I like to grate the frozen butter more than I like to eat the biscuits, more than I like doing most things.
I like the butter most in states of least resistance, when it is content enough to forgo spitting, when it reshapes itself as easily as one would step out of a silken, pale yellow slip. Whish.
I understand the butter most when it hides in the flour, turns itself into a crumble. I like how my fingers recognize it when even my eyes can't.
I like my biscuits hot from the oven, with tall ungainly layers that give them a lean.
I like to lean back and let the warm heat smoke butter-scented curls into the air, while a small pat fountains blessing just below. I applaud its everything, the air dance, the pour, and the hidden work most.
The hidden work most.
Follow me for more writing ideas, 😂🙈, just kidding. It was getting later and later, and I panicked. Please enjoy my thoughts on butter, thank you and I"m sorry.
