my historic experience with 
maryland beaten biscuits

By Patricia Shaw Dumont, Guest Contributor
The hysterical account of a snowed-in woman and a culinary legend in the Winter of 2004
PictureFlannel, the Death Stick, and a "pea-size" bit of baking soda

It was a snowy Saturday morning in Harford County, Maryland. The roads were closed to all but emergency vehicles due to a severe snowstorm. I thought this would be the perfect day to make “Maryland Beaten Biscuits,” an old recipe from the “Eastern Shore” of Maryland. For those who are not familiar with the geography of Maryland, there are many shores. In fact, I believe there are more shores in Maryland than anywhere else. Check a map. 

I inquired about the recipe after seeing a heavy metal mallet in the kitchen of a museum in beautiful, historic Havre de Grace, Maryland, a once beautiful, bustling town which was ravaged and burned by the British in the War of 1812. It is now beautiful and bustling again, and retains the charm and history—and now a museum, in the setting of 1812-ish. 

I inquired of the docent (refer to a dictionary after you are finished with the map) why a tool such as a metal mallet would be in the kitchen. Then he spoke those magic words, “It is for making Maryland Beaten Biscuits!” Music to my ears—a new recipe to try!  

It was a hefty mallet, and come to think of it, he was a hefty docent. They make the best kind— docents and mallets. If only he had the recipe to share with me . . . however, he scribbled his name and number on a scrap of paper and asked me to call him, telling me he would give me the recipe. Great, a chance to embrace more of Maryland history! We are transplants here, so taking in one more inspiring piece of this great land (which is mostly water) seemed like an intriguing thing to do. I pocketed the paper and went on to the rest of the museum, the lock house, the light house, the Chesapeake Bay. What a beautiful, historic place. I was feeling quite 1812-ish!

Eventually, I dialed the number and left a message for this kind docent on his home phone, with my address, so he could send me the recipe by mail. When it arrived, there was a note telling me I had dialed the wrong number but that she had the Maryland Beaten Biscuit recipe and decided to send it along to me. What a kind and generous, 1812-ish thing to do!   

With recipe in hand, and a beautiful quiet, winter morning ahead of me, I assembled the ingredients—all 6 of them, flour, lard (Crisco), salt, sugar, water, and baking soda. Sounds ordinary, doesn’t it? Well, the recipe says 2 POUNDS of flour! Gee—I had to consult with Fanny Farmer (check a Who’s Who in Cooking, if you don’t know Fanny) to convert that into cups. It equals 7 ½ cups, FYI. The lard, aka Crisco, was in the amount of 6 oz., and the salt was 1/2 tsp., pronounced “tisp” in our house, just for fun (no you don’t have to go to the dictionary again but do refer to Winnie the Pooh series).The other ingredients were not difficult to figure, but when I read that this recipe calls for only a “pinch” of baking soda the size of a pea (no larger), now, that was fascinating! This was the clincher. How could a tiny pea size amount make a difference? Maybe it is just like the story of the Widow’s Mite, the parable of the mustard seed, or in modern corporate terms, “Less is more." I trusted the recipe and did everything as instructed, so as to keep the magic of the Maryland Beaten Biscuits alive!

I added the ingredients, in order, according to the instructions. The recipe says to “work all ingredients together well, have dough stiff. Beat 20 minutes (TWENTY MINUTES!) with iron mallet.” On this very crisp, snowed-in morning, there was no way I could acquire the historical, 1812-ish  iron mallet, but I was prepared with the next best thing—my husband’s favorite hammer, known to us as . . . The Death Stick! No joke. It has a skull and cross bones logo. It is advertised “to do the job right." Why not? My husband was still asleep and would not be able to object to the abuse of his hammer. Besides, it was strong and durable and the closest thing to an iron mallet I could find. 

I mixed up those ingredients and proceeded to pound the tarnation out of them. Need the dictionary again? I’ll help you out. Tarnation is an 18th century euphemism for “damnation." It is a perfect description of my efforts. It was a very noisy process which brought family members to the kitchen one by one to ask, “What are you doing and why is it so loud?” I merely pointed to the recipe with the Death Stick and continued my pounding. I could not allow their questions to break my concentration. They did not offer to help, nor could they stand to be anywhere near the kitchen. I suppose they went back to bed with pillows over their heads to block the noise. They were not into the nostalgia or history which I was embarking upon. They were being not-so 1812-ish. 

It is important to note here that I was wearing my flannel nightgown for this occasion. It seemed appropriate attire for a cold Saturday morning in December. I am sure the women on the Eastern Shore wore flannel in the winter time and maybe even in the summer, depending on the direction of the wind, of course.  

After a few minutes of pounding, and trying to get into the spirit of the time and tradition, I had worked myself into a sweat. I had to open the kitchen door for a few minutes to cool off, but I continued my pounding, hardly missing a beat.  What a workout!

I resumed pounding for several more minutes, then decided to take a brief break to put some music on, as this pounding was becoming monotonous. I flipped on the radio. Women on the Eastern Shore could not have listened to the radio; they probably listened to babies crying, wind howling, and their husbands yelling, “Hey, Honey, have you seen my hammer? I can’t find it anywhere!” I smiled to myself as I continued working on my 1812-ish goal. 

Well, the radio was playing Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire”. I began singing as I continued to pound, “I fell in to a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down, as the flames went higher . . . and it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire . . .” I began thinking of fire as I thought of those brave women on the Eastern Shore. Had they become light-headed from pounding biscuits, they would have been in danger of falling into their open kitchen fire. Not me—I had the luxury of flipping on a switch and setting my electric oven to 400 degrees, and in no time, the oven was ready. I had no fire to stoke, no ashes to shovel, no wood to chop. It sure was getting hot in this kitchen.  This pounding was making me weary! 

Continuing on, my upper body surely felt the intense exertion, as did my carpal tunnel wrists. I alternated pounding with the right, then left hand so as to allow for equal pain in both extremities. The music played, I watched the clock, and pounded for nearly 15 more minutes while watching the Death Stick pierce the dough with extreme precision and great force. The Death Stick was doing a fine job. It did look a bit silly with white goo on its skull and crossbones logo. No matter, it was a serious tool doing a serious job in my kitchen. 

I began feeling silly and was now glad I had no spectators in the kitchen. What a strange recipe which required such labor for such a long time, sort of like childbirth. There had to be a good reason for such strenuous effort. I was intent on following the instructions to a ‘T’ so as to get the perfect results. The next song on the radio was by the Beatles, “Hey, Jude." I pounded a bit slower to the beat of the music. I could stay in the groove now as things were winding down. The music was helping. When it came to the , “na, na, na, naa, na, naa, naaa, na, na, na, naa, hey, Jude” it kept me on track and I was determined to make this Maryland Beaten Biscuit experience a memorable one. When it came to the part where the Beatles started screaming “Ju-day, Ju-day, Jud-ay, Jud-ays” I was really into it! 

Finally, twenty minutes were up. I had succeeded thus far. I was excited because now was the time to follow the next instructions—to shape biscuits by “squeezing dough through a hole made by thumb and forefinger, then pinch off and pat down a little.” As I tried this, I realized I had no sensation in my hands any longer and could not shape my “thumb and forefinger into said hole from which to squeeze said dough. I did my best, however, and made some small, roundish, white objects of hard work which went onto a greased cast iron pan.  I imagined women on the Eastern Shore using a cast iron skillet for baking rather than Teflon coated baking sheet from The Kitchen Store. Cast iron is more . . . 1812-ish, anyway. I poked the small white potential biscuits with a fork as per the recipe and popped them in the oven. I set my timer for 25 blessed minutes. Eastern Shore women had no timer. They had to rely on the tilt of the sun or the depth of the tide. Not me. I listened to the sound of the ticking timer as my heart rate returned to normal, my body temperature lowered, and I could shut the kitchen door.

I was thinking twice about this warm, flannel nightgown as I was awaiting the moment of truth—my magical, nostalgic, historic connection to women of a different time. By now, my family members were looking forward to the results as well. The once noisy kitchen was quiet enough that they must have felt safe to come in, the Death Stick now at rest.  They forgave me the 20 minutes of racket and now perhaps they understood they were about to experience a magical, nostalgic, historic moment as well. They wanted now to partake of the fruits of MY labors. 

Twenty-five minutes passed, the timer dinged, and it was time to remove the biscuits from the oven. They had a hint of color but not much. They had not changed size or shape, probably due to the just “pea sized” amount of baking soda. No flavorful smell emanated from my oven. I was doubtful and felt disappointed in my Maryland women friends from way back in the 1812-ish time. I tried to keep my hopes up thinking that perhaps the flavor and texture would totally surprise me and make me a believer in the Maryland Beaten Biscuit magic. I cut one open, slathered butter on it, bit into it and thought, “All that work for this?” To say they were flavorless was an understatement. They were somewhat of a brick-like texture and had no similarities to human food whatsoever. Could the women of the Eastern Shore have put so much effort into this process to produce anemic, flavorless briquettes? Would they have risked falling face first into an open fire for these? Ladies, I am deeply disappointed!

My family shared in my sadness. Trying to be kind, my husband said, “I like them, they are sort of like Saltines without the salt. You just have to eat them with the right thing like, beef stew maybe.”  Sorry, the kitchen is formally closed! I am drained and not willing to cook another thing today. I was crestfallen. The children were disappointed that the racket made by all the pounding had awakened them early and there was nothing good to show for it. They went back to bed. I wanted to also. 

As the snow continued to fall, I hoped the birds and squirrels appreciated my little round discs which I had just tossed out to them, if they could find them. They were from a special old recipe, probably enjoyed often by the birds and squirrels on the Eastern Shore for a very long time. And now, here up north, the tradition continued. 

I cleaned the dough off the Death Stick and return it to the tool box. I doubt I will get the urge to have another nostalgic, magical Maryland moment for a very long time.  I filed this recipe under F, for failure.  First I will rename it—Maryland, (I’m) Beaten, Biscuits.

So, should you find yourself searching for an historical, magical culinary 1812-ish expereince, don't be fooled. Save your back, your wrists, your pride. Maybe you should try your hand at crab cakes instead! 
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