How My Nana Taught Me to Make Biscuits by Listening to the Dough

The kitchen was still when she worked.

No timer, no stand mixer, no clatter. Just the soft rustle of flour, the creak of the old wooden spoon, and my Nana’s quiet humming as she moved with a rhythm I didn’t yet understand.

She never glanced at a recipe. There were no measuring cups, no precise instructions. Instead, she’d press her hands into the dough, tilt her head slightly, and say, almost to herself,

“You have to listen. The dough will tell you when it’s ready.”

I was seven the first time I heard her say it.

At the time, it made no sense at all.

Saturday Mornings Smelled Like Buttermilk and Warmth

If you grew up in a house like mine, then you know the smell of baking before you know the smell of coffee. Before cartoons, before chores, before the world asked anything of you, there were biscuits.

Every Saturday, Nana would rise with the sun and get to work. I’d stumble into the kitchen, eyes half-closed, drawn by the scent of butter melting and flour floating in the air like dust from another time. The counter was always lightly floured. The cast iron pan waited, seasoned and black, like a trusted friend.

She didn’t rush. She moved like someone who knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t need to prove it.

“Listen Close, the Dough Will Tell You”

I asked her once how she knew the biscuits would rise right. She smiled, wiped her hands on her apron, and said it again.

“Just listen.”

At first, I thought she meant it figuratively. But as I stood beside her week after week, I started to understand. The dough had a language. It sighed when it needed more milk. It resisted when you worked it too hard. It made a soft, barely-there sound when it was just right.

And Nana—well, she knew how to hear it.

She’d let me stir sometimes, when I was still too small to do much else. But she never corrected me harshly. She’d just put her hand over mine and guide it gently, whispering, “Not too much flour, love. She won’t talk to you if you don’t treat her kind.”

Learning to Bake Without Instructions

The first time she let me mix the dough by myself, I was nervous. I added too much milk. Then too much flour to fix it. I stirred too fast, pressed too hard, panicked when it stuck to my fingers.

She didn’t scold me. She laughed that low, warm laugh of hers and said, “That’s alright. Now you know what not to do next time.”

And I did. The next Saturday, I was gentler. I listened better. I started to sense when the dough was holding together the way hers always did. Not perfect. Just enough.

It was the first time I realized that baking could be more like dancing than following rules. You learn the steps, but eventually, you move with instinct.

The First Time I Got It Right

I was maybe twelve when I made a batch all on my own. She sat at the table, hands folded in her lap, not hovering, not helping, just watching. I remember the silence. Not the awkward kind, but the sacred kind. Like church.

When the biscuits came out of the oven, golden on top and splitting just right in the middle, I placed one in front of her without saying a word. She pulled it apart with her fingers, spread it with butter, and took a bite.

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Well now. Looks like she talked to you after all.”

What Those Biscuits Really Gave Me

Years later, after she was gone, I found myself standing in my own kitchen, hands in flour, making biscuits for someone I loved. And I realized that what she’d passed down wasn’t just a recipe. It was a way of knowing. A way of paying attention. A way of trusting myself.

The biscuits were just the medium. What she really taught me was patience. Gentleness. Listening, not just with ears, but with presence.

When I make them now, I never measure. I add until it feels right. I mix until the sound changes. I wait for that moment when the dough quiets down, like it’s ready.

A Biscuit Recipe, As Close As I Can Remember

Here’s how I make them. Or rather, how she made them, and how I try to. There’s no measuring, just remembering.

• A few handfuls of flour, sifted with a pinch of salt and baking powder
• A knob of cold butter, worked in with your fingers until it feels like wet sand
• Enough buttermilk to bring it together—not too wet, not too dry
• Knead it gently. Fold it over a few times. Pat it out by hand.
• Cut with the rim of a drinking glass, if that’s what you have
• Bake in a hot oven, 425 or so, until the tops brown like toast and the kitchen smells like home

They don’t always rise the same. But they always feel familiar.

The Dough Still Talks

Even now, I find myself leaning over the bowl, listening. Not for a sound, exactly—but for a feeling. For the moment it says, “That’s enough.”

In those moments, I feel her with me. Not watching. Not correcting. Just there, with her quiet smile and her worn apron, waiting to taste what I’ve made.

And I hope that one day, someone will ask me how I know they’re done.

And I’ll smile, and I’ll say, “You have to listen. The dough will tell you.”