September 8, 2018

the god of biscuits

Our boss brought in Biscuitville biscuits and sweet tea yesterday morning for our help desk.  It's been a tough week.  A grateful customer stopped by just after that, picked up a laptop that we had given a new lease on life, and deposited a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts beside the biscuits.  They were still warm.

And somewhere in my reptilian brain (which had the floor because the rest of my brain hadn't benefited yet from the ingestion of adequate coffee), some reasoning happened that went like this:

 "I'm not supposed to have any of these things.  I flat-out can't have the Krispy Kreme because I'll get really sick and it would be irresponsible of me to decide it's worth it to get sick and spend an hour weak and shaky and sweating on my cubicle floor because I have to get a lot done today and people are counting on me, and obviously the tea would do the same thing, but it isn't fair that everyone else gets to have something and I don't, so I'm going to eat a fucking biscuit, right now."

I picked country ham.  It's my favorite.

I unwrapped the greasy, buttery wax paper wrapper to reveal the biscuit, and thought about the Sunday mornings when Grandma would take me to Biscuitville.  The memory was a mixture of grape jelly packets and black plastic utensils, the lady wearing the hair net you could see through the "Made From Scratch" window, rolling the dough and cutting the biscuits for baking, and the menu that you could stare at for hours without ever really feeling you'd picked the best thing to order because you wanted it all at once.

But I'm not that little girl any more (okay, mostly), and after I ate one-third of the biscuit, I faced the fact that I am, and always will be, a post-gastric bypass patient, so I finished the ham out of the middle, picked up the wrapper, and threw the rest of the biscuit into my trash can, so that it, too, wouldn't make me sick later.

Me:  "It felt wrong, for some reason.  Really, really wrong.  You're not supposed to throw away biscuits."

P.J.:  "Doing that was an Abomination Before God."

Me:  "Which god?"

P.J.:  "I dunno.  The God of Biscuits?"

Me:  "You could be right, because it felt like I was offending something out there.  The wrongness didn't come from any sort of moral code based in society.  Well, shit."

I could totally see myself worshiping the God of Biscuits.

I've written much in these past months about atheism and my inability to believe in the Judeo-Christian God or any other figure in major religions.  I don't believe in gods and goddesses.  I don't believe in divine energies or supernatural forces.  I like Buddhism, but there's bullshit in it.

I could get into some sort of witchcraft for the aesthetics of the thing, incense and runes and rituals and the worship of nature and the satisfaction of participating in something socially subversive, but I'd know that all of that, too, is rooted in bullshit.

I can't even worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  The whole Pastafarian gig is hilarious, but I picture the FSM and His Noodly Appendage as what happens when you drain the spaghetti in the colander and it sits too long and because you forgot to put some olive oil on it immediately and stir it up, it's this sticky clump of useless starch that you can pick up in one piece.  You don't get roasted garlic marinara when you're a Pastafarian.  You don't even get melted butter and salt and a little Parmesan cheese.  I get the feeling He's just as bland as the major gods.

But a God of Biscuits?  I felt the touch yesterday.  A biscuit, especially when buttermilk and King Arthur flour and lard are used, can be paradise on Earth.  A proper Southern biscuit is evidence that base and simple things can be used to produce great good in the world, rise above their stations and come together in transcendence.  Even the English can get behind a God of Biscuits of their own definition, bringing life and meaning to Adams' otherwise long and dark teatime of the soul.

I'm not sure how to go about repenting for the discarded two-thirds of a biscuit.  It's possible my frozen protein waffle this morning offended Him.  What if He scoffed?  I need to look into this.


  1. It is possible that as a Novice in the practice of Worshiping The Great God/Goddess of Biscuits, you will be forgiven this once for the two thirds you were unable to eat. You will transcend to higher levels in due course, should you wish. There is no obligation to do so.

    1. So ... does Biscuit Catechism involve the copious consumption of fluffy, hot-out-of-the-oven biscuits? Get yer arse over here to visit, so we can take you to Biscuitville!

  2. And yet another reason to visit you in the USofA - Bacon Biscuits - apart from getting one of your fabulous hugs, finally meeting PJ in person, Rose and the magic eared dog, wanting to shock the Pearl brigade, fluffy, hot-out-of-the-oven biscuits may well come in the top five, although I do have to say, since Snappy went on about them I did produce some very fine American Bacon Biscuits myself :) Must admit to some loss of knowledge about what King Arthur flour is.

    1. No matter, because I've been told that Southerners would clutch their pearls to hear me say King Arthur flour, because it's supposed to be White Lily flour or die. That's the proper Southern flour. To which I say, Plllbbbbbbbbbhhhhht! because King Arthur is vastly superior. Sure you don't have it at Tesco? Tesco has everything! Even streaky bacon. :)

  3. You may redeem yourself to the god of biscuits by eating biscuits equivalent to the amount you threw away. This may be done over a period of time, due to your gastric bypass. However, it is important that during the eating of the penitential biscuit, you close your eyes, savor, and repeat the Hail Biscuit for the duration of each bite.
    In the event of your inability to finish a biscuit in the future, the biscuit god does look kindly upon birds and dogs and fish, and is pleased if you share your biscuit grace with them.