Biscuit blues

River of Stones Day 2:

Wake. Dream. 4 am. Four hours of sleep. The dream seeps away. Dreams of people I do not know. I fall asleep again, awakened at 7 by my cat. She paces like the unjustly imprisoned, crying and wretched, wanting outside. A feline Juliet to some tom cat Romeo, who beckons, spraying his scent below the window. She walks on my iHome and turns it on. Not tuned. Static. Loud. I roll and turn off the noise and the silence floods the space. I feel blue, cool and calm not sad. My stomach grumbles, hungry for food, hungry to start the day.

The instant biscuits I pulled from the freezer for my breakfast fail to rise in the heat of my oven. The house lacks bread. Think, think, think. I have flour, baking powder, cream of tarter, milk and shortening. I make biscuits from scratch. I eat them with bacon and my orange marmalade.

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