The Best Parts of Oklahoma.
Hey y’all, I’m Cat.
I cut my teeth and the bottoms of my feet in the high deserts of rural New Mexico. Albuquerque’s home and I firmly believe it’s the greatest city in the universe and it’s not even close. But I also did a 14 year stint in central Oklahoma, learning just how tough I really was.
Oklahoma made me fall in love with southern food and southern cooking. And the similarities that I saw between those traditions and those in generational New Mexico kitchens were absolutely blinding. The people didn’t look the same, sure, but the love in tradition and craft were identical.
The humble biscuit become a canvas of sorts for me. Simple to make and extremely forgiving, we were a perfect partner. And while I take pride in my craft, I’m much more invested in making sure the people eating it are enjoying it. Grateful to be able to add something to your table, y’all.
Starting Small, y’all.
Here’s how this all works!
Since it’s just me and only me, orders will be limited. When I’ve got time and when I know demand is happening, I’ll fire up my oven and crank out some product (that might be a Breaking Bad joke…). I’ll announce that the kitchen is open at the beginning of a week (on a Monday) and you have until Friday of that week to get your order in. I’ll bake all day on Saturday while I watch college football and then I’ll deliver to you on Sunday or Wednesday, depending on where you’re at.
FREE delivery is INCLUDED in the cost of your order. I’m restricting delivery to central New Mexico; as far west as Rio Rancho, as far south as Belen, as far north as Santa and as far east as Moriarty. I’ve got an old ass car, y’all. You’ll get a text from me, or someone that I trust, as to when to expect your porch-based delivery, Door Dash style. Quite honestly, I don’t want the entire internet knowing where I live so there’s not an option for pick up from my house. However, if you also want your address to be a secret, I completely understand (obviously) and I can meet you somewhere convenient.
Right now, I’m doing 4 varieties that are all tested and exceptional. I’ll trade them out because I’ve got probably a dozen different flavors in my biscuit arsenal.
I will open the oven for holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. I know that’s when biscuit demand is high and I’m happy to carb-supply.
An ultimate disclaimer: I am new at all of this. I’ve given away a lot of biscuits in my time and I hope they’ve been good but I’m holding myself to a really high standard about this. While I want to ask in advance for your forgiveness if it gets messy, know that I’m doing my absolute best and am super excited for this venture.
Why Three Pins?
A rolling pin is a truly seminal piece of iconography when it comes to baking. You never have one when you need one but somehow when you don’t, you can find multiples. I’ve always found myself somehow attached to them, for their simplicity and their pageantry, I suppose. You can make do without one but really, why would you want to?
I’ve been gifted or ended up with three pins from women in my life who made a lasting impact on me. And these are who they are.
Pin Number One: Deborah Zellner Johnson
Debbie adopted me when I moved to Oklahoma. I lived with her son for almost 4 years and she always treated me like family, without even a question. She’d have me over for family meals and always make sure I had something to eat that was vegetarian and tasty. Debbie was a generational Oklahoman and what little recipe knowledge I got from her, I treasured. She was absent of pretention and always wanted to help when she could. The rolling pin I have from her wasn’t so much of a gift as she lent to me and I never gave it back. She loved brownies. And every time she house sat or dog sat for me, I made sure she got scratch-made brownies. With nuts, her preference, not mine.
Pin Number Two: Madeline Bedard Fitzpatrick
Aunt Madeline was my mother’s Irish twin. They were born only 11 months apart but the most similar humans I’ve ever been blessed to know. Aunt Madeline was a nurse in rural Pennsylvania (and I say this with extreme liberalism because barely anything in Pennsylvania is actually rural unless you’re Amish) but she loved her kitchen. It was the space in her life that she treasured and protected the most; to the point her prefab countertops had been ground down to the wood from cleaning. She loved hearing about my cooking adventures in Oklahoma, even though I think she was somewhat concerned with my fascination of deep frying. I found her rolling pin when I had the familial task of cleaning out her home after she passed away. From her kitchen, I took that pin, her paring knife and her Le Creuset Dutch oven, which did not survive shipping but I still use to house dog bones for my previous puppy.
Pin Number Three: Clotilde Leclerc Bedard
Sometimes, family is complicated. My maternal grandmother is one of the most complicated pieces I have. She was a troubled person and I’ll never know the source of why. I never had a relationship with her and with good reason: she was emotionally, psychologically and physically abusive to my mother. Her absence in my life was intentional and warranted. But still, she’s a fourth of my DNA and I sense that in myself, in the experiences and responses that feel the most foreign to me. But I know she was an amazing cook. I never ate her food but I heard nothing about exceptional things about her recipes and her craft. She was an immigrant from Canada and lived in the US on a green card for her entire life (so she actually gives me a path to dual citizenship shall I need it post-November 2024…) and she learned family cooking from Italian families in Brooklyn and Bergen County, New Jersey. She was an adopted Italian per se, another culture dedicated to cooking as art.
My mother gave me her mothers rolling pin when my mother noticed me taking an interest in baking. And I may not have my grandmothers recipes or lessons but I think I have her love of craft. And her sass, based upon that photo. Seeing this picture is the first time I ever responded to any sort of connection I felt with her. But still, I somehow know she’s in my baking.
Of note, Clotilde spent her entire American life going by Claudette. Her birthname wasn’t discovered by most of her family until after she died. But I like to know her as Clotilde. It’s our secret.
