Butter on the Outside, Flakes on the Inside: The Real Story
I wasn’t planning on writing about biscuits today. I just needed to make some.
The kind you stir by hand, where the flour dusts the morning light and the air smells faintly like a memory. I had the bowl out, the butter softening, and before long I found myself thinking about Grandma—how her kitchen was never fancy, but how everything that came from her oven tasted like home.
Measuring Like Grandma Taught Me
Grandma was particular about measuring flour. She said the trick was to empty flour into the measuring cup versus scooping straight from the canister. Scooping straight from the canister packs the flour in too tightly and will land you with dense bread.
Instead, take a vessel, pour gently into the measuring cup, then use the back of a knife to chop it fairly flat before sliding the straight edge across the top to level it off. That was Grandma's way. I can't count how many times I saw her do that.
Too much flour dooms a recipe—dry as dust before it ever goes in to bake. But oil? You can fudge a little there. The recipe says ten tablespoons, but I pour, empty, pour, empty, until I just feel like it's right. Even when I am emptying, I really never stop pouring. Ten if you’re counting, twenty if you’re me.
And the melted butter on the outside?
Well, Eunice Prindle would’ve called that wasteful. You'll meet Eunice in Book 2, Whispers on the Wind.
But that’s the part the kids go hunting for under their gravy, the flaky, golden edges that crunch when you bite in.
The Recipe Doesn't Really Include “Butter”
Grandma's recipe card is yellowed and spattered, and it really doesn’t mention butter anywhere. Just the basics: flour, baking powder, salt, milk and oil.
But here’s the secret she taught me, though I didn’t realize it then: the real magic comes after the recipe stops talking.
When the dough’s crumbly—almost too dry to hold together—that’s when I melt about half a stick of butter in a pie dish. Then I roll those floury, uneven bits right through it, messy and scrappy looking. It’s not delicate work. You’ll think you’ve ruined it.
But that’s the moment Grandma would’ve smiled and said, “That looks so PRETTY! You’re doing it just right.”
What happens next is alchemy.
The butter crisps the edges into a golden crunch while keeping the centers impossibly soft. The outside shatters just a little when you bite in, giving way to tender layers that flake apart like pages of an old letter.
That’s the part no recipe can teach you. Standing beside Grandma and watching her work is where you learn stuff like that.
The Hands Behind Ruth
When I wrote Ruth Shephard into Letters from Willow Creek, I didn’t have to imagine her hands.
I already knew them.
They were my grandmother’s—steady and unhurried, with that same quiet confidence that said this will come together if you give it time. Ruth’s biscuits are Grandma's, right down to the way she’d turn the bowl just so, tapping the spoon twice on the rim before setting it aside.
And maybe that’s why I can’t make these biscuits without thinking of both Grandma and Ruth. Ruth is the woman I wrote, and Grandma is the woman who taught me how to bring flour and love into the same bowl.
Flour and baking powder carefully leveled off just as Grandma insisted—soft as snowfall. And “some” salt.
Melting the butter while you mix the dough — the secret Grandma never wrote down on paper.
If you want them flaky, don’t mix past “barely a ball.” Go crumble, stir a few times and then that’s it.
And wipe that countertop clean before you dump all that stuff right onto it — Grandma would’ve had a fit otherwise.
It’s messy, but it’s perfect. Roll each piece all around — both sides — and coat liberally with melted butter.
And there they are — from start to biscuit on a plate in less than thirty minutes. Flakiness you can see. Comfort you can taste.
Perfectly baked drop biscuits — best under a mound of old-fashioned sausage gravy, or dripping with honey and (MORE!) butter.
Grandma made so many things. This is actually one of the last of her very own homemade potholders. I use it often.
It needs a bath, but I can't just get another one like it. So, I wash it less than my others.
Her potholder. My hands. Ruth's story. You see, Ruth isn't really "all" fiction.
Here’s Grandma’s biscuit recipe, just as she made it—with one secret step Ruth would’ve approved of.
(Edit quantities as you like - just NOT the flour!)
Ingredients
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 2 TBS baking powder
- "some" salt
- 10 Tbs vegetable oil (or however much looks right to you!)
- ¾ cup milk
- 1/3 to 1/2 stick butter, melted (for the secret step)
Directions
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Preheat oven to 425°F. Place the butter in a glass pie dish and set it in the oven while it preheats.
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In a bowl, stir together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the oil and milk; mix until it barely holds together. Stop before it looks smooth—it should be just more than crumbly.
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Remove the hot pie dish from the oven.
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Throw the dough out onto a clean countertop and do your best not to overwork it.
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Form a log and divide it into 8 equal sections that you’ll shape into biscuits.
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Roll each piece ever so gently through the melted butter, coating all sides. They barely hold together—just work with them. If a piece falls off, pinch it back in. It’ll be alright.
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Bake 10–12 minutes, until lightly golden and crisp at the edges.
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Serve warm—with honey, sausage gravy, or both.
Butter on the outside. Flakes on the inside. Love all the way through.
🤎 From My Kitchen to Yours
Every time I bake these, I think of Grandma—and of Ruth.
One real, one imagined, both still teaching me the same thing:
Love doesn’t have to be loud to last.
It can be a handful of flour, a messy butter trick, a Saturday morning kitchen that smells like memory.
And maybe that’s the real story worth passing on.
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Comments
I have some of the potholders, too. I think she must have made a hundred, but she gave them all away.
Oh, that makes my heart so happy! 💜 I love that you still have some of Grandma's potholders too. I think many of us still have some of them. It’s a sweet comfort knowing her handiwork is still tucked into our kitchens all these years later.
I love the smell of the vwoodstove. The smell on clothes smells like love to me. I used to receive handmade clothes that the wonderful smell of the wood stove smoke.
I, too, remember wilted lettuce with the bacon drippings. Best thing ever!
The potholder is beautiful!
Keep sharing these wonderful stories.
Thanks for the biscuit recipe
Your comment just made me smile so big! I remember that smell of the wood stove too. :) And that wilted lettuce - I've tried many times to duplicate it, but just never have been able to! I am so glad you're enjoying the recipe and the stories!