Southern melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk biscuits that I made with my own two little hands for breakfast this morning
Ever since we retired seventeen years ago, my husband has taken over the kitchen. I have to make an appointment just thinking about cooking something. And when he hears me stirring around in there, he yells all the way from outside, mowing the grass, “Get out of my kitchen!”
Funny how the roles have changed. And funny ha, ha, that he thinks because he cooks, I’m supposed to clean up the big messes he makes. Oh, no! If he wants to play King of the Castle, he has to be his own scullery maid, because I’m the Queen! That’s how it works in the Queen’s castle.
But this week, I took over the kitchen. I cooked the sausage. I fried the eggs. I made the brown gravy. And I made the buttermilk biscuits! Without creating a blizzard like he did the last time he attempted to make biscuits and dumped flour all over the kitchen.
I’m not a southerner; I’m a pure-blooded Yankee from Newark, Delaware. My mother didn’t make biscuits; she made yeast rolls. I had to eat supper at my best friend’s house to get a homemade biscuit. Her family was from South Carolina, and her mother was the Michelangelo of making biscuits.
Before my husband kicked me out of the kitchen, I learned to make biscuits. Big, fluffy, golden brown biscuits that would make a cannibal drool. Okay. Maybe that’s a little extreme.
Growing up, my mother did all the cooking, and I gladly stayed out of her way. Daddy was happy. My brothers were happy. And I was ecstatic! I cleaned the house. She cooked. That’s the way we rolled at our house.
I finally learned how to cook, though, but making biscuits was never my life’s goal. There’s an art to it, and southerners turned it into a masterpiece, at least my mother-in-law did. She’s the one who taught me, but it took a lot of practice. And when I finally learned, I made biscuits every day. I shared them with my neighbors. I shared them with my friends. I wanted to share them with the whole world!
But I had to stop making them . . . everyone was getting fat! So, when my husband took over the kitchen, I was lucky to get a slice of bread tossed across the table. You know the saying, “Use it or lose it”. Well, I completely lost the art of making biscuits.
But this week, like being zapped by the Energizer bunny, I kicked my husband out of the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and cooked breakfast every morning; biscuits and all. The first morning, the dogs started gagging. The second morning, they were great, swimming in gravy. The third morning, my husband’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. But this blessed, sacred morning, the heavenly host began singing, “Hallelujah!”
There’s nothing funny about old age, yet my husband and I sit and laugh at each other like a pair of old circus clowns. He forgets people’s names, but remembers faces. I remember names, but wish I could forget a host of haunting faces.
Old age sneaks into your castle and steals your brain, your eyeballs, your arms and legs, and jumps up and down on your back like an elephant on a trampoline.
And that’s not all. Those four teeth you’ve been brushing ten times a day? Gone! Like the morning dew.
But old age leaves you with something, at least. Wrinkles. Thousands of them, carved deeply into your skin. And little dough boys and flabby skin hanging like moss from an old tree. How kind and considerate. Just what I always dreamed of having when I was twelve!
Old age is a sinister beast. It will never leave you. It will never forsake you. It will viciously suck you dry. It never sleeps. It never dies. Around the clock, it prowls, seeking whom it may devour.
Old age is neither a gentleman nor a lady. It’s rude. Insensitive. Brutal, a serial killer of the worst kind. But, have no fear! Death will set you free!
Yeah. Like I said. There is nothing funny about old age.
He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul (Psalm 23: 2,3).
Let’s pretend that your heart is a car. Okay, a truck, if you prefer. It’s traveled thousands of pothole-ridden roads, through thunderstorms and pouring rain. It gets stuck in the mud, and there is no one to get you out. You keep spinning your tires till, suddenly, you run out of gas and the nearest gas station is a hundred miles away. Your iPhone is dead, and Siri is as useful as a blind horse in a maze. What are you going to do?
Like a vehicle, our hearts travel thousands of miles, in and out of love and toxic relationships, getting banged up, stuck in the mud of lies and deceit; foolishly spinning our tires till our gas tank is empty. Now we’re stuck on life’s busy highway with no helping hand in sight. Our hearts are broken; our souls are parched and dying of thirst. What are we going to do?
We can hide our brokenness behind a pearly-toothed smile. We can crack a few jokes. We can win a stranger’s attention with our Ken and Barbie’s charming good looks. But sooner or later, the flimsy walls we built to fool the world will crumble and fall at our feet. What are we going to do?
Our pride screams, leave me alone! I can fix it myself. I’ll just drink a little more, take a few more happy pills, toughen up and keep plowing my way through. No one will see my tears. No one can bring me down. I can do this all by myself!
I tried it my way. It doesn’t work. Thankfully, God has a way of bringing me to my knees. He knows my heart. He knows my foolish pride. He knows the raging storms within, the rugged mountains I’ve climbed, the rivers I’ve crossed, the bridges I’ve burned; every dark and lonely night I spent drowning in my tears. And he knows just what I need.
But, I had to know that I could trust him, that I could give him my heart, without fear of him crushing it in his hands. I had to believe that he loves me just as I am, that he won’t turn his back on me if I mess up. I had to know that, unlike my earthly father, I could trust his love and protection.
The more I trust him, the less fearful I become. The closer I walk with him, the more I feel his love. The more I study his Word, the clearer I see his smiling face. The more I surrender my life to him, the more he restores my soul.
What about you? Does your heart need to be restored? Are you exhausted from trying to fix it yourself? Are you depressed? Discouraged? Frustrated? Have you tried everything under the sun to feel better, to be better, only to fail time and time again? Give it all to God. Trust him with your broken heart, and he will restore your soul.
Ever had one of those days when you just knew that it was out to get you? One of those days when all your energy got sucked up by a greedy monster before you even rolled out of bed?
We were trying to beat the heat to get caught up in our yard work. Funny how much easier it was before we got old. From sunup to sundown, I’d work like a madwoman till the job was done. One day, my neighbor made me stop long enough to eat lunch with her. That was annoying, but what could I say? She was a good, old southern cook.
But those days are far behind me now. Sometimes, I don’t realize how far behind me till I try to play catch-up with everything I should have gotten done already. Like I said. We were trying to beat the heat, like two old turtles trying to cross the road before they become roadkill.
My husband climbed on the mower, and I went to work rearranging the rocks bordering one of the flowerbeds. Nature has a way of moving things around when you’re not looking. The skies were overcast, and the humid breeze was pleasantly cool. Perfect day for working in the yard.
I was digging a stubborn rock out of the dirt when suddenly, my hands and arms were stinging and burning like fire. Stomping my feet, I ripped off my gloves, yelling and waving my arms like a scarecrow in a hurricane, “Yellow jackets!”
Jumping off the mower, my husband helped me to the house and called 911 as I stood at the sink, whimpering like a wounded puppy, splashing cold water all over my arms.
Oh, it hurts! Oh, it hurts! Suddenly, my heart started racing, and my arms and legs turned to spaghetti. I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die! Hubby helped me onto the bed, and by the time the EMTs arrived, everything had settled back down, except for the excruciating pain.
The good news is, I didn’t die. The bad news is, I continued getting worse until after ten, long, miserable days of intense itching, burning, and swelling, I finally broke down and went to Urgent Care. I wish I had gone sooner, but this wasn’t my first rodeo with yellow jackets. But it was my first for multiple stings, with one leg in the grave already! I will know better next time. Wait! Did I just say next time?
I’m fine, now. The yard is still screaming its head off, and it’s hotter than blazes outside. And since I’m not a glutton for punishment, I’m staying inside until it gets cooler, like around September. Or maybe October. Maybe I’ll just wait until Spring, before it gets hot, and I have to start this insanity all over again.
Even as a child, I knew something was wrong with me, and so did everyone else living in the house. For instance, every Saturday night was hair-washing time; a Freddy Krueger nightmare for me and a Jack the Ripper moment for my parents.
I was a high-strung, temperamental six-year-old. Mom was the lady with the shampoo bottle in her hand and daddy was the man with the willow switch across his lap.
Whimpering like a frightened puppy, I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and tried my best to be brave. But the instant the warm soapy water drenched my long, red hair, cascading over the edge of the old galvanized tub, panic devoured my brain.
Like a streak of lightning, I bolted from daddy’s tight grip around my wet, slippery arm, and raced out the door half naked and dripping wet, arms flailing, kicking and screaming like a wild donkey. Down a spooky, wooded, dirt path. In the dark. Where trees turned into giant monsters and grizzly bears ate little children alive!
Suddenly, the thought of drowning was better than being eaten alive, so I hightailed back into the house, where the woman with the shampoo bottle and the man with the willow switch sat like a pair of statues.
Back in the fifties, I was labeled super sensitive. High-strung. Strong-willed. Problem child. Had anyone looked beyond the labels, they would have seen a frightened little girl buried beneath the rubble of torment.
I was fifty-something when I was finally diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. Fifty-something years of living with my skin turned inside out, feeling every little prick as if I were being chopped to pieces with an axe.
Finally, I had something to blame; I have a brain malfunction. I can’t help it. I was born this way. It’s not my fault. I’ll just take my meds and go with the flow. Hopefully my psychotic episodes will be less frequent and severe. Hopefully the highs and lows will level out, and I can finally be at peace with myself.
It doesn’t work like that. In fact, there is no medication for BPD, only for the anxiety and depression associated with it, which is like taking a baby aspirin for a severe migraine. And when my emotions are triggered out of control, nothing helps. I’m too far gone, too over the edge, too emotionally fractured to think and react rationally. The Grim Reaper is my only ticket out.
BPD is like an invincible monster; a devil controlling and manipulating every corner of your life. It toys with your brain, convincing you that what you see and feel is real, that people are out to get you, that they hate you, and deliberately want to hurt you. They constantly judge and criticize you, stab you in the back; anything to get you all fired up until you’re spinning completely out of control.
BPD shows no mercy. Not for you. Not for anyone around you. It slaughters relationships and makes working a public job nearly impossible because everything and everyone is out to destroy you. Loud music, loud people, loud anything causes an emotional explosion impossible for Superman to contain. So, it ruptures, like a volcano, destroying every shred of sanity clinging to your twisted brain.
For a Christian, BPD is a double-edged sword. You’re damned for not reading your Bible enough, not attending church enough, not praying enough, not doing whatever a good Christian is supposed to do enough. If you were a REAL Christian, following all the golden rules, you wouldn’t act like a blooming idiot when your emotions are shot to smithereens. Shame on you!
No! Shame on you for turning your back on me when I’m crying for help. Shame on you for leaving me stranded and drowning in my own tears. Shame on you for judging me without even knowing me. Shame on you for kicking me deeper into the pit of despair.
Long before I even heard about BPD, I made weekly visits to the mental health clinic for nearly two years. My relationship with my mother was so toxic that I walked out of her life before she completely destroyed me. During our separation and numerous cognitive sessions with my therapist, I became less confused and began to see myself for the first time.
I began to understand why I bawled my eyes out for weeks on end when we moved from the city to the country; why I couldn’t sleep until I quit that noisy, nerve-racking sewing job; why loud noises pushed me over the edge; why I felt that I was living in a house without walls, and why it seemed that I was being eaten alive from the inside out.
Fear is the sinister monster, devouring my confidence and self-worth, demolishing the walls of safety and protection, leaving me feeling naked and exposed for all to see and to judge and to shame and to ridicule. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to feel safe.
Yesterday, my husband and I celebrated our eight-year-old great-grandson’s birthday at our granddaughter’s house. There was a crowd of people there that I didn’t know, but I was okay. My heart wasn’t pounding, my brain wasn’t screaming, and the urge to run never entered my mind.
Self-discovery is the antidote for BPD; the process of seeing deep inside yourself and the ability to finally understand who you are and why you overreact in stressful situations, and why you feel so angry and overwhelmed by anxiety. And as discouraging as it is, you must realize that healing is not in a pill, it’s in yourself.
But you can’t do it alone. You need a support system of family and friends you can trust. As for me, I wouldn’t have come this far in my journey without God’s help, and the support of my husband and my son, and his loving, growing family. They may not always understand my struggle, but they always love and support me.
God is good and wants us all to experience his love and understanding toward us. He knows our pain, our struggle, and he is always there to help us. All we have to do is ask him.
So, it’s been a while since I’ve written, or even wanted to. For many reasons. A library full of reasons. All frustrating. All senseless. All just down right debilitating.
As some of you know, I’m old. Some days, I’m walking on air. Most days I’m crawling over broken glass. Naked. My mother told me not to get old. But I never listened to her. I have my own way of doing things. Besides, getting old can’t be that bad. Can it?
Oh, yeah!
Of course, I do have a Chicken Little view of life; a mind-set I’ve been working on for ages. And that in itself is bad enough, especially when you’re old, and everything is falling apart, with no signs of things ever getting better, because your body has gone on strike!
Yep! The sky is falling! The sun has quit shining and will never shine again. The only thing waiting for me at the end of this suffocating, dark tunnel is a pine box adorned with flowers that are doomed to shrivel up and die, too.
Old age is scary for people like me. Even people with their heads screwed on tight have their scary moments. But Chicken Little people are just, flat-out doomed!
Trust me, old age is tough. Especially for those of us who takes the bull by the horns and does whatever needs to be done. People of action. People of strength and determination. That’s me. And that’s the woman I miss. My younger self. The one who packed up her bags and left me stranded just when I need her the most. Just when the house is falling apart, the yard is washing away, the weeds are taking over my flower beds, the trees are sky-high and dropping limbs all over the place, and everything is shot to smithereens. Betrayal of the worst kind!
Frustration laced with anger and confusion and fear and grief and loneliness and depression hardly covers the overwhelming feelings at times. Bawling my eyes out helps. Talking to God helps the most. I do that a lot these days. Who else understands me more? Who else can give me the strength and wisdom that I need? Who else can calm my fears?
So, now you know why I haven’t been around for a while. And now you know for real that old age ain’t fun. But it’s not all bad, either. I don’t have to set the alarm anymore. That’s a plus . . . I think.
A head lacking ideas is an artist’s worst nightmare. It’s like sand running through their veins. Like a near-death experience. Like creative juices stop flowing and their arms and legs fall off. Their brains fall out. And they die. Slowly and painfully, like a zombie.
It was a day like that, sitting at my art table, staring at the bone-dry paintbrush in my hand. Brandon, my then six-year-old grandson, was watching Beauty and the Beast for the umpteenth time, and studying the eye-catching images on Disney DVD covers.
Between Belle getting locked up by the Beast, and refusing his demanding dinner date, I got an idea! Suddenly, the juices started gushing, my heart arose from the dead, and my brains flew back into my skull! I’m alive!
Jumping down from the stool, I said, “Hey, Brandon! You wanna help me build a birdhouse?”
Like a puppy on steroids, he jumped to his feet and followed me out the door, across the backyard, and behind my husband’s workshop. That’s where the bricks were. Neatly stacked against the building, as if waiting for this very moment to become useful again.
Excitedly, I looked at Brandon, his beaming face now drenched with doubt. I guess I’ll just have to prove it to him, I thought to myself. I will create it, and then he will believe it. And that’s what I did. Now everyone believes it.
Final words: I created many of these brick birdhouses, churches, and schools, and gave them away. I sold a few from a local Christian bookstore, but they were too heavy and awkward to package, so I quit selling them. I kept the one in this post, mostly to see the look on people’s faces when I tell them it was once a dirty red brick.
Flowers, riches, and fancy words don’t set my heart on fire. Vacation cruises and a trip around the moon are a waste of time and hard-earned money. And the saying that diamonds are a girl’s best friend doesn’t apply to me. Long walks through the woods, sitting by a campfire, and holding hands while crossing the parking lot are the things that make my heart soar.
Sometimes my husband forgets that about me. But, after 53 years of marriage, my heart still does a jig when he gets up before I do, feeds the dogs, lets them out, and makes coffee.
Straight From the Heart 