Biscuits and gravy. It's the day after Thanksgiving; my mom just cracked open a can of biscuits and placed them an inch apart on the cookie sheet like she always has. Sausage is already browning in the skillet and there is bacon in the oven. (My childhood home is two miles from the National Pork Board. Judging on pork consumption isn't welcome here.) As she looks at the label to be reminded what temperature to set the oven and how long to cook them, she reads aloud, "For taller biscuits...place biscuits, sides touching, on ungreased cookie sheet."
We have always cooked biscuits with enough breathing room on the cookie sheet to rise as they wish. Pillsbury is telling me that biscuits get even taller if they rise together. They have to touch each other to pull each other up from the cookie sheet. I want taller biscuits. I want a bigger, more expansive version of myself, too.
It's been a flat biscuit kind of year. I have become more and more introverted as tough times kept coming. I've got a tribe of great people, but I wanted to keep myself an inch apart and not need others to pull me up. I wanted to prove I could rebound with a little bit of separation intact.
...the oven timer just went off and the biscuits really are taller. After breakfast, I'll have to work on applying this biscuit theology to the rest of my life.
"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves."