Those two truths aren’t mutually exclusive.
For years, I thought they had to be.
Now I understand they can live inside the same person.
The same family.
Even the same flour tin.
Eventually, I began making Mama’s biscuits again.
I found her old recipe card among the kitchen things I’d brought home.
Two cups of flour.
Baking powder.
Cold butter cut into small pieces.
Simple ingredients.
I hadn’t made those biscuits since I was young because somewhere inside me, I’d connected them with that morning when Mama slapped my hand away from the tin.
But one Sunday, I decided to try.
I didn’t use Mama’s flour tin.
That one stays empty.
I bought another container.
A new one.
No secrets.
No history.
I followed Mama’s handwritten recipe.
When the biscuits came out of the oven, they smelled exactly the way I remembered.
Warm.
Buttery.
Familiar.
Continue reading on the next page →
