Razzleberry Jam and Scratch Biscuits

My Grandmother Kay made buttermilk biscuits every morning of our visit to her home at the crossroads of London and Shoestring Roads. Fact is, she made biscuits every morning for my Grandpa Kay who served in the marines, worked in his cabinet shop, and demanded order. To us, the magic of biscuits made from scratch, ranked near a trip of Disneyland or a strawberry pie.

It rained most of the time we were in Oregon. Dark clouds and sheets of rain fell on the house. We mostly stayed inside and heard Grandmother Kay tell stories about picking the wild razzleberries from the cliff behind her house. Oh, the thorns those razzleberries had. Yet, we never picked one because of the rain.

At the the end of our visit, the sun would come out and reflect light off the rain-covered grass. We would stand outside for a picture trying to keep our eyes open in the sun. All of our photos showed a family squinting and rubbing our eyes.

We climbed in the car and the rain returned. Always raining buckets of water covering the windshield in a torrent until we reached Ashland. Then it would turn to snow.

Once, we went to the coast and ate smoked salmon, sharp cheddar, and crackers. It rained there too. We walked in it gathering driftwood and pretending we were pirates. We never found buried treasure. The treasure was all around us.

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Day 229: 5 Minute Freewrite: Tuesday - Prompt: scratch by @MarianneWest.

Copyright © 2018 Michael Shawn Sommermeyer

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