I was supposed to make stuffing for Thanksgiving Dinner and realized part way into preparation my iron skillet was missing. Odd, since I only use it at Thanksgiving. I searched everywhere - even the hall closet, just in case. No luck.
Before I knew it, I was on the kitchen floor...crying.
Not over iron, people. It was merely the last straw, apparently. This isn't the time or place for details on the tears. But I can tell you the moment that brought the smile.
I had already put in my first batch of biscuits and as I watched them closely, knowing they wouldn't be as good as my mom's, I cried even more. When they reached the perfect golden brown, I pulled them out and proceeded to douse one with butter and take a bite over the sink as the butter dripped down my fingers (per tradition).
Oh. My. Goodness.
I did it.
I really did it.
Thirty two years and they FINALLY tasted just like my mom's.