my grandmother made biscuits. there was a barrel in the corner of the kitchen full of flour, and the tin we'd always use, because i was the biscuit helper. we'd flour the entire table and she'd roll out the dough for me to cut using an empty tin. i had a stool that i would stand on so i was tall enough. and she'd praise me and take the cut circles and put them in pans and file them into the oven that was older than three of me put together. and then everyone would come and eat all squashed into the tiny warm kitchen but happy or sometimes we'd go out to the front porch. full of broken boards and kitties and love. dust would circle around the chickens. she loved them and they followed her around like little children. my mom remembers a rooster that used to chase her on her way to and from the outhouse when she was a kid. today i want biscuits and i wish i had known her more before she died. i wish i had noticed the time, instead of running around and wasting it in the selfishness of childhood. just like my mother, she was a very good woman.