Sunday, March 27, 2011

Pass the biscuits

When I was a kid, my mom liked to make breakfast food for dinner every now and then.  And I remember one night in particular when she had made breakfast after a long, hard day at work.  On that evening so long ago, my mom placed a plate of eggs, sausage, and extremely burned biscuits in front of my dad.  I remember waiting to see if anyone noticed!  Yet all my dad did was reach for his Biscuit, smile at my mom and ask me how my day was at school.

I don't remember what I told him that night, but I do remember hearing my mom apologize to my dad for burning the biscuits.  And I'll never forget what he said:  "Honey, I love burned biscuits."

Later that night, I went to kiss Daddy good night and I asked him if he really liked his biscuits burned.  He wrapped me in his arms and said, "Your momma put in a long hard day at work today and she's real tired.  And besides... a burnt biscuit never hurt anyone!"

You know, life is full of imperfect things... and imperfect people.  I'm not the best at hardly anything, and I forget birthdays and anniversaries just like everyone else.  What I've learned over the years is that learning to accept each others faults and choosing to celebrate each others differences, is one of the most important keys to creating a healthy, growing, and lasting relationship.

So...please pass me a biscuit. And yes, the burned one will do just fine!  And please pass this along to someone who has enriched your life... I just did!

Life is too short to wake up with regrets... Love the people who treat you right and forget about the ones who don't.

ENJOY LIFE NOW - IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!

1 comment:

  1. Hi Josephine, I visited your blog today. Your bisquit story is so good. Your dad was an awesome guy. Great job on your blog. Personal, funny and touching. I also write a blog and it is similar in that I talk about families and relationships told through stories about Food and Recipes. Pleaee visit. You might enjoy it. And maybe Follow. That would be great.

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