I grew up in two very different worlds, and on either side, my grandmothers were the ones who primarily cared for me. On my mother’s side, it was my grandma Rosie. I was admittedly the closest to her (I was literally born on her birthday), and she probably had the biggest impact on me. She gave me my love of art, flowers, and making biscuits. One picture I have of her on my ancestor altar shows her making biscuits for a community function. One of the biggest lessons she taught me (outside of how to make the best damn biscuits you’ve ever had) was empathy. I remember her sitting with people at the end of their lives, caring for my great-grandmother at the end of hers, and staying involved in the community. I remember she always cooked food for the inmates at the local prison. Her heart was so large, yet she spent most of her time as a single woman in a very modest apartment (my grandfather apparently left the picture far before I was born). I was always impressed by how she gave so much to others and never asked for anything in return.

On my father’s side, however, was my other grandma, Louise. She taught me strength and integrity. She taught me how to sew. She also gave me my dark humor and ability to read a person for filth without saying a word—a true southern gift. She was also kinda a shit cook and definitely didn’t make biscuits. The closest she got to baking was a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls. She could can like a mother fucker, though. My fondest memories with her are stringing beans and coring apples on the front porch to get them ready for canning.

But back to those biscuits.

I actually didn’t start making them until many years later. I remember living in California and realizing that most of those crazy people on the West Coast had never experienced Southern biscuits and white sausage gravy (a core memory of my childhood), so I decided to whip up a batch—they obviously loved it.

What struck me was how easily the motions and ingredients came back to me, almost like built-in programming. So I kept doing it. Now I’m kinda known for my biscuits, but I never miss a chance to remind folks who taught me how to make them.

So, for y’all newsletter subscribers, I asked you in September to start thinking about the folks you want to remember and honor for Samhain. Hopefully you’ve had a chance to think about this and do a little prep to honor them as we move through these last few weeks of October and early November.

Later today, I’ll post a carousel that takes those names and puts them on place cards for a dumb supper. I wrote about this tradition on my Instagram last year, but never got the chance to do it officially. This year, we’re doing it. It won't be elaborate, but it will be intentional.

I recently shared a quote from Jake Richards’ book Backwoods Witchcraft. I can’t tell you how much this book reminds me of home. He writes that the memory of the dead back where we grew up is built partly around the food and drinks they loved, and that you can’t think about your people without remembering the things they enjoyed.

I wrote about how my mother and I recently had a Medium Session. During that session, my grandmother and great-grandmother showed up. And what message did they relay to the Medium? A fish fry. They wanted her to let us know they were okay, and the best way to get that message across was to talk about how they were having the most epic fish fry in the afterlife (we grew up on the lake), which was one of the most specific core memories they could have shared.

But back to Jake’s book—he’s totally spot on. In the South, most of our memory and communion happens through food. Regardless of the religion, it’s always a covered dish. Someone dies—a covered dish; a birthday—a covered dish; someone’s getting baptized—a covered dish; lose your job—a covered dish; end up in the hospital—a covered dish… You get the idea.

He even talks about his own grandmother, his Mamaw Hopson, and how she was always making biscuits “for an army” even though it was just him and his sister, and how he would go to the kitchen to work some dough just to remember her. This is such a relatable memory for me; it’s hard to imagine that he didn’t grow up across the holler from me.

I also quote Temperance Alden in my Instagram post, coming later today. She writes about family recipes passed down from generation to generation. She talks about a bread recipe her mother-in-law passed down to each of her kids and says, “Passing down traditions from one generation to the next is how the love of all of our ancestors survives.” The same is true of a simple biscuit recipe written on an index card.

Look at the names on your list and see if anyone was known for cooking or baking, or loved something cooked or baked. Then go make it. It doesn’t need to be fancy or exactly right (I once made an ‘angry pie’ while trying to make the perfect pecan pie for Thanksgiving, a story for another time. It wasn’t perfect, but it ended up being exactly what it needed to be.)

Set some aside for your loved one, at the supper, on your altar, or on your windowsill. Then give some away to a neighbor, coworker, friend, whoever. If you want, share a little about the loved one who inspired you to make it. In doing so, you’ll honor them and keep their memory alive—which seems like the perfect way to do that this Samhain.

Nope. I’m actually not sharing the recipe. Not this time at least. You’ll just have to come over for some biscuits and apple butter one day. But if you’re eager, look up Cathead Biscuits, and you’ll probably find a very similar recipe.

xo,
Chad

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