Comfort me with biscuits

Fourteen hours is a long time to be in transit. Fourteen hours is a long time to be in transit when the best-looking food offerings are bagels that resemble hard rolls, and which are microwaved along with the tube of cream cheese. Fourteen hours is a long time, but not long enough to shake off the complicated demons that are involved with visiting one’s home town. But I learned that if a friend really loves you, she’ll take you to the train station at 6 am and bake you cookies besides. Well, she made them for herself, really, but she gave me some for the road, which I then gave to someone who asked me for food at Penn Station. I imagine the kind of person who begs for food at Penn Station and looks like she weighs about as much as my 6″ x 16″ dog doesn’t get homemade cookies too often. I learned that fourteen hours in transit is not too long if it finally means I’m home at the end.

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13 responses to “Comfort me with biscuits

    • With my partner? Not likely. He makes me cookies though. He’s got this amazing oatmeal chocolate cookie he makes with candied ginger, exotic raisins, and sour cherries. To die for. Seriously, the way to my heart IS through my stomach.

  1. This begs the question: where is your home? It’s a complex matter having a “home town” and a “home,” particularly when biscuits are on the menu at one, and bagels at the other. And no sooner will you walk in the door than you’re going to throw your bag down on the dining room table that once held pride of place in the old home. Will it remind you of home? Be home? Oh my…

    • Excellent question, Cougar. They are both “home” but this [current location redacted] is home home. And the DR table just reminds me of my current home and the red paint of the dining room (which I adore and which Mama Clause may have liked, but would never ever have put on her walls).

    • Yikes. I’m sure Cougar can speak to that as well. (And, yes, Cougar and Dr. Cougar are the same person, but I don’t go around referring to her is Dr. Sister. That would just be ridiculous. However, when Mr. Cougar got his Ph.D., he told me that I should refer to him ever after as Doctor Sir. I did for a while. I was a sarcastic child.

  2. The answer to this is that biscuits and cookies are such different things where I come from that I didn’t even realize that they could be confused. However, dogs eat biscuits, but they are really dog cookies not the dog version of the gorgeous baking powder/flour/butter concoctions that accompany many a southern meal, and that you eat slathered in butter, honey, jam, and/or that you consume by sopping up whatever bacon-based meal you are being served.

  3. Welcome home, indy, in whatever sense of the word gives you the most peace.

    And I’ll be making Yankee biscuits tonight, because your reply to Downith made me hungry . . .

      • I’m using ‘Yankee’ as the opposite of ‘British cookie-biscuit.’

        My Tennessee MIL likes mine, so I assume they’re more Southern than Northern . . .

      • Probably so. DP is from what he not-so-fondly calls Pennsyltucky, and they have a weirdly northern slant on southern food. You can get iced tea all year round, but it is never sweet. It’s a strange place.

  4. Welcome home, Indy. When I was younger I’d go home and be happy about the biscuits and a walk around the college campus and park. Now I go home and see that all salads are made from iceberg lettuce only and everybody still smokes and nobody in the family speaks to anyone else, even though they live within a mile of one another.

    Where is my home? It’s anyone’s guess.

  5. Downith and I have something of a location in common, I surmise, even though we may not be on the same continent. Where I now live, a biscuit (or more commonly, a “bicky”) has chocolate in it, rather than lard. A scone would be the most approximate equivalent to Indy and my biscuit, but it is accompanied by jam and cream, rather than sausage and eggs. And a biscuit (our kind), like a madeleine, takes me home. But not home home.

    Do you think Mom would have liked the red walls? I do (like them, that is).

    PS- everyone knows Mr Cougar isn’t me, right?

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