No Biscuits for Dad!

A few days ago I wrote a piece for a challenge about one's worst mistake. It caused me to remember a story about my mom and dad early in their marriage. Dad was a farm boy from Arkansas. Mom was from a suburb of Trenton, New Jersey. Dad grew up having biscuits with almost every meal, made from scratch, of course. Mom had never had a homemade biscuit, but my dad's mom tried to teach her the art of biscuit making.

Maybe it was that my mom's mother had passed away at only 27 years old and Mom never learned to cook as a youngster. Or maybe it was just her Yankee genes that caused her such difficulty in ever mastering biscuit-making. She did try, and once in a while they were edible, but most of the time that was just not so.


One evening as we were sitting at the supper table, Dad saw a rabbit nibbling on the flower of one of his squash plants in the garden he had planted in the back yard. Dad jumped up from his seat, grabbing a couple of biscuits from the stack on the table. He threw them like stones at the rabbit.


It was the last time Mom ever made scratch biscuits!

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