biscuits

Making biscuits three times a day.

Biscuits.
Remember fresh melted butter on a hot "Bisquick" biscuit.
I do.

We're coming up on two years now since Mom passed. She didn't make biscuits three times a day, but she made them often enough on cold fall nights. Sometimes with a beef short-rib stew over rice that I'd cut off my leg if I could get some today.

She was a real mom as most mom's are. Standing in the kitchen when she wasn't washing clothes or going off to work to get money to feed me, my brothers and sister.
Biscuits and cornbread and johnnycake. Chili, gumbo and Spanish rice. Pollywaddles, holup sea and great northerns with smoked hamhocks. Chef Boy-Ar-Dee pizza with added hamburger and pepperoni.
Sunday was best. On Saturday, Mom would set her self to baking. She was a baker at the top of the baker food chain. No one in the five state area could even qualify as a competitor. Across the street lived a Renner clan. Luckily some of the cleaner ones. Mother Renner tried to cook, and she tried very hard, but she still ate stewed cow brains for lunch and still couldn't microwave a potato. It never came out right. She preferred margarine to butter and Miracle Whip to mayonnaise. She won a valuable award when she successfully chilled an entire stalk of celery on ice in a cooler at Canyon Lake Park. Ouch.

But, Mom had to move on. She'd done all she could. Taught those that took to teaching. Gave books to the book-less and took care of six feral root-hogs in the meanwhile. And, every minute of every day, no matter how things were going, she always looked on the bright side of life. And now, I do too.