Grandma’s biscuits were light, fluffy and soft as a baby’s breath. But if they were refrigerated overnight, they became as hard as a brick bat. My daddy once got into a heated argument with his brother, Richard, and out of frustration, wanted to throw anything at him that he could get his hands on, and grabbed one of grandma’s hard, overnight biscuits and launched it toward Richard’s head. Richard fell to the floor. Never realizing what had hit him, and why he was seeing stars at breakfast time. Later on, daddy’s siblings all laughed when they realized that a family feud had been broken up by grandma’s biscuit.
Grandma’s biscuits were a favorite of our Methodist minister. A big platter was featured in the center of the long table at Sunday dinner. It was an unspoken law that the woman of the house must prepare a perfect feast for the minister. Back then, a preacher was only a few steps away from importance in our lives of worship, while Christ was at the center. If one of the Johnson children reached for a third biscuit, grandma would casually twist their ears until they changed their minds. She didn’t want to short-change the preacher. He loved her soft biscuits and crispy fried chicken, which made the Johnson children think, “will he leave some for us?”. After the preacher left, grandpa gathered the Sunday dinner scraps together and headed to the back porch. He tossed the unwanted biscuits from the back porch high into the air. Old blue, our trusty hound dog, swallowed those biscuits one by one, looking for more. Suddenly, the mother cat and her three kittens almost knocked grandpa down. Frustrated, he reached down and tossed the kittens from the porch. Old Blue thought he was getting some more of grandma’s tasty biscuits, but it was not to be. A few minutes later, Old Blue came from the back of the house with a sheepish, dejected look on his face, followed by three very surprised kittens.
