Salute to Hot Biscuits

I just recently rediscovered the power of biscuits. The other evening I came in from the cold, dark, dampness of winter to be greeted by a cookie sheet bejeweled with golden brown goodness. Honestly it was a nostalgic moment as I wedged my butter knife into their flaky middles and gently pried upward in an attempt to get the perfect proportion of top to bottom. Then I sliced off a pat of butter, a generous pat, pinched its slippery sides with my fingers and tucked it between the two halves. Then I repeated the whole process for every biscuit on the sheet.

Biscuits and Karo syrup will forever represent all that is really good in the world to the little kid in me. Biscuits mean security. Biscuits mean Granny Lou and Aunt Motel and Aunt Lucille. Their homes were places I could go and stay a week or even two and never miss home. At their homes there were always biscuits, iron skillets, and the sliding of iron cookware on oven racks followed and the warm thump of oven doors closing. I don’t ever recall worrying about anything at their homes, except maybe if there might not be enough chocolate gravy for my second pair of biscuits.

Growing up so often ruins appreciation. I think I had forgotten the beauty of hot biscuits. So that night, to honor the biscuit, the ladies who made them for me, and the security of warm places, now and from my childhood, I ate three, butter laden, Karo sodden, perfectly parted symbols of warmth and security. And toasted their perfection with a tall glass of cold milk. Sometimes it’s good to be  a kid again.