For the first part of my growing up years, we always had Sunday dinner at B’s house. (B is what I called my grandmother. Her name was Isabelle but my granddaddy called her Bell. B is short for Bell.) When I was just a little thing, I remember B making homemade biscuits. Some of them would be plain and some of them would have cheese inside. We would sit around the table on Sunday waiting for her to join us so we could have a blessing, and she’d bring with her a basket of biscuits covered with a towel. She would look at each of us and ask, plain or cheese? I would be itching with anticipation and when her eyes fell on me, I’d holler in a 4 year old voice, cheese! Then, she’d give me a biscuit with cheese oozing out the sides. Sometimes I would eat the biscuit, but every time I would eat the cheese. I always sat beside her at the table because she was mine. I’d eat cheese biscuits that she’d stuffed extra full (because she knew that’s how I liked ‘em) as I sat beside her at the table. Funny what you remember, isn’t it?