Ugly Biscuit - In My Mom's Words

 When the morning biscuits were cut and resting on a pan blackened with age, my grandmother shaped the dough scraps into a small, flat cake.  And in a pre-dawn ritual that never varied, she whacked the cake three times with the butt of her rolling pin, creating a trio of crescent moons that rose into soft dimples when the bread baked.  The three whacks were my summer alarm clock, soon followed by the call of “breakfast” from my grandfather standing at the foot of the steps leading up to my bedroom.

One summer morning, long before sunrise, I thought I heard the three whacks of the rolling pin.  I decided to surprise my grandfather by getting up before he beckoned.  But when I made my way down the steps, I found the house still and without the faint odor of wood smoke from the kitchen stove.  This would be an even better surprise, I thought, rising before either of my grandparents, and so I sat down on the bottom step to wait.

 When I awoke the second time, my grandmother was gently shaking my arm.  I told her about hearing the three whacks of the rolling pin.  She laughed softly and said I hadn’t been dreaming.  What I had heard, she explained, were apples falling onto the tin roof.

Me at age three, my mom, and my great-grandmother