Well, today is Tuesday, I could have them, and could have had them yesterday, and could have them tomorrow. But it wouldn’t feel the same, for I need that ritual on Sunday, to set it apart—larkens back to the old homestead days when dear ole Mom would cajole, “GET YOUR LAZY BUTTS UP OUT OF BED RIGHT NOW YOU DIRTY LITTLE HEATHENS! NOW NOW NOW BEFORE I WHUP YOUR HIND ENDS BUT GOOD! EVERY SUNDAY THE SAME THING. I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE!” Ah. I can hear it now. The pitter patter of our dragging feet as we carried our own personal crosses to Jesus so he wouldn’t feel alone with his.
Anyhoo, don’t give me those canned biscuits, eyew, a real blaspheme! I will accept Pillsbury Frozen Biscuits, because they are as close to homemade as I have eaten. My granny made cat’s head biscuits. She’d put the dough in a pan and then cut them into squares—gawdang those have never ever been replicated, ever, by anyone. We’d dip them in chocolate syrup—a sugary concoction of water, chocolate sauce, and Granny’s secret that was a pinch of salt or a bit of love or some vanilla or a drop of sweat, or whatnot; who cared, it was sopped up and quick. Sunday morning is biscuit morning. Period. Amen. HERE are some recipes, Bless Your Heart if you don’t have your own, and the Pillsbury website. Here’s to Sunday Mornings—only five more days away!
(Repost from yog)