Biscuit Envy

(A special shout-out to Jim Jensvold for his word of inspiration: “biscuits.”)

Our friend Jim is an oral and maxillofacial surgeon in California.  Back in the 80s, he was my husband Tom’s chief resident when both men were training at UCSF.  For many years, Tom and I were the only married couple among a stable of residents, making our house a popular meeting place among the team of overworked, sleep-deprived medical slaves.  At our house, there was never a shortage of hot, home cooked meals and fresh-baked goodies.

In addition to the many informal social gatherings, every year on the first Saturday in May we hosted the most ridiculously overdone Kentucky Derby party.    We built a quasi-betting program with floating odds using a Lotus 1-2-3 macro, allowing our guests to bet $1 on any horse—winner takes all.  It took us several years to work out the correct recipe and the proper attitude for a Mint Julep.  The first year we nearly caused a local epidemic of alcohol poisoning until we discovered that the traditional libation should be sipped  slowly and not guzzled like a cold beer.  For savory fare, I would “import” a Smithfield Ham from Virginia, and spend weeks canning Southern specialties such as corn relish and apple chutney.  Then, I would take off from work the day before the Derby in order to bake literally hundreds of buttermilk biscuits.  Jim claims he still dreams of my biscuits with their salty, tangy bite.

But that’s not what sprung to my mind at the thought of biscuits.

My mind went to a sort of flat disk made of wood--the essential ingredient in biscuit joints, the most effective, internally supported method of wood joinery.   In biscuit joints, two pieces of wood are joined with the assistance of a small disc—a “biscuit”—which is inserted and glued into narrow, rounded grooves cut into each side of the joint with a special tool called a “biscuit joiner.”  I first saw the implementation of a proper biscuit joint by Norm Abram on The New Yankee Workshop on PBS.  I was a devoted fan of the show’s for over twenty years, beginning long before HGTV was a gleam in Scripps Broadcasting’s eye.

Norm Abram built the most beautiful and intricate pieces of furniture before your eyes, working with an ease that concealed the true complexity of his tasks.   He turned legs, dovetailed drawers, milled moldings to various profiles, and yes, cut moon-shaped grooves with his electric powered “biscuit joiner.”   With a straight face, he offered a set of measured drawings for each project, as if possession of the pattern would ensure your success in replicating his results.   Norm defied the dictum of carpentry; he measured once and never missed.  By the end of each show, he produced a magnificent piece worthy to grace the finest century home in New England.  There was only one catch:  his projects required an extensive array of highly-specialized, laser-guided, diamond-encrusted, carbide-forged, nuclear-powered tools.

As impossible as it was to imagine that I could learn to make furniture by watching Norm in his barn, I was nonetheless captivated by the fantasy.   He was not just a “master carpenter.”  Norm was a dream weaver—teasing me with the promise that museum-quality furniture was attainable.    It was more than I could resist, driving me to an obsession with DIY projects and serial home decorating.  

My worship of Norm Abram was vanquished about ten years ago.  Relocated to New England from California (by way of Atlanta), I was visiting a local gallery, gawking over the works of a prominent ceramic artist.  I picked out a beautiful piece—the best in the artist’s selection as far as I was concerned—and informed the gallery owner that I would like to purchase it.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “Norm Abram was here yesterday and was looking at that piece.  I think he wants to buy it.”

Had he made a commitment?  Had he left a deposit?  He did not have to; he was Norm Abram.  I was willing to write a check, right then and there.  Didn’t my guarantee of purchase trump Norm Abram’s vague, noncommittal interest?  Didn’t I have dibs?  But the gallery owner was resolute.  Under no circumstance would she disappoint Norm Abram.  As if on cue, the master carpenter himself walked in. He did, indeed, purchase the beautiful piece I coveted.

Disheartened, I settled for a lesser piece—a substantial platter with a fluted edge.  It is a high quality work with a beautiful textured glaze, but it did not evoke the same emotion for me as Norm's piece.  Nonetheless, I purchased it with the idea that it would remind me of the day that Norm Abram unwittingly stole my purchase and broke my heart.

Many years later, we decided to resurrect our California tradition of holding a Kentucky Derby Party.  Once again we ordered the iconic Smithfield ham.  We brewed simple syrup for the Juleps.  I stocked the pantry with mason jars of homemade relishes, jams, and chutneys.  And once again I baked hundreds of tangy buttermilk biscuits, which are served split and lined with a thin swipe of the dry, salty ham.  

When the day of the party came, I needed something large enough to arrange the huge quantity of biscuits.  I glanced at the dining room wall and saw the artsy platter—a consolation prize to one who is not as famous as Norm Abram.   Fastidiously, I stacked biscuit after biscuit, erecting a monument of savory resplendence.   It anchored the Kentucky Derby spread, helping our guests to absorb the potent Mint Juleps.   Norm Abram may have had right of first refusal as king of the biscuit joint, but on the first Saturday in May, I am the undisputed biscuit queen.