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chickee talk

Grandma’s Biscuits

by Tina Marie Osceola
’m sure you all have certain scents stored in get eaten up as soon as they came off the fire, so I would try to
your memory bank. You know, like when hang around close by so I would get firsts. I was a child who loved
Iyou smell popcorn, you immediately think her food, nothing’s changed except my age, and I think it made
of being at the movies. The other morning, my Grandma happy to see how excited I was with each bite. As a
on my drive to work on the Big Cypress grandma myself now, I look back and can understand that feeling
Seminole Indian Reservation, I drove through of unconditional love between a grandma and grandchild. Simply
an area that had a recent brush fire. The smell handing them a yummy biscuit and seeing that excitement in their
of scorched trees mixed with the dampness of the early Florida eyes and joy on their face can bring such happiness.
morning propelled me back to my childhood. It reminded me of Memory lane twisted and turned just as much as Snake Road
my dad waking us up early and taking my brother and I down to as I drove onto the reservation. I saw an old chickee that was
my grandparent’s village for breakfast. We were so excited because in disrepair and it tugged at my heart a bit. Grandma passed
Grandma and my dad’s oldest sister, Aunt Tahama, always had a in 1987, two years before I graduated from college. I realized I
smorgasbord cooked up for breakfast. As soon as we pulled into the have spent more years without my Grandma than I did with her,
driveway of the village, you could hear the limerock crush beneath but those simple moments helped shape my identity. The role of
your tires and smell the smoke from the fire in the cook chickee. It being a grandmother among our people is much deeper than just
always smelled like home. Even as I type, I have a warm grin on my a family tree. The cook chickee’s fire is more than just a hearth.
face because my heart is full of amazing memories of my family. The fire is the center of the camp and a symbol of the family. The
As I continued my drive to Big Cypress, memory lane grandmother is more than a matriarch, she is our heartbeat. I think
wandered down to my stomach! I have never had biscuits like my about the years my grandparents spent sleeping on the ground
Grandmother’s. She never used a recipe or measuring cup. It was without shelter and how their parents spent years without being
pure muscle memory. She would pour self-rising flour into a large able to safely have a fire for fear of being discovered by the trailing
plastic mixing bowl and slowly add water and a little Crisco… the military… I understand now. Being able to cook over the open
kind that comes in the can and is silky white. She would mix the fire under our cook chickee and feed her family was a symbol of
dough by hand and with very little effort, she would begin to form survival… of strength… of endurance and bravery. The Dutch oven
little baby biscuits. She would place them into an old cast iron Dutch filled with her warm biscuits wasn’t about feeding my hungry belly,
oven that had feet and a heavy lid and then place the pan on top of it was about legacy. To think that the smell of a brush fire led me on
the open fire. She carefully placed burnt pieces of wood on top of this journey to revisit my Grandma.
the lid and push the burnt ash around the feet and under the pan of
pillowy biscuits. She seemed to know exactly when they would be
done because she would go about her business cooking other things
while the biscuits came to life. They were very popular and would

16 Life in Naples | April 2023