Cape San Blas—The Gulf of Mexico is outside my window. I am eating breakfast. These are some very good biscuits.
Biscuits are the reason I am writing this. I love biscuits, you see. When I was a boy, my mother made them by dusting the counter with flour and stamping dough with a drinking glass. Hers were big enough to be used in professional wrestling matches.
Right now, my wife and I are in Cape San Blas, staying in a rented beach house with the windows open. The kitchen is tiny, but my wife managed to whip up magic.
In its lifetime, the cape has seen its share of hell. Four historic lighthouses have come and gone due to hurricanes. Storms have been beating this peninsula ever since Adam’s heyday.
Recently, Hurricane Ivan, Katrina, and of course Michael. But you can hardly tell it. The remote cape looks as lovely as it always has.
“If you live in Cape San Blas,” said one local man, “you expect
things to get rough, but we don’t worry too bad, that’s life, man. You get your tools and rebuild.”
There’s something poetic about that.
Years ago, I had the first breakfast my wife ever prepared for me, right here in Cape San Blas. We weren’t married. I was a younger man.
My father had been dead for years. I was damaged goods, but somehow I managed to get a girlfriend. I was staying with her family in a rental house on the cape. That first breakfast lives in my memory.
Her father was frying sausage, her mother was eating a grapefruit with sugar, and her brother was getting his fishing rods ready.
There was an old man in a recliner, they told me he was a politician once. He wore seersucker. He was reading the Port Saint Joe Star.
Breakfast was a grand production.…