When I was living under the roof of my parents, dinner was at 6pm every weeknight. This is a southern family I’m talking about here, so dinner was DINNER. Delicious food and, just so you yankees know, every woman could cook like Paula Deen back then. My mom was no exception. The food was awesome. Especially the biscuits.
Dad was mom’s biggest fan when it came to dinner. No one liked mom’s food like dad. And he loved the biscuits. There were very rare occasions when biscuits would actually make it to the left over category. I think on meatloaf night, there were a couple left over, so that Dad and I could chow down on them at breakfast time with the gravy left over from the meatloaf.
Every night just as the dinner was winding down, dad would go to the kitchen and get the jelly. Dad loved biscuits with butter and jelly. And when he got back, someone would always ask. “Dad, how many biscuits have you had?” and he’d always reply “Just 2”. It was his joke. Then the math would start. Mom knew how many she made. We’d go around the table confessing how many biscuits we’d eaten until we knew dad’s magic number that night.
Strange how these things stick with you. I was in a Cracker Barrel the other day with my wife, and my meal had biscuits with them, so I relayed the story to her…with tears in my eyes.
It hit me how much I miss him. How I regret being such a rebellious kid and not thoroughly enjoying my time with my family…every night at six. How I could have been more a part of the fun at dinner time when dad said “Two”.
Cracker barrel was bittersweet that day. After telling the story, and looking at the plate of biscuits they brought…and how many there were. Just two…
I know that’s not nearly enough.