A labor of Love

That last hand-patted biscuit was always my favorite one!

Biscuits

In her weathered hand is a wooden rolling pin,

She, in her apron, with a hint of flour on her chin,

Early morning, not quite daylight, she’s already begun,

Baking biscuits from scratch, that rise with the sun,

There’s a drawer in her kitchen with a sifter and flour,

She can bake up a batch in about a half hour,

She kneads the dough firmly with the fist of her hand,

Until it is smooth and the consistency she planned,

She sprinkles a scoop of flour on the kitchen table top,

And spreads it around, drops the dough with a plop,

And begins to roll out the dough with her old rolling pin,

To the perfect thickness, and then with a grin,

She cuts out the biscuits with a tall drinking glass,

Her technique is most definitely considered first class,

On the baking sheet, she places the biscuits in rows,

I’m eager to see- I stand on the tips of my toes,

Each time she balls the dough and rolls it anew,

I so admire all the things my Mamaw can do,

When the dough is so small, she pats out the last one,

It’s a labor of love that is almost done,

She puts the sheet into the oven, carefully,

Shortly she will have fresh biscuits for me!!

Tammy Harvey

Written:  1/9/2018