Not His Momma’s Biscuits

My husband decided to make biscuits. I decided to keep my mouth shut, a practice I don’t do very often. There’s an art to making big, fat, golden brown, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth, southern, buttermilk biscuits. Not a yearly, spur-of-the-moment thing to impress your next-door neighbor or important dinner guests.

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and thought I had entered a severe snowstorm. Flour was everywhere! On the floor. On the countertops. In the kitchen sink. I’m surprised the dogs weren’t covered from head to tail. Slowly recovering from the shockwave, I looked up, and lo and behold, there stood my husband looking like Frosty the Snowman with a smile as big as Texas.

As if he had reached the top of Mt. Everest, he said triumphantly, “Look in the oven.” I brushed the flour off the handle, slowly opened the oven door, and there huddled in the middle of the cookie sheet sat five puny little biscuits pretending to be big, fat, golden brown, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth, southern, buttermilk biscuits like his momma used to make!

Author: Sandi Staton

My body has slowed down, but my busy brain never stops thinking, creating, writing, taking pictures of clouds and trees, and everything in between. I battle anxiety and depression that doesn't get better with age. That's why I write, why I spend time alone, why I walk, why I take pictures, why I never stop. View all posts by Sandi Staton