Buttermilk Biscuits & Mountain Memories
- Kim-The Seasoned Lady
- Jun 7
- 2 min read
Every summer, every Thanksgiving, every Christmas season—and often even during Spring Break—our family made the trip to Nicholas County, West Virginia to visit family. There was no shortage of aunts and uncles, and the requisite cousins were always in full supply. But the real draw? Our two sets of grandparents.
In true Appalachian fashion, both were lovingly known as "Mamaw" and "Papaw," distinguished only by their last names—Holiday or Blake—depending on which porch swing you were aiming for. Their homes sat just a few miles apart, modest and full of history. We’d pack in tight, just like our parents had growing up—multiple kids per bed, sharing tiny rooms—and somehow, it never felt crowded. It never felt “poor,” either. The feeling was one of richness—of deep roots, enduring love, and a kind of belonging that didn’t require matching opinions or modern conveniences.
Meals weren’t ordered in, and eating out was rare. Instead, food came from Mamaw’s kitchen, with help from our mom, whichever aunts were around that day, and us kids—eager to be included, whether or not we were actually helpful. I can still picture myself, apron spread across my lap, sorting pinto beans to soak overnight, and stringing and snapping peas and green beans. We shucked corn, picked produce from the garden, and helped “put up” food to be canned or frozen for the coming winter. It was work, sure—but also a rhythm of life, slow and sacred. No video games or digital interferences. Just simple family living and great times and conversations with those we loved.
One constant through all those summers? Buttermilk biscuits. Every single morning, without fail, we woke to their buttery scent drifting from the oven. Whether breakfast included bacon, eggs, tomatoes, or gravy, there were always biscuits—served warm with butter, jam, or Mamaw’s sawmill gravy. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
So in honor of those long-ago mornings, my sister Patti—whom many of you know as one of our Seasoned Lady contributors—took time this past week to pass along the tradition. She taught my daughter, Heather, how to make Mamaw’s Buttermilk Biscuits, and the best part? She recorded it, just for you.
Years of military moves and life’s busyness nudged me into the convenience of freezer biscuits. But this summer, I begin again. My grandkids are visiting next week, and I’ll be making biscuits from scratch, just like Mamaw did. We’re going to eat as closely to those summer memories as I can manage.
I hope you enjoy the video (beow)—and when you try this simple, soulful recipe, we’d love to hear how it goes. Share your biscuit stories with us. Let’s keep these memories—and the love baked into them—alive.
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