I’ve always wanted to write something profound. Maybe I’m trying too hard, seeing that as of yet nothing approaching that term has come from me. I think profound is something old people are supposed to be, so maybe there’s a chance yet.
Since the profound is yet to come, I’ll share a story that breaks out of my usual mundane life…
I made some biscuits yesterday…which reminds me, for the longest time I wanted to write that word as buscuit, instead of biscuit. Go figure. So, I was making these things in my luxurious kitchen/windowseal then took them down to Julie’s to bake. Well, that first batch was kinda flakey anyway…I’ll blame it on the altitude (by flakey I mean not up to par)…and what made them even more flakey was the fact that the oven wasn’t nearly hot enough to cook these babies.
So when I started making the batch I promised the starving wretches on my hall, I made sure the oven was HOT! I went around the corner and was talking to Julie, when 8 minutes later I thought it was time to check on the oven. Low and behold(!) smoke was issuing from every crevice in this thing and as I turned the heat off and peeped inside, the biscuits were looking just about perfect. By this time, the room was full of smoke and we were dangerously close to eating these out in the sub freezing temperature of the chapel lawn. So I fly to the window to open it, only to find it has been bolted shut. Fortunately for me and all Carter residence, the other window did open, so we aired out the room, buttered the biscuits, and returned to my room, where we made short work of them.
The end.
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