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Weekly Contest #71
I blew on the small, three-bite biscuit in my hand, nudging it to cool. Tangy hints of dough and buttermilk wafted from the golden disk. It was the scent I most associated with my grandmother. This batch wouldn’t be exactly like hers; I’d tried, unsuccessfully, over many years to replicate her recipe. My mother had tried before me and neither could she. Grandmother was never Granny or Grandma. Such titles were for someone other than a respectable Southern lady. She wasn’t one of those genteel ladies living in a white house with Grecia...
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