Biscuit Weather

I'm making biscuits tonight. My son is coming home. Clouds roll overhead, layers of gray upon gray. Wind shakes windows, sends rain in pellets, lashing glass. Where is he now? Still on the Interstate?

I measure flour and dump it into a clear glass bowl. Baking powder, salt, applesauce, milk. Scraping in curves, I turn the ingredients into a soft ball with a wooden spoon. The key is to not overwork the dough.

Batter slips off my spoon onto a silver cookie sheet. Mounds of dough sit in rows, ready to rise. I push them into the hot oven. Rain streams down fogged windows.

Biscuits were part of my life before my son was born. My grandmother made "angel biscuits" which she claimed, in her Alabama drawl, were "nourishin'." They put strength on a person, she said. Before she made biscuits, her mother did, and her mother's mother. Every trip I took away from home, she'd wrap several with wax paper and slip them, fragrant and warm, into my bag. Her blessing poured over me hours later when I bit through crunchy crusts to tender hearts.

I know how my son will eat these. He will open them with a table knife and lay them upside down on a plate and pour honey on top. A jar of wildflower honey sits on the counter, waiting. I imagine how he'll close his eyes. His blond head will tilt back. He'll purse his lips, and make a little sound, "Mmm." Then he'll wink at me and nod.

Wind picks up, rattling the house. Trees bend over and spring back, trembling. Accidents happen on such nights. I push the thought back. It reminds me of the night after he was born.

Hours after his birth, he turned blue. He was rushed to Intensive Care where tubes were inserted into his tiny body and he lay on an open pallet, out of my reach. I could not hold him, comfort him, whisper in his ear. The next day, doctors let me visit. I sat on a stool and placed my hand on a small section of skin not covered with tubes. We were silent. His eyes were shut, sedated; mine coursed with tears.

How I did it, I don’t know. I gave him up. Two days later, he came back to me. I carried him home as in a dream, and my grandmother, that strength-giving biscuit-maker, rushed over to lay eyes on him. She saw the tall man he would be and called him beautiful.

She was right. He towers over me. His broad-shouldered frame is lean and muscular, seemingly strong as stone. But he is not mine. I know that. I give him up each time he leaves.

Once in a while, he comes back.

Then I pull out a clear glass bowl, flour, a wooden spoon. He'll want strong coffee. I brew it and keep checking the oven. Rain pours over windows. Finally, it’s time. I pull out golden-crisped rounds with tender hearts, set them on a cooling rack.

My son is coming home.

"Baking" photo by Ann Voskamp. Used with permission. Post by Cassandra Frear.