Sunday's are about ritual: Get up; yawn, drink coffee; organize the one paper we have delivered to our cove, the Sunday Asheville Citizen Times, into read piles; mountain walk; turn TV to Sunday Morning; and turn on oven. What a life, what joy, what comfort. Used to be the ritual was church-going. Grouse. Mutter. Mom forced us five kids to crawl out of bed, wash our face and brush our teeth even!, get dressed, and all to attend boring church and worse was when we had to get up earlier to attend boring Sunday School before boring Church. I still think church is boring, sorry Church Folk, sorry Mom, sorry ministers and priests and whatnotall, but, one of my Sunday rituals is I’m no longer afraid I’ll go to some fiery hell if I don’t get my butt to church. I digress. I’m talking about biscuits here. Yep. Hot flakey put some honey butter on mine please biscuits!
Well, today is Tuesday and I could have them, could have had them yesterday, could have them tomorrow. But it wouldn’t feel the same, for I need that ritual on Sunday, to set it apart—larkens back to the old homestead days when dear ole Mom cajoled, “GET YOUR LAZY BUTTS OUT OF BED YOU DIRTY LITTLE HEATHENS! RIGHT NOW NOW NOW BEFORE I WHUP YOUR HIND-ENDS BUT GOOD! EVERY SUNDAY THE SAME THING. I. HAVE. HAD. IT. UP. TO. HERE! YOU HEAR ME?” Ah, yes. I hear it, along with the pitter patter of our dragging feet as we carried our own personal crosses to Jesus so he wouldn’t feel alone with his.
Anyhoo, don’t serve me those canned biscuits, eyew. I will accept Pillsbury Frozen Biscuits, because they are as close to homemade as I have eaten. My granny made cat’s head biscuits. Oh! She’d put the dough in a pan and then cut squares—gawdang those have never been replicated, ever. We’d dip them in chocolate syrup—a sugar-gritty concoction of sugar, water, chocolate sauce, and Granny’s secret that was a pinch of salt or a bit of love or some vanilla or a drop of sweat, or whatnot; who cared, it was sopped up and quick. Sunday morning is biscuit morning. Period. Amen. HERE are some recipes, Bless Your Heart if you don’t have your own. Here’s to Sunday—only five more days away! (What? You thought I'd write about Taxes?)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
7 comments:
Those biscuits sound good!My grandfather used to make biscuits and I have fond memories of that. My Sundays would not be complete without reading the Sunday NY Times, preferably in bed. I hate to plan anything on Sundays and like it best when it can be a day of rest.
mmmmmmmm.... biscuits. mmmmmm... honey butter. this post makes me hungry.
(is it awful that i only liked going to church on the one sunday a month we did communion? grape juice is delicious, and so were those little wafers.)
Glad you have a good, comforting ritual to look forward to for marking the day. My Bigmama had the best biscuit recipe ever, one I have never been able to replicate. Can see 'em sizzling in the iron skillet now!
Rituals are rituals. They are important to us humans. They make us feel connected to something bigger. Something older. Something meaningful. Your Sunday biscuits and coffee on top of your mountain, with Good Man, and puppies makes for quite a beautiful ritual. Bet you all make God smile. Every day. He loves His good folk.
Me, too,
MA
ranger dan used to love to eat the scraps after grandma cut her homemade biscuits. i liked them better than the biscuits! but those frozen pilsbury's are good. and so are rituals.
For many years I followed my Mom's ritual of Spaghetti every Sunday. Get up, make the meatballs, squeeze the tomatoes, simmer for a couple of hours. Something happened when I reached 50. What used to be ritual suddenly felt like routine. Now my Sunday "ritual" is to keep the day completely for myself to do whatever I want to do.
I'm smiling at the comments, and thank you all for commenting! Dang but I like comments almost as much as buscuits....heehee
Post a Comment