With his finger, he pressed down
Impressing upon the biscuit with a hole for holding
For syrup or honey, depending upon his taste of the day
Sometimes, for dessert, he ate his biscuits this way
But usually after a meal
Of field peas, corn, and country fried-steak,
If any biscuits were left
He would proceed:
The plate was cleaned and the honey brought out
Slowly falling, then oozing from the bottle’s spout
Onto a spoonful of butter it spread
Creeping golden across his plate
With smooth stirring, he mixed the two
Butter and honey, with his biscuit
And then when the mixture was done,
The sopping could begin
If my hand drew near he said I’d “draw back a nub”
When asked if it was good,
“It’ll make you slap your Grandma”, was his smiling reply
But, I didn’t dare
©2019 Lenny Wells
Thoughts From The Orchard 