Flaky Dill Biscuits —rsquo; The Bread That Holds the Line

The hospital called about the birth plan. The new birth plan. The pandemic birth plan. One support person. ONE. One person in the room when the baby comes. One person to hold my hand and tell me to breathe and witness the arrival. One. I had imagined: Mama on one side, maybe Terrence on the other (or on FaceTime), Chloe and Jayden in the waiting room with Kevin or Amber. I had imagined an audience. I had imagined the fullness of a family welcoming a new member. Instead I get: one.

The choice is impossible. Mama or Terrence. The woman who raised me or the man who made this baby with me. My history or my baby's history. The hand I've held since before I could walk or the hand I held when we heard the heartbeat. I can't. I can't choose. Choosing is an act of cruelty disguised as a hospital policy and I refuse to be cruel to either of them.

I called Mama. I told her. She was quiet. Then she said: "Baby, he should be there. He's that child's father and he should see his baby born. I'll be in the parking lot. I'll be the first one after. But he should be there." She chose for me. She chose without being asked, without hesitation, without a single note of self-pity. She gave up the room so Terrence could be in it. That's Lorraine Mitchell. That's the woman who has been giving things up for her children since 1990 and doing it with a grace that should be studied by theologians.

I called Terrence. I said: "Mama says you should be in the room." He was quiet. Then: "Are you sure?" I said: "Mama is sure. And Mama is always sure." He said: "Tell her thank you. Tell her I'll take care of both of you." I'll take care of both of you. The man is promising to take care of me and the baby, and he's thanking the grandmother for the permission to be present. This is the strangest, most beautiful family arrangement I've ever been part of. A mother, a co-parent, and a grandmother making birth plans through phone calls during a pandemic. It's not traditional. It's ours. It works.

Thirty-three weeks. Seven weeks left. The crib is assembled. The yellow blanket from Mama is finished (she dropped it on MY doorstep this time, wrapped in plastic, sanitized, the Mitchell gift exchange now conducted via porch drop). The green blanket from Gloria is in the mail. The onesies are washed. The diapers are stocked. Everything is ready except the world, and the world may never be ready, so the baby will just have to arrive anyway. Babies don't wait for readiness. Neither do Mitchells.

I made comfort food — the full Earline spread: chicken and dumplings, cornbread, collard greens. I made it because the phone calls drained me and the decisions exhausted me and the only way to refill is Earline's food. The dumplings floated in the broth like little clouds and I ate them standing at the stove and I thought: Earline had babies in a farmhouse in Alabama with no hospital and no phone and no pandemic. She just had them. She just did it. I can do it. I can do it with one person in the room and a grandmother in the parking lot and a global crisis outside the window. I can do it because Earline did it and Lorraine did it and every woman in this line did it and the line doesn't break. The line holds.

After those phone calls — after Mama chose for me with that impossible, effortless grace — I needed to be in the kitchen with my hands in something. I made the full Earline spread, and at the center of it all, like always, was bread: something warm and layered and made from scratch, the kind of thing that asks nothing of you except your attention. These flaky dill biscuits are what I reach for when I need to feel connected to the women who came before me — close enough to Earline’s dumplings to carry the same weight, simple enough to make when you’re already running on empty.

Flaky Dill Biscuits

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 14 min | Total Time: 29 min | Servings: 12 biscuits

Ingredients

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
• 2 teaspoons dried dill weed
• 6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
• 3/4 cup cold buttermilk, plus more for brushing

Instructions

1. Preheat oven. Heat oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
2. Mix dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, sugar, salt, baking soda, and dried dill until well combined.
3. Cut in 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 some pea-sized pieces remaining. Do not overwork — the flakiness depends on keeping the butter cold and intact.
4. Add buttermilk. Make a well in the center of the mixture and pour in the cold buttermilk. Stir gently with a fork just until the dough comes together. It will look shaggy — that’s exactly right. Do not overmix.
5. Shape the biscuits. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Pat (do not roll) to about 3/4-inch thickness. Fold the dough in half, then pat out again — repeat this fold once more to build layers. Cut with a floured 2-inch round cutter, pressing straight down without twisting.
6. Arrange and brush. Place biscuits on the prepared baking sheet with sides just touching for soft edges, or spaced 1 inch apart for crispier sides. Brush tops lightly with buttermilk.
7. Bake. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes, until the tops are golden and the biscuits have risen fully. Serve warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 148 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 20g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 210mg