MTM got up extra early this morning. It was our final breakfast of the trip to Tennessee, and he wanted the oatmeal to be super-special for Dad. He laced it with apples and maple syrup. A singular cup of coffee spangled Dad’s place.
Dad greeted all of the effort in his own unique way.
The Biscuit Box. We need to stop there on the way back.
Dad, that’s out of the way. OUT OF THE WAY!
Nu-uh. It ain’t. I been there before. The Biscuit Box. It’s good eatin’.
It doesn’t really matter to Dad that I cannot eat biscuits. I can’t eat much of anything he’s selected on this long weekend of stomach persecution. Cheeseburgers. Apple pie. French fries. Moon pies. I crunched my unsatisfying lettuce at every meal.
DAD!! THERE’S SOMEBODY YOU DON’T KNOW!!
Huh? Where at?
And, that’s how I stole many a french fry off his plate. I was performing a service, saving him from a diabetic coma.
We stood in line at The Biscuit Box in Chatsworth, Georgia. Miles out of the way. MTM ordered a bacon and egg biscuit and a jelly biscuit. I ordered a bacon biscuit, heartburn flaring before I even bit into it.
Dad ordered grits and eggs, sausage and toast. He didn’t even HAVE a dang biscuit.