Vivi and I were clowning around in the parking lot at Lowe’s the other day.  

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you more.” 

“I love you the most in the universe.”

“I love you all of that, plus one.”  

“I love you eleventy fifty zillion billion more much.”

“I love you all of that, plus one.”

“I love you more than mac and cheese.”

“I love you more than butter…but a little bit less than biscuits.”

A grandmother, loading flats of zinnias into her car, had been listening to us and smiling.  When she heard about the biscuits, she hooted with laughter.  She giggled, “Imma have to get that on a t-shirt.”   






4 thoughts on “Biscuits

  1. Chris Antenen

    Biscuits. I can’t make them. Once when Amy was little, I was rolling out dough for biscuits and she asked for one to play with. She kneaded it, rolled it, got it dirty with her grubby little hands. She must have been all of four. Then we put them all in the oven. Only hers raised to the height of respectability. When she was older and more savvy about her humor filled relationship with her mom, she began to call my biscuits hockey pucks. Biscuits were part of our history – a part I love. Thanks for lettting me tell that story.


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