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Daughter of A Biscuit Maker

 

Growing up, I loved my Mother’s biscuits and considered them to have an untouchable quality that was nothing short of a gift from God.   Only the finest butter and most divine syrup could grace the flaky, cottony inside of her biscuits even though we could barely splurge on Aunt Jemima.   With each bite came a hallelujah and deepening religious experience.  We became a family of believers.

The last time she made biscuits, the cancer had already taken hold.

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