The Magic of the South

There are approximately 7.8 billion people alive on this planet, and most of them have no idea who they are, why they are, or where they are headed. Now that's a mighty sad thought, is it not? Some old woman sits at a vanity somewhere, still trying to apply makeup to an eyelid she can barely see out of, because these days it wrinkles so it sags down in her vision. Yet there she sits, with a hand that shakes trying to hold up skin that no longer needs improving, giving it her all, because it is all she's ever known. Surely it must still be required. She must look her best, even now, though for who she hasn't the slightest idea. In a bar down the way, there sits a man, not in despair, but mediocrity. He orders yet another beer too expensive for his meager paycheck, even though he could easily drink cheaper at home. But home is just a reminder of all the things he thought he'd have accomplished by now, but hasn't. There's a kid in a classroom carving their initials in a school desk, wishing away their days, waiting to grow up, dreaming of any place but here; any time but now. Billions of people, confused. Stuck. Lost. Wondering. Wandering. Waiting on a miracle. Looking for magic. But the magic's already there.

Now I'm not saying that the south is the place for everyone, or that you can't find magic and miracles and answers anywhere else. But these things are all easier to discover when you slow down, and baby, the south is slower. People talk slower, walk slower, live slower and love longer. Sometimes they also think slower, drive slower, forgive slower and hold grudges longer, but that isn't the point. The point is, if you want answers, you got to dig. Digging is hard work. It's slow, it's painful, it's messy, and most of all its sweaty. Southerners are used to sweat, (well, most of 'em) so we make good diggers, which is why, I believe we have more answers. It is what it is, they say. And as far as answers go, I believe a pan of biscuits may have taught me the most valuable truth I shall ever need know.

You see, down here, biscuits are more than just a food. Hell, they're more than just a staple. Down here, biscuits are the ultimate, albeit illusive, test of completion. The greatest accomplishment, the epitome of success, the fulfillment of tradition. This is singlehandedly the most important thing you will ever do; make a pan of biscuits "just like grandma used to do." All of us want them the way grandma used to make them, and you can not earn your place as queen of the family tree until the culmination of years of striving, research, and desperation result in a steaming hot, buttery pan of cast iron heaven that gets deemed "close enough." Nothing is more magical to a descendant of the Southern culture than the perfect pan of Grandma's biscuits, because if you didn't get Grandma to teach you while she was alive, (God rest her soul) this creation will absolutely require nothing less than a miracle.

Let's get real for a second: if you find yourself thinking "It's just biscuits, what's the big deal?" then (bless your heart) you obviously live somewhere north of the line of dixie, and none of this is going to make any sense. That or I'm about to lay down some truth you're just not ready for.

"I WISH I could make 'em like Maw Maw did."

"These ain't like Momma used to make."

"I'll never figure out how Grandma did it."

"These are good, but hers would melt in your mouth."

I've said it. I've heard it. I've seen tears cried over it. I've heard voices yelling over it. It's that real. And yet, it is, as you say, "just biscuits". So what IS it about Grandma's culinary abilities that we just can not grasp? What did she do that we can't? What did she know that we do not? Is the magic in the memories? Was it just all in our heads?

No. Now, I could be wrong, I didn't exactly pull this one from the Good Book, but I'm fairly certain I have discovered the truth. I've done my slow thinking, and my striving, my research and my digging, and I think the most miraculous thing about Grandma was this: she knew who she was, why she was, and where her life was headed. The biscuits didn't matter at all. Maybe she was just hungry. She had people to love and that required feeding 'em, but she was broke, so she had to feed 'em what she had. Voila. A pan of perfect biscuits. Maybe, just maybe, the magic only ignites in us on the day we stop trying to recreate someone else's style, when we quit striving to live up to an idea, and discover how we like making our own damn biscuits.