Biscuits and Honey

I
My family loved biscuits -- the half-dollar size, thin, flaky bicuits made by a loving hand. That hand belonged to Lucille, the housekeeper who worked for my family from the time I was about 8 until I was in my 30s. Every biscuit I ate was practically a communion experience: I loved the hands that made it, the marble block where she rolled it, the little metal biscuit cutter with a red handle, the gift of her baking skill I enjoyed every night and sometimes in the morning.

Morning biscuits were toasted, slathered with butter. Sometimes a bit of bacon slid between two halves. Sometimes, I topped the biscuit with my father's honey, made by the bees hived in our backyard.

II
Tonight, after visiting my friend J in the Veterans Hospital, I stopped for supper, to gather myself. Popeye's seemed a good choice: spicy fried chicken (not quite as good as Lucille's, but delicious nonetheless). Dinners like this one with J and his wife F taught me a couple of important things: enjoy each bite; chew carefully and completely; slow down; take a little something home in a napkin. That's exactly what I did tonight.

I took home a biscuit, slathered it with the last of the honey my friend R brought from Texas this spring, and I thought about Lucille, my father, and J who loves his biscuits and honey. "A good source of protein and calories," he has said.

III
And a delicious reminder of love.