I am in a rundown breakfast cafe. The kind with torn vinyl seats and Formica countertops. The TV above the bar plays news headlines.
One of the TV’s talking heads shouts, “HOW ARE WE GONNA SAVE THIS WORLD?”
At exactly this moment my waitress appears. She places a plate of hot biscuits before me. She turns off the television and says, “This is how you save the world. Biscuits.”
She laughs at her own remark and walks away. And I am left looking at steaming biscuits, wondering if this woman isn’t correct.
Biscuits are one of those mysterious things that bring out the best in mankind.
Think about it. Have you ever seen anyone rob a bank or hotwire a car while simultaneously eating a biscuit? No. But you’ve probably seen plenty of career criminals eating Miracle Whip. Thus, we can conclude that Miracle Whip is of the Devil. Also, low-fat cottage cheese.
But biscuits? They are downright holy. There are too many varieties to name, but here are a few:
Rolled biscuits, fried biscuits, beaten biscuits,
drop biscuits, angel biscuits, shortcakes, widowmakers, heartstoppers, eye-poppers, Alabama sin cookies, Mississippi mantrappers, Georgia homewreckers, Texas tummy-tuckers, Louisiana lard pellets, buttermilk biscuits, sourdough biscuits, Dutch-oven biscuits, and of course the immortal cathead biscuit.
When I first started writing in earnest, my work was published in a tiny regional newspaper. The editor asked for professional byline—which is a mini biography. But I had no byline since I had never written anything more than a classified ad about a 1986 Ford.
So the editor tried to come up with a few words on my behalf. She asked, “What’re some of your major achievements?”
Achievements? I thought long and hard. “Well, I can swallow my tongue.”
“No, that’s not what I... Wait. Really?”
“Yes. Actually, I would like to see that.”
So I did it. She stared into my open mouth then made a…