Butter and honey spread thick on a flaky biscuit. It tasted like memories. Like gingham table clothes and the smell of an old house. Like legs swinging furiously against the rungs of heavy wooden chairs. Like mysterious cupboards and closets filled with a lifetime of memories to be peered into and poked with sticky fingertips.
Childhood was always so sticky. Sticky hands. Sticky faces. Sticky, like the golden rivers of honey running down onto hands and wrists, shredding paper napkins, and we had to scrunch up our faces while she scrubbed at them with damp towels. Floral towels. Towels always cradled those biscuits in their basket, and we unwrapped them like a present, crushing them in the overeager grip of children.
It was some sort of magic the way she threw ingredients into a bowl and biscuits appeared, steaming and edged golden brown. Only an explosion of flour on the counter with a few clumps of forgotten dough remained from whatever spell she’d used. Biscuit recipes now were arduous, and they didn’t come out of the oven smelling like innocence or the sleepiness after play on a summer afternoon. They were lopsided and dry, crumbling away to nothing. Even honey couldn’t hold them together.
So the basket sits empty on the table, a towel crumpled up inside. Empty. But maybe if one spent the day trouping through the forest and ran through the door with muddy shoes and carefully pulled back the corner of the towel with sticky fingers, one last biscuit might be found nestled inside.