Short Story: A Better Biscuit

Short Story: A Better Biscuit

When I was younger, I lived by a wide canal. In the morning, the water would reflect a pinky glow as the sun rose. The drawbridge was next to my house. When the bridge went up, the cars piled up on the road. When the bridge went down, the boats piled up waiting for the drawbridge.

Every morning, I made 200 biscuits. That’s all the pans that would fit in my stove. At six o’clock, I opened my kitchen window and started selling.

I had sausage biscuits, bacon biscuits with cheese, fried eggs with ham biscuits, fried potatoes with onion biscuits. You name it.

When the bridge was up, they left their cars and ran to my window. When the bridge was down, the tug boats sat behind the long sand barges and the men would hold up a sign. “14 sausage.” By the time they rowed over on their inflatable rafts, I had their orders ready. When the drawbridge hinged open, they revved up their engines. “Marry me, Sophie,” they hollered.

Go on to work with you. Can you make me a better biscuit?

When I sold out of biscuits, I closed my window and pulled down the shade. “Please, Sophie,” they pleaded, “I was just late today.”

Come back tomorrow. I’m open everyday but Christmas.

When I got a free minute, I ran a bacon biscuit out to the Bridgeman. He watched out for me and I watched out for him.

There was a huge spreading tree by my canal bank. I often sat there in the evenings. When the sun went down, there was a long, gold line in the water. It shimmered on all the boats that were moored there over night. Some were sleek yachts, enormous sail boats, oil cans spliced together with boards. All sorts of men called down from those boat decks, “How do you make them so perfect?”

That’s my secret.

The ducks would swoop down under my tree for broken biscuits. Then they waddled across the grass, plunged off the bank, and slept on the water.

* * *

The first time Charlie held up a sign on his red painted tug boat, it said, “Eighteen sausage.”

I shook my head at him. It was too late in the day, I only had cheese.

“Whatever you got,” came the next sign. By then the drawbridge was hinging open and I was flying to get his order. By the time Charlie rowed over for his biscuits, all the cars had to wait. He kissed my hand through the open window, popped a biscuit in his mouth, and rowed back.

That weekend Charlie installed his own system. It was a light weight hinging flagpole installed outside my window. “You put the biscuits in here,” he showed me the little basket. “Then you crank this lever.” Which I did, and the whole thing craned out over the water.

Charlie’s eyes got excited. “I made this by myself.”

And the next morning he steered his tug boat into that crank spot extra early. “Eighteen sausage,” he wrote. So, I put them into the little basket, turned the crank, and amid great cheers, they whisked overtop all the other boats and Charlie reached from his deck and grabbed them.”

“Marry me, Sophie,” he hollered.

Can you make me a better biscuit?

* * *

On the first day after the hurricane flooded, the canal swelled up to its banks. On the second day, the water was up to the boat dock. Charlie manoeuvred his tug boat to the edge of the ramp. He hefted out my lard cans, my enormous sacks of flour, my kitchen table and chairs. “You have to marry me now,” he grinned as the water lapped over my porch. I stood on the bow of his tug and watched the water creep into my house.

But by the third day, it was all back down again. Charlie set up the bilge pumps and sucked out my house.

“I thought I had you,” he laughed.

I tossed my head at him, “Can you make me a better biscuit?”

He folded his arms across his chest, “Yes, actually, I can.”

* * *

In December, the great big pleasure boats went into the marina for winter storage. On cold, dark mornings, I saw my breath in the open window. In the bitterest dawn, Charlie strung coloured lights all down his tug boat. In his red flannel shirt, he held his flashlight onto his sign, “All your cinnamons.”

I sent out 48 cinnamon biscuits with warm honey butter. Those men ate them whole, licking their fingers, before I cranked back my money.

On Christmas Day the canal was extra quiet. The street by my house was completely empty. I made coffee just as the sun came over the water.

Someone tapped on my window.

“You know I’m closed today.”

“I’ve made you something,” Charlie answered.

When I opened the door, he gave me a brown paper bag. And there, I unwrapped the most awful, pathetic, lopsided, biscuit you might imagine.

“I made that by myself,” he beamed. “Pinch off a piece of it.”

It tasted like egg shells.

“Break it open.”

There was an engagement ring inside it. The inscription said, “I love you.”

“What do you think,” he grinned, but his eyes looked frightened.

I held that ring to the morning sun. On down the canal, there was a wide and happy glow. I slipped the ring on my finger and kissed him.

He’d made me a better biscuit.