My mom and dad got a divorce when I was only nine months old and my mom and I went to live with her parents, my grandparents. My mom was young, only sixteen, but she got a full-time job to help support me. Since she worked at night, my grandmother, who I called Mommaw, was the one who generally took care of me. One of my very first memories of growing up is of my Mommaw getting me up for school, having made her homemade drop biscuits for breakfast. Back then, school breakfast wasn’t a thing; you had to eat before you came to school. She made, and still does, the best biscuits from scratch that I’ve ever tasted. I remember her handing me those hot, flaky biscuits dripping with butter. Sometimes she’d even make me some gravy, too, when I was lucky.
It’s strange how a smell or taste can take you instantly back to a memory, a moment in time that’s seared to that specific sense. Any time I smell buttermilk biscuits baking or taste the just-melted butter on a fresh-made biscuit, my mind goes automatically to that time, making me feel nostalgic.
My Mommaw is aging; she turned 87 this year and she can’t do things like she used to. Deciding to spend some quality time with her, I recently spent the night. The next morning, I decided to surprise her and my Poppaw by making breakfast. Of course, I had to try to make some of her homemade drop biscuits! As I sat there, spreading butter on that first, piping hot biscuit, I was transported back in time. For a moment, I felt six again. The morning was made perfect when Mommaw told me, ”I have to give you the highest compliment I know how to give; these biscuits are every bit as good as mine!” I couldn’t ask for better affirmation of any kind than that!