Chapters (13)
Scooting out of the kitchen, I scurried up the stairs and rummaged through my room until I found what I was looking for—not easy when you’ve just moved. Finally I located it. I went down the stairs two at a time, hoping to make it to the kitchen before Elvira’s biscuits came out of the oven.
She was standing by the big old oven as I slipped through the swinging door.
“What’s that?” she asked as I came in.
“My catcher’s mitt. Are the biscuits ready?”
“They can’t wait any longer,” she replied. “They’re done to perfection.”
As she spoke, she opened the oven door. Out floated a dozen of the most perfect biscuits I had ever seen—light golden brown, high and fluffy, crusty around the edges. They escaped in sets of three, rising like the hot-air balloons at the state fair.
Reaching out with the mitt, I snagged a biscuit from the third set.
“Careful,” said Elvira. “They’re hot!”
Ignoring her warning, I took the biscuit from the glove. “Ow!” I cried as it slipped through my fingers and headed for the ceiling.
The last row of biscuits had already left the oven. I scrambled onto the counter and snagged one just as it was heading out of reach. I was more careful this time, cupping the glove over it and holding it tenderly while it cooled. I could feel the heat, but the leather protected me.
Finally I thought it was safe to try a bite. Elvira Thistledown watched with wide eyes as I took her work from my glove and lifted it to my lips.
It was astonishing, the most incredible biscuit I have ever tasted.
Suddenly I realized something even more astonishing: I was floating! I had lifted right off the counter and was hovering in midair. I worried about getting down, but as I chewed and swallowed, I drifted gently to the floor.
“What an amazing biscuit,” I cried. “I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
“So do I!” said Elvira Thistledown. Only the last word was dragged out into an eyeeeeeeee . . . , as if she were being snatched into the sky.
That was the last I ever saw of Elvira Thistledown.
Her biscuits, however, haunt me still. It’s not just the memory of their taste, though I have never again tasted anything so fine. It’s the effect of the darned things. See, whenever I get too happy, or too excited, or begin thinking about those biscuits too much, I start to float. If I dream of them—and I often do—I may wake to find myself drifting a foot or two above the bed.
It gets a little embarrassing sometimes.
I’ll tell you this, though. Unlike some people, I’m not afraid of what happens after you die.
I know what I’ll find waiting on the other side. . . .
Biscuits.
Biscuits of glory.