Cinnamon Raisin Biscuits

Second week of December. The cold settled in. Twenty-eight Tuesday morning. The pipes in the workshop hummed for a few minutes when I turned the heat on, the way they do when the temperature drops fast. I checked the well house insulation — added a little more around the pressure tank — and split a few more rounds of pecan for the Christmas fire. The wood pile is at about three quarters of a cord, which is enough for the season if we don't get a particularly hard winter and if we ration the daytime fires. The fire pit on Christmas night is non-negotiable. I plan around it.

The Cherokee Christmas decorations Hannah puts up are different than the standard. She does pine boughs cut from the property, a wreath of grapevine she made herself ten years ago and which we re-trim every year, and a kind of cornhusk doll made from this year's harvest that goes on the mantel. No tree, exactly — she does a small live cedar she dug from the woods and which we'll plant back in March. The cedar lives on the porch with lights on it and gets brought in for Christmas morning. The whole approach is quieter than what most people I know do, and it's right for who we are.

The Cherokee word for December — equoi nvdo, "the cold moon" — Hannah and I taught Tommy on FaceTime Sunday. He's four and a half, his Cherokee is in fragments, but the moon-words he learns easily because he likes the moon. He looked out his window in Albuquerque and said: equoi nvdo, in his serious voice. I said: yes. He said: cold moon. I said: yes. He said: it's on Christmas? I said: yes. He said: I see you on Christmas with cold moon? I said: yes. Hannah was crying. She doesn't usually cry in front of the screen. She did then.

Cooked a pot of pinto beans Friday. The Saturday I-eat-with-Caleb beans — moved up because Caleb couldn't come Saturday this week. He had a meeting in OKC. I made the beans anyway and ate them with Hannah Friday and again Saturday at lunch and again with breakfast Sunday. Beans for three days is the kind of cooking that makes a kitchen feel inhabited. Cornbread on Sunday morning. The cornbread came out perfect — crisp brown crust, tender interior. I ate two slices. Hannah said: don't eat the third. I ate the third. She didn't fight me. She's known me thirty-five years. The third slice was always going to be eaten.

That Sunday cornbread got me thinking about what it is that makes a baked thing feel right — it’s the crust, partly, but mostly it’s the smell that fills a cold kitchen and the way you can’t quite stop at two. Cinnamon raisin biscuits have that same quality. I’ve made them on December mornings when Hannah is still wrapped in a blanket by the fire and the cedar’s on the porch catching frost, and they come out the oven and the whole house smells like something is going right. The third biscuit — same as the third slice of cornbread — is not a failure of discipline. It’s a confirmation that you made something worth eating.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 14 min | Total Time: 29 min | Servings: 10 biscuits

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
3/4 cup cold whole milk or buttermilk
1/2 cup raisins
1 tablespoon melted butter, for brushing

Instructions

Heat the oven. Preheat to 425°F. Lightly grease a cast iron skillet or line a baking sheet with parchment.
Mix the dry ingredients. Whisk together flour, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, and sugar in a large bowl until combined.
Cut in the butter. Add the cold butter cubes and work them into the flour with your fingertips or a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining. Do not overwork — cold butter is what gives the biscuits their layers.
Add the raisins. Stir the raisins into the flour-butter mixture and distribute evenly.
Bring the dough together. Pour in the cold milk all at once and stir with a fork just until the dough comes together into a shaggy mass. It will look rough — that’s correct. Stop mixing the moment there are no dry streaks.
Pat and cut. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Pat it gently to about 3/4 inch thickness — do not roll. Cut into rounds with a 2 1/2-inch biscuit cutter or the floured rim of a glass, pressing straight down without twisting. Gather scraps, pat again, and cut remaining biscuits.
Bake. Arrange biscuits in the skillet or on the baking sheet with sides just touching for softer edges, or spaced apart for crispier sides. Brush tops lightly with melted butter. Bake 12–14 minutes until risen and golden brown on top.
Serve warm. Pull from the oven and eat as soon as you can handle them. They are best in the first twenty minutes. Butter is optional but it isn’t really optional.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cinnamon Raisin Biscuits — The Third One Was Always Going to Be Eaten