NONFICTION   -
     With the Theme of Making or Breaking Bread 

"Uncle Bob would grab two at a time,"
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                                         Photo by Weebly.com                                    

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Biscuits and Bob
by  MJ Moore

​Almost no one loved biscuits as much as my little brother Jimmy. Creatively rambunctious, he could be controlled by any housekeeper with one simple sentence: “I don’t bake biscuits for bad little boys.”
 
The only person we knew who loved biscuits as much as Jimmy was Uncle Bob. He lived with us during his med school days in the ‘50s, and Jimmy worshipped him unconditionally. Mom made fantastic biscuits, and Uncle Bob would grab two at a time, claiming with an innocent drawl, “Oh, dear, they stuck together.” Our family always called conjoined biscuits “Bob biscuits.”
 
When Jimmy was five, near the end of one dinner, he and Uncle Bob reached for the last biscuit at the same time. Jimmy had eaten only one biscuit so far and was looking forward to that last one as dessert. Uncle Bob stared at Jimmy and Jimmy stared back. Uncle Bob raised an eyebrow. Jimmy’s face turned into one big plea, but Uncle Bob kept his hand over the biscuit. The corners of Jimmy’s mouth turned down and started to quiver. Still, Uncle Bob’s hand hovered. Slowly, with a sigh, Jimmy retracted his hand, and Uncle Bob retrieved the biscuit. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and slowly took a bite. Jimmy’s eyes started to tear as he watched a second bite disappear.
 
“This is the best biscuit I’ve ever eaten,” Uncle Bob said, looking straight at Jimmy. Jimmy blinked and nodded. Then Uncle Bob slid the rest of the biscuit to Jimmy and winked. “But it’s even better sharing it with you.” Jimmy grinned and quickly popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.
 
Mom always said that Jimmy learned his first lesson about love that night.
 
A couple of years later, Uncle Bob married and moved to Kansas to start a medical practice. Our family moved to Miami, and we didn’t see him much after that. He was the only doctor in Hoisington, raising three daughters of his own, and he couldn’t take time away to visit. We exchanged Christmas cards every year and sometimes talked on the phone.
 
When Jimmy was 14, our Dad died. Uncle Bob came with his family to the funeral and kept my lost brother anchored, his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder the entire service. Each summer after that, until Jimmy had graduated from college, Uncle Bob brought his fishing gear, and he and Jimmy drove up to Lake Okeechobee for a week of camping. Grizzled, dirty, and serene, they always returned with a cooler full of fish. 

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​​MJ Moore lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her various incarnations have included technical writer and editor, farm apprentice, environmental activist, teacher, poet, wife, and mother. As a bicoastal being, she thrives on salt air, wind and waves, but also loves mountains, deserts, forests and streams. Writing for her is a source of vision and joy. Her book of poems, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.

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