How to Mae a Buttermil Biscuit

I gargled as soon as we hit the door, leaving my grandmother in the kitchen while I changed back into my robe. When I came in, she shoved a piece of paper into my hand and muttered, "Here's the recipe."

Gram's Buttermilk Biscuits

4 cups flour

¼ cup sugar

2 tablespoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 ½ cups butter

1 ½ cups buttermilk

"I don't see where it says an ex-boyfriend's semen."

"That's because that's a special ingredient for special occasions."

"This is a special occasion?"

"Saving a marriage ain't a special occasion?"

I sighed, realizing that I'd stuck my foot in my mouth again and watched her carefully measure the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda into a bowl and stirred them together. She took nearly the entire amount of butter, a cup and a quarter of it, and cut it into the dry mixture. I felt myself being hypnotized by the flashing butter knives as they reduced the cold lumps of butter into something that looked like super coarse cornmeal. She gave me an unexpected smile.

"You always did like to watch me cook."

I grinned back at her and I forgot about my troubles for a time, watching her form a well in the center of the mound and swiftly add the milk. Under her experienced hands, the dough began to form and she lifted the rounded ball out of the bowl, placing it on the counter. She flattened the dough lovingly and took the biscuit cutter that I handed her, dipping the slicing edge in flour before economically cutting the rounds, leaving nothing but scraps.

"All right, girl. Did you cream with Earley?"

After such a grandmotherly interlude, the sharp jab into reality had me off-balance and my mouth hanging open once again. "W-What?"

"You heard me. Did you cum while you were sucking that boy off?"

"Gram!"

"Girl, I don't have time for this foolishness. Answer my question!"

My pussy flexed in guilty response and I sighed. "Yes."

"Good. Saves me the trouble of having to wait." She grabbed my baking sheets and began to place the uncooked biscuits evenly on the shiny surface. "Pick a row and give them a wipe of your cream."

"How do I do that?"

"Lord, girl, do I have to do it for you? Stick your fingers up there, grab some juice and wipe it on top." She checked the oven's temperature and satisfied that it was at 400° degrees, ambled back over to me. "Just make sure you don't put no hairs on my biscuits."

Any other woman would feel strange opening her robe and standing naked in her kitchen while shoving two fingers deep into her moist pussy while her grandmother looked on but after the day's events, I was well past that. I pulled my cream-covered fingers out and chose a row of three, then carefully wiped the thick liquid on the tops.

"That's good. Remember which ones they are. You'll have to put them on the top when we deliver them."

I washed my hands and belted my robe, pouring a glass of wine for both of us while we waited the fifteen long minutes for them to bake. When the timer beeped, Gram jumped up, snatching the sheets out of the oven and used a spatula to remove them to the cooling racks I'd set out. She took the special three and set them apart from the rest, smiling as she wiped her hands on the apron.

"Okay, you've got two phone calls to make."

Carlos wasn't interested in talking with me at first but when I told him that I just wanted to have a nice dinner with him and emphasized the word

homemade

, I heard a seed of hope sprout in his voice. I had always been able to cook a fierce meal and he knew that. Obviously, the new woman had no skills in that arena and that knowledge also gave me a renewed sense of hope. Maybe I could use the biscuits to win him back.

Calling Alberta was another story. She knew who I was and was very interested in meeting with me. Why? She explained that wanted to know what was really going on with our marriage and wanted to know what kind of person my Carlos was. At Gram's urging, I kept my composure and promised that I'd drop by in thirty minutes. By the time I'd dressed and had come back downstairs, Gram had a small towel-wrapped basket ready for me, with a butter knife and a new jar of raspberry preserves tucked inside.

"Get her to eat one, baby, and your worries are over."