There's something about the smell of biscuits in the morning. Maybe it's because I'm from the South, but whenever I smell biscuits baking, my salivary glands kick into overdrive. Memories of mornings with my dad come flooding in. Funny how a simple little can of already-prepped-biscuits can do that.
Some mornings, my husband will wake up before me and make real biscuits. As if the canned version isn't really there. But seriously, there's a huge difference between *POP* "Oh look! Random objects that resemble bread dough!" and the measuring of flour, scooping of butter and shortening (yes, I said shortening), pouring of milk and sprinkling of salt. The cold milk rubs against your finger tips, waking you up, reminding you that you're about to partake in an ancient, Southern, morning tradition.
Mmmmm...biscuits! They go in the oven all round and gooey and emerge toasted on top, fluffy in the middle and, by the time I'm through with them, oozing from all sides with yellow butter.
Finger licking good, and I didn't even mention the gravy...