Confession: I am not southern. I am not even semi-southern. But I harbor deep fantasies about being whisked away and made to eat cheese grits, collard greens, and biscuits. In fact, last night I ate an entire bunch of collard greens. ON my own. I *might* have had to sleep in the attic due to my own stench.
I’ve been thinking about biscuits lately, as one does, in line at the post office or loading children into the minivan. My youngest son’s thighs are the consistency of dough – soft, supple, delicious. Last night, before my exodus to the attic, I brought Will in to cuddle with me. This was my great delight when he was younger. He’d stay asleep and I would read (my husband works very late on Tuesdays) with a delightful boy curled up next to me. But he’s older now, and I’ve been writing at night and staying up later with the older kids. I didn’t realize how much I missed the feeling of having Will near me, the his sighs feel on my shoulder, the way he clucks his tongue as he shifts around.
I carry that memory around with me today while I press coconut oil into the flour and polenta. The maple syrup is from our friend’s farm in Vermont, the color of an illuminated acorn.
Will asks if he can eat the dough raw. “It’ll be better cooked,” I tell him and we both wait in the warm kitchen.