitchen. These sour cream biscuits are my answer: simple enough to make in big batches, tender enough to make Carl come back for thirds, and buttery enough to feel like a proper act of love. If you’re feeding a crowd — or just one person who needs welcoming — this is the recipe to reach for.
Sour Cream Biscuits
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes | Total Time: 22 minutes | Servings: 12 biscuits
Ingredients
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 tablespoon baking powder
- 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
- 1 cup full-fat sour cream
- 2 tablespoons whole milk (plus more if needed)
- 1 tablespoon melted butter, for brushing
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or lightly grease it.
- Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt until evenly combined.
- Cut in the butter. Add the cold butter cubes to the flour mixture. Using a pastry cutter or your fingertips, work the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with pea-sized bits of butter throughout. Work quickly so the butter stays cold.
- Add the sour cream. Stir in the sour cream and milk with a fork or rubber spatula until the dough just comes together. It will be soft and slightly sticky — do not overwork it.
- Shape the biscuits. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Pat it gently to about 3/4-inch thickness. Cut with a 2 1/2-inch biscuit cutter, pressing straight down without twisting. Re-pat the scraps and cut until all dough is used.
- Bake. Place biscuits on the prepared baking sheet with sides just touching for soft edges, or spaced apart for crispier sides. Bake for 11 to 13 minutes, until risen and golden on top.
- Finish and serve. Brush the tops with melted butter as soon as they come out of the oven. Serve warm.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 165 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 8g | Carbs: 20g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 210mg