It started with the tin.
Old. Lopsided. Bent from years of being slammed shut one-handed while holding a baby or a bowl or a breath.
I hadn’t meant to make biscuits. I meant to sit still. But the cold crept under the door and the quiet wasn’t kind, and then somehow—flour.
What the Original Looked Lik
Her Highness plays it straight here:
four cups of flour, cold butter cubed, and buttermilk folded like an apology.
She keeps it structured—no parchment, no drama, just a cold bowl and faith in geometry.
Golden tops. Salted bottoms. Edges clean, not craggy.
Like she pressed her knuckles into the dough with purpose.
Like the kitchen wasn’t full of ghosts.
The recipe says “don’t overmix.”
I never do. I just get distracted.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have enough buttermilk—used half Greek yogurt, half oat milk. Mae’s weird hybrid.
The sugar slipped heavy. I wasn’t measuring right.
And I added sea salt from Provincetown instead of regular.
Not because it’s better. Just because it makes me feel something.
Her Highness would’ve judged the shape. I didn’t cut clean.
Used a mason jar rim with a chip in it. It worked. So did I.
How The Biscuits Actually Happened
The butter was colder than it should’ve been.
My fingers hurt pressing it in. I used the green Pyrex bowl—
the one that’s outlived three apartments and a husband.
Flour stuck to the edges like it knew I’d forget it was there.
I patted the dough too thin the first time.
Re-folded. Apologized. Tried again.
Mae walked in halfway through—
“Are these the ones from Nan’s funeral?”
I nodded, though they weren’t.
But the smell—
that warm-fat-flour-smell—
it always pulls her back to something heavy and soft.
I didn’t rotate the sheet like Martha says.
The oven’s old. It bakes uneven and mean.
Some came out golden. Some pale and reaching.
Like they weren’t sure they were done becoming.
A Few Things I Learned
Letting the dough rest before cutting made them softer.
I didn’t plan that. I just got distracted.
Brushing the tops with oat milk instead of buttermilk gave them this sheen—almost sweet.
One had a burnt bottom. That one was mine.
I scraped it, quiet. Didn’t mind.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t many.
Mae ate two with honey and walked away humming something that wasn’t sad.
I wrapped one in foil and found it cold the next morning—
ate it over the sink with last year’s peach jam.
The jar still says “2002” in your handwriting.
Smells like endings.
Tastes like sugar and stubbornness.
Would I Make Them Again?
Yes.
When it’s too quiet.
When I need to press my hands into something that forgives me back.
That’s As Much As I Remember
I didn’t fix it.
I just pressed it closed with my palm,
left flour on the counter,
and let the cold in a little slower this time.
If you need something warmer, I made a cheddar soup once that smelled like forgiveness and garlic. Mae still talks about it.
FAQs
Yeah, but add a splash of lemon or vinegar. or don’t. they’ll still bake. they’ll just taste a little less like sunday mornings.
Yes. don’t fight me on this. warm butter = weird cookies pretending to be biscuits.
Sure. i cut them first, freeze on a tray, then toss into a bag once solid. bake straight from frozen. just add a minute or two and maybe say a prayer.
kinda. they’re best warm and loud. next day they’re fine if toasted. or split and filled with something soft and salty. mae eats them cold with mustard, so do what you want.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart’S Yorkshire Pudding
- Martha Stewart’s Chocolate Whoopie Pies
- Martha Stewart’s Mac and Cheese
- Martha Stewart’S String Bean Casserole
Martha Stewart Buttermilk Biscuits
Description
Buttery, a little uneven, soft like memory—especially the ones on the edge of the tray.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Mix the dry stuff: dumped the flour, salt, baking soda, baking powder, and that sad teaspoon of sugar into the green bowl. stirred it lazy with a fork. everything looked pale and unsure.
- Cut in the butter: grabbed the cold cubes from the fridge. pressed them in with my fingers until it felt like gravel. a few big chunks hung on. didn’t care. they melt. they forgive.
- Add the buttermilk: poured it in all at once. half real buttermilk, half that greek yogurt oat milk mix. stirred with a rubber spatula that’s seen better days. folded from the outside in. stopped before it looked ready.
- Shape the dough: floured the counter. dropped the dough like a secret. patted it gently, like it might bruise. folded it once, then again. pressed to about an inch thick. wasn’t even. i let it be.
- Cut the biscuits: used a chipped mason jar rim. no cutter. pressed down and twisted even though martha says not to. lined them up like old friends who don’t talk much anymore. gave them space.
- Bake: brushed the tops with oat milk because i forgot to save real buttermilk. oven already hot at 375°. slid the tray in and hoped for gold. didn’t rotate. one side browned first. smelled like comfort with edges.
- Cool (or don’t): pulled them out when they looked done enough. cooled them on the rack but ate one before it made it. burned my tongue. worth it.