“My Husband Is From the South and Had Mentioned These a Few Times Already”

When I first married my husband, I thought I knew him inside and out. We had spent years getting to know each other—our quirks, our habits, our strengths and our weaknesses. But what I didn’t fully realize at the time was how deeply food and tradition ran through his veins. He was born and raised in the South, and while I grew up in a family that enjoyed food, his roots tied him to flavors, rituals, and stories that I was only beginning to understand.

Early in our marriage, he would casually mention things that puzzled me: biscuits that weren’t cookies, “greens” that weren’t just salad, and sweet tea that was a staple, not a treat. And then, one night, as we were sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee, he said, “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about these lately. My mom used to make them all the time. My husband is from the South and had mentioned these a few times already, but I don’t think I ever explained just how important they were to me.”

The “these” he was talking about? Buttermilk biscuits.

The Weight of a Simple Biscuit

Now, to me, a biscuit was something I associated with fast-food drive-thrus or perhaps a dry little bread roll you spread with jam at brunch. But to him, a biscuit was sacred. It was history, comfort, and family all rolled into one.

He described waking up on Sunday mornings to the smell of flour and butter, watching his mother’s hands move with precision as she cut cold butter into flour, folded dough just right, and slid a tray of biscuits into the oven. By the time they were baked, the entire kitchen smelled like love. The biscuits weren’t just food—they were memory.

When he spoke about them, I realized it wasn’t just nostalgia. It was identity.

My First Attempt

I decided, quietly, that I would surprise him. I spent an evening scouring recipes online, trying to figure out the difference between flaky and fluffy biscuits, learning about the magic of buttermilk, and realizing that, unlike the neat bread rolls I was used to, Southern biscuits were supposed to look rustic, imperfect, even a little messy.

The next Saturday, I woke up early and set to work. Flour dusted across the countertop, butter cubes chilled in the freezer, and a carton of buttermilk sat waiting. I tried to remember everything I had read: Don’t overwork the dough, keep everything cold, pat, don’t roll.

By the time the biscuits emerged from the oven, golden and steaming, I was both nervous and proud. When I placed them in front of him, his eyes widened. He picked one up, split it open, and butter melted into the soft crumb. He took a bite, and after a pause that felt like forever, he smiled.

“They’re not exactly like my mom’s,” he said softly, “but they’re close. And they taste like home.”

Food as Love Language

That was the moment I understood that food isn’t just about flavor. It’s about belonging. My husband’s South was filled with traditions I hadn’t grown up with, but by learning to make those biscuits, I was learning to honor his past.

Over time, the biscuits became more than just a recipe—they became a ritual. When friends visited, I would serve them with honey and jam. On cold mornings, I’d pair them with sausage gravy (something I never thought I’d cook, let alone eat). Each time, my husband’s eyes lit up, and I felt like I was giving him not just breakfast but a piece of his childhood.

The Story Behind the Tradition

One evening, over biscuits and fried chicken, I asked him why they mattered so much. He leaned back and told me stories about his grandmother’s kitchen, where the table was always full and no one left hungry. He talked about holidays when the biscuits were piled high, ready to be smothered with ham, and about hard times when biscuits and gravy stretched a meal to feed a family of seven.

For him, biscuits represented resilience and generosity. They were born out of necessity—flour, fat, milk—and yet they carried so much love.

It struck me then: every culture has its “biscuit.” In my family, it was rice dishes, always served at the center of gatherings, reminding us of our roots. For his family, it was biscuits—simple yet powerful, an edible symbol of togetherness.

More Than Food

The more I leaned into these Southern traditions, the more I began to see my husband in a new light. He wasn’t just telling me about recipes; he was inviting me into his story. When he’d say, “My husband is from the South and had mentioned these a few times already,” it wasn’t casual—it was an offering. He was sharing the parts of himself that were built before I even met him.

And slowly, I started adopting those traditions myself. Sweet tea in a pitcher on hot afternoons. Collard greens simmered with ham hocks. Pecan pie at Thanksgiving. I even found myself saying “y’all” more often without realizing it.

The Night I Finally Got It Right

It wasn’t until a few years later, though, that I truly nailed the biscuits. We were visiting his family in Georgia, and his mother invited me into her kitchen. She showed me how she never measured flour exactly, how she knew by touch when the dough was ready, how she patted the rounds gently instead of cutting them with a biscuit cutter.

When the tray came out of the oven, she nodded approvingly at my batch. My husband took a bite, closed his eyes, and said, “These… these are just like home.”

At that moment, I realized it wasn’t just about perfecting the recipe. It was about connecting across generations, learning not just the how but the why.

Carrying It Forward

Now, whenever I make biscuits, I think about how food ties us together. My husband’s South is no longer just his—it’s ours. Our children, if we’re blessed with them, will grow up with those same biscuits on the table, never knowing a time when they weren’t part of their story.

And every time I set them down, I remember that line: “My husband is from the South and had mentioned these a few times already.” What once felt like a passing comment now feels like an invitation to keep traditions alive.

Conclusion

Sometimes love isn’t spoken in grand declarations or elaborate gestures. Sometimes it’s as simple as flour, butter, and buttermilk. My husband’s South introduced me to that truth, and now, every flaky biscuit I bake carries with it a piece of him, a piece of us, and a reminder that love can be tasted as much as it can be felt.

What started as a simple curiosity—him mentioning “these” a few times—has turned into a lifelong tradition in our marriage. And if you ask me now, biscuits are no longer just food. They’re family.