January 19, 2017--The 2400 Family Diner

Here's another diner story from on the road south. This one from three years ago--

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2400 Family Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2400 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said, joint in.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?'" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did too," he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.

January 18, 2017--Breakfast Blog: Ernie's Texas Lunch

A funny thing happened on our way south--I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease and we're staying put until I do whatever I have to do.

I had planned to reprise a few breakfast blogs that I wrote on other drives to Florida. Since I'm feeling lazy, I will post them as planned over the next three days. Here's the first one--

Heading south, we stopped overnight in Gettysburg, PA to take in the battlefield the next day, especially the cemetery where Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. As always, almost as soon as we arrived, we began the hunt for the just-right place to have a local breakfast.  Ernie’s Texas Lunch, in spite of its anything-but local sounding name, qualified. The menu didn’t have anything on it that sounding very Texan or Tex-Mex, for that matter, nor was it only open for lunch; but as we looked through the window the evening we arrived (it closes after lunch) we saw a classic small-town lunch counter and half a dozen wooden booths. 

“Perfect,” Rona exclaimed, “Look at the menu posted in the window. See that they feature chipped beef on toast—which I love—and make a big to-do about their home fried potatoes.” 

I peered at the menu over her shoulder and noticed that a “small portion” of home fires cost $2.50 and if you wanted onions with it, it’s another $1.50.  “I never saw that before,” I said, “how they charge extra for onions.” 

“Which suggests to me that this could be a special place. And we have to have the potatoes with, of course, the onions.” 

At 8:30 the next morning we were disappointed to find just one booth occupied by what felt like a grumpy, late-middle-age couple. Maybe they just needed coffee to perk them up, but it felt as if they had just had a fight or had given up talking to each other decades ago. But the waitress was cheery and we thought, It’s only breakfast. Not a big deal. Or not that big a deal.

“Be sure to have some of our home fries,” she chirped, “I cut them myself every morning. Real thin like they’re ‘sposed to be. And we cook ’em in a special oil. You’ll see how non-greasy they are. But sort of with a buttery taste. Real good,” she smiled as if to cast the light of happiness on that poor couple who continued to sit there scowling at each other. 

With such a complete description—more than we received earlier in the week at Balthazar where we went for bouillabaisse—how could we resist? “We’ll have a small order,” I said, “We’ll share them.” 

“And be sure to add the onions,” Rona’s smile was almost as wide as the waitress’. 

“Good choice,” she said. “That’s the right way to have ‘em.”  We ordered scrambled eggs and I asked also for a side of ham. “Not the salty country kind,” she made sure I knew, “But just as good. Some of our regulars say better.”  I nodded my assent, wondering who those regulars were considering how empty the place was, and with that our waitress did an about-face and bounced over toward the kitchen to place the order. “I’ll be right back with your coffee and tea,” she assured us over her shoulder, and we settled back to see what might happen. Expecting very little—except from the home fries—considering what wasn’t going on two booths over. 

But at nine o’clock things indeed began to happen. 

One-by-one a steady stream of customers showed up. First a woman of about 60 with her hair pulled back in tight braids. She sat alone in the booth by the door and almost as soon as she was settled popped up, raced to the door, which she opened, and shouted to someone in the street to “Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.” She had literally been there less than a minute. 

Next an elderly gentleman arrived but had difficulty opening the heavy door. The waitress noticing him—more accurately she appeared to be expecting him--trotted to the front to push it open and then helped him up the two steps into the diner. Arm-in-arm she led him to a stool at the counter. She stood protectively as his side as he eased onto the swiveling seat. 

Then two women entered, clearly in the middle of a good story as they announced their arrival with a burst of laughter.  They got themselves settled back toward the kitchen at what looked like a communal table that could accommodate eight. 

And shortly thereafter another couple about my age came in and smiled at the rapidly filling room before sliding into the booth adjacent to ours. Rona winked at me as if to say, “Just what we were hoping for.” 

Then over the next five minutes a young man joined the woman who beckoned him from the street and they quickly entered into a whispered conversation, and he was followed in turn by three more single women who joined the others at the large table in the rear. 

A happy buzz settled over Ernie’s as the waitress scooted about filling and refilling coffee cups and raced back and forth from the kitchen with steaming plates of eggs and toast and home fries. Including ours.

The waitress came over to our booth to check to see if we needed a refill but more to find out what we thought about the potatoes. 

“The best ever,” Rona, with a mouthful, said.

“Told you so. It’s about how I cut ‘em up and as I told you the oil we use.”

“What kind is that?” I asked. 

“Can’t rightly tell you,” she said with an apologetic shrug, “It’s sort of a family secret. My people’ve been here since ‘41, same location, and though I wish I could tell—you seem like a nice couple--my husband, who’s the cook, would never talk to me again. Which on some days,” she said as an aside, “wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” someone who had slipped in and was standing behind her blurted out. “He is something else. I could tell you a whole day’s worth of stories about just him.” 

I looked up from my ham and eggs to see a tall woman of some years all wrapped up in a long coat and magenta boa which she whipped about in a circle as if she was performing on a vaudeville stage. 

She saw me staring at her and, in a cigarette-thickened voice, said, “You should have seen me when I was a girl. That is, assuming I ever was one.” She laughed at herself. “Just ask Judy over there,” she pointed back toward the table where the four women were seated, “also assuming she ever was one.  A girl, I mean.” She wanted to make sure I got the reference. 

“I’ll be right back, honey, assuming I can extract myself from this outfit.” She was struggling to untangle her boa. I noticed she was wearing matching magenta wool gloves. 

Rona and I, loving every minute of this, returned to our eggs and home fires, not wanting them to get cold. The potatoes were, in fact, as advertised. The best ever indeed. Clearly the result of the thin slicing, secret oil, and the $1.50’s worth of onions. 

“You look like a preacher to me.” It was the woman now without her coat, gloves, and boa who had come back to stand next to our table. I looked up at her, smiling quizzically. “Not that I have much use for them. Preachers, I mean. No offense intended.” 

“And none taken,” I said, “I’m the last person in the world to be taken for one.” 

“But if you have a minute, I have a preacher story for you.” 

“Love to hear it.” Rona nodded enthusiastically. 

“You see there was this country preacher and this city preacher.” We had no idea where this was going. I took a long sip of coffee. “The country preacher had a bicycle and the one from the city a big Lincoln. There was a crossroads right outside of town where they met every Sunday on their way to preaching. To exchange greetings and to say a word or two about what they had been reading in the Bible.

“One Sunday morning when they met the country preacher was walking. He told the city preacher who was driving his Lincoln that someone in his congregation had stolen his bike. And that he didn’t know how to figure out who it was. 

“’I have a suggestion,’ the city preacher said. ‘When you’re delivering your sermon today talk about the Ten Commandments. And when you get to the one about stealing look around and the one who stole your bicycle will be all uncomfortable and give himself away.’ 

“The next Sunday,” she continued, leaning in close to us so only we could hear, “when they met the country preacher again had his bicycle. ‘I see you recovered it. Did my advice about the Commandments work?’ 

“’Yes and no,’ the country preacher said. 

“’What happened?’ the city preacher asked. 

“’Well, when I got to the commandment about adultery, I remembered where I left it.’” 

While waiting for her joke to register, the magenta-woman straightened up to get a better look at our reaction.  Rona was the first to get it and then as well I did. It took a moment because neither of us was expecting a joke from her or anyone for that matter, much less a raunchy one. 

As we finally laughed, she joined in, tugging at her bra. “This danged thing’s always riding up on me.”  She turned to return to her friends. “I’ll be back. I got a million of ‘em. You all right with that?”

“Indeed we are,” Rona said, still chuckling. Choking on my coffee I nodded. 

Which she proceeded to do. Twice more to tell us a couple of other ribald jokes, this time sotto voce so everyone who wanted to could listen in.

Even the grumpy couple appeared to be smiling.

August 24, 2016--Midcoast: Peggy Pays A Visit (Concluded)

"Back in New York no one would eat anything recommended by Paula Deen who's an out-and-out . .  ."

"That's not the way things work up here," Dan said, remaining calm. Peggy fussed with the knot in her Hermes.

"So just how do things work up here, Danny?" I wasn't sure if Peggy was being condescending.

"Well, how do they work down there in New York?" Dan said firmly but without attitude.

"Among other things we pride ourselves in being tolerant. No restaurant person I know would have anything to do with the likes of Paula Deen."

"Well, we're pretty tolerant up here too. Maybe even willing to give someone like Paula Dean the benefit of the doubt. She was mortified by what she said and apologized profusely. No one you know in the Big Apple ever make a fool of themselves?"

Peggy didn't have a ready answer to that but pressed on, "I look around this diner and what do I see?"

"You tell me," Dan said.

"Well, Danny, everyone looks like you." She paused to let that take its full effect.

"I hope not," he said, "That would be a sight for sore eyes."

"I mean," she leaned closer and this time in a sub sotto voce whisper said, "Not a person of color. Not even one working in the kitchen washing dishes."

"I'll let that stereotype about who might be washing dishes pass. But, yes, Maine has very few minorities, if that what you mean. 'Round here in the Midcoast even fewer. So by that definition of yours it's true were not diverse. But," he added, "that's not the only way to think about it."

"Well, how do you folks define it up here? The rest of the country . . ."

"Let me cut you off right there," Dan said, "'Cause there's no 'rest of the country.'" He made air quotes.

"You're losing me," Peggy said. "On CNN, on MSNBC, in the New York Times, even on Fox News which I assume you watch, that's how they talk about diversity."

"Your rest of the country is not all the same. There are lots of local differences. I remember talking with Rona and Steve back in May about the election and how we agreed that we have to be careful making assumptions from our limited individual perspectives. I quoted someone I heard on CNN, which I watch, who said that he asked at a dinner party in Manhattan how many people had been to Paris and how everyone raised their hands. Then he asked how many had visited Staten Island. He reported that only a handful had. It's just a ferry ride away and pretty much no one had ever been there."

"Well, I have," Peggy said, "And couldn't wait to get back to civilization. But return to your claim that Maine, in spite of who I'm seeing here, is diverse."

"I'll say even more so than your downtown New York."

"I'm all ears," Peggy said, cupping her ears.

"What you're seeing and being blinded by, if I may say so, is skin color. Not that I'm minimizing the importance of that but it's only part of the picture. Even liberals would agree that not all Hispanics or black people are the same. You also have to look at how much education people have, the kind of work they do, what they read. But Im not just talking about that though that's an important way to see the diversity here. We may look the same in part because we all dress more or less alike--basic clothes, informal, and all that--but you'll see what I mean when I tell you about who's in the room."

Peggy swung around in the booth to see who Dan was talking about.

"At the counter from the left is an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in feet and next to him . . ."

"Is he the one who now smokes salmon?"

Dan smiled but continued, "Next to him is a retired science teacher who taught at the Lincoln Academy for 30 years, then there's Jimmy who makes a living these days as a clam digger. That's John who is a former accountant in New York City who runs a very successful steel fabricating business who has clients around the world, especially in Europe and the Middle East. Under that overhang next to the air conditioner is a minster who runs the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Bowdoin College in Brunswick. His wife, right next to him, is a major fundraiser for a variety of social service agencies. At the next booth is Al, a former contractor who is now a graphic designer and book publisher. You may have seen one of his own book of photographs at the bookstore in town."

While Dan paused to catch his breath, Peggy said, "And what about you? What don't I know about you?"

"By comparison I'm boring. I was a lineman for the local phone company for 35 years. Now I build wood boats. But are you getting what I'm trying to say? I could go on with who's here right now but don't you already see how diverse we are? Beyond appearances?"

"I am seeing that," Peggy said.

"And here's the big point--"

"What's that?"

"How we're all here having breakfast together. This is a place where people from all sorts of backgrounds are comfortable with each other. Know each other in many cases all our lives. Those with a lot of education and impressive careers and others who are just getting by working two, three part-time jobs."

"I must admit where I go for coffee in the morning there isn't much of this kind of diversity."

I jumped in, "When we're in the city we go to the same place for breakfast and though we love it there, pretty much everyone agrees with everyone about politics--everyone's for Hillary--to movies to restaurants."

"That's my final point," Dan said, "How right now in this room there are people with very different perspectives--of course about politics, but also about religious beliefs (or non-beliefs), what constitutes friendship and love, childrearing, favorite books, the importance of money. You'd be surprised what we talk about. And, disagree about. We know how to do that. We have to be good at that because we need each other, have to live more or less comfortably together."

"I must admit . . ."

"Don't let me mislead you. This isn't paradise here. There's also a lot of nasty stuff. A lot of family abuse, too much drug usage, some people cheat the system and lie to get public assistance. Fortunately, we don't see too many of them at Deb's. But they're here too. Some just up the road. But we try to be civil with them too." He shrugged. "They're our people and we have to want the best for them. And, if we can, be helpful. There's a lot of that. People helping out."

"Well Danny," Peggy said, "You've given me a lot to think about. And as to these two," she didn't turn to us, "back in the city I'll tell Meg not to worry about them." She let out one of her patented laughs.

"But one more thing," she said, "You mentioned politics. Don't tell me you're voting for Trump?"

"I'm very conservative, as you probably heard. That's true, and under other circumstances I would be open to that, but thanks in part to many conversations over coffee with them," he winked at Rona and me, "like you, I have a lot to think about."

Deb

April 12, 2016--Rhonda's Biscuits Concluded

It took awhile for our breakfasts to arrive.

We were sitting diagonally across from Rhonda and had a clear line of site and so could watch her carefully and deliberately cook one order at a time. Unlike other short-order cooks, she took her time.  First, she scrupulously scraped and wiped the grill, then in a mixing bowl, she cracked and beat with a fork two eggs. Two at a time even if she was making eggs for a party of two (like us) or four (like the folks at the table all with biscuits) where more commonly the chef would scramble on the grill all four or even all eight eggs, and then divide them into portions when they were done.

"I can see why this place is so crowded," I whispered to Rona, "Even now, close to 11:00, it's still full. Probably people have been here since 8:30 waiting for their orders to be completed."

Rona punched my arm to shush me. "Keep your voice down," she said, "We're strangers here."

"I'm just finding this fascinating," I said and took to just observing what would happen next.

When Rhonda had four plates with eggs and bacon and grits ready to turn over to the waitress who was hovering patiently, two at a time she brought them to where we were perched on our stools, sipping at our coffee, and slid open a large stainless steel drawer, looked around--it felt like mainly at us--and extracted carefully, one biscuit at a time which she in turn gently placed on each of the plates. Blocking us so we couldn't see what else might be in that draw she slid it shut and only then was she ready to turn the steaming dishes over to Ellie, the waitress, who caught our eye and shrugged, as if to say, "What can you do. It's a living."

Mr, Harris, next to us at the counter said, "Next time you're round these parts I recommend the catfish. Uh, uh," he said and slowly patted his mouth with his perfectly-folded napkin. "If I hada thought, I woulda offered you a taste. I'm 92--don't say I don't look that old 'cause I know I do." He smiled.

"You don't look . . . ," I said but he cut me off before I could finish. At most he looked 75.

"Been coming here for years. Every Saturday morning. Like clockwork. I have to be patient too. Don't take it personal. We're off the interstate here and don't get that many strangers passing though who are in a hurry. I don't mean you're strangers or anything like that," he added quickly. "Old Rhonda takes her good time and treats us all like equals."

He made a point of that as he was the only black person in the teeming restaurant.

A middle-age woman interrupted him as she was heading toward the cash register and said, with what looked like a small bow, "How nice to see you, Mr. Harris. It must be Saturday again," she chuckled. "And how is Mrs. Harris?" She din't pause to hear the answer, "And I trust your granddaughter is doing well at school."

"Yes, thank you, everyone is well."

"What courses is she taking again? I'm losing my memory, wouldn't you know." She sighed.

"She's in her final year and then it will be time for her to do her internship. Still says she wants to be a surgeon. I keep telling her that's not an easy thing for a girl. I mean, a woman. But she's determined. Stubborn too. Just like her mother."

"Well, next time you talk to her, please tell her I was asking about her." Then she turned to us and said, "A lovely family. The best people in town."

"Don't forget your umbrella," Mr. Harris said.

"See what I mean about my memory," she said to Rona.

"What medical school is she at?" I asked.

"Up in Baltimore. I can never remember its exact name. We just call it Hopkins. I know . . ."

"Johns Hopkins," I said. "Half the time I call it John Hopkins. I forget the Johns part. But it's a wonderful place. Good for her."

Another diner who had finished his breakfast was waiting for the women who claimed to be losing her memory to move along so he could say a few words to Mr. Harris.

"My Sally knew you'd be here," he said, pulling on the peak of his Redskins cap. "She said you'd be here like clockwork and there you be."

"Lovely woman, that Sally," Mr. Harris said half-turned toward us. "I trust her treatments are going well."

Sally's husband sighed, "Good as can be expected, I s'pose. It's all in His hands." He looked up toward the ceiling.

"And the doctors, too," Mr. Harris said, reaching out to touch him on the arm.

"She and I too really 'preciate all your concern and how every Sunday you and yours remember to send over a big basket of fruit. You know how she loves fruit. It's 'bout the only thing she enjoys these days. Poor thing." He wiped at his eyes.

Mr. Harris struggled up from his stool and embraced him. "You'll be fine," he whispered, still hugging him and patting his back. "Now, you've go to be strong for her."

"I will do my best," he said, "And thank you again for everything. I'll see you next Saturday. Same time, same place." And with that he headed for the front door

After Sally's husband left, Mr. Harris turned fully to Rona and softly said, "She is a lovely woman. Been good all these years to our family. She was a teacher in the high school where my granddaughter went. She was the one who encouraged her to take all those science courses while many of the others there suggested she be realistic and forget about being a doctor and train instead to be a nurse and stay in town and work in the hospital. And now she's . . . she's struggling against the odds. But if being a good person means anything, there's a better place waiting for her."

By then we were ready to leave, said goodbye to Mr. Harris, and with the check began to make our way to the cash register where Ellie was waiting.

"Hope you enjoyed your breakfast," she said.

"I loved everything," I said, "The food and everything else," I gestured back to where we had been sitting and toward Mr. Harris."

"Isn't he somethin' special? You'd never know how old he is."

"He is remarkable," Rona siad. "How everyone stopped to talk with him."

"Every Saturday he's always here. If you forget, his sittin' over there havin' his fried fish reminds you of that."

Rona was busy extracting cash from her wallet, "Maybe next year on our way south, we'll drive down route 310 and . . ."

"Be sure to do that, honey. We'd love to see you. We'll all be here. And if it's a Saturday . . ."

". . . Mr. Harris'll be having his catfish."

"Sure as the day is long. So be sure to stop by to see us, yuh hear."

We both nodded. And then, as we were about to say something, over her shoulder, Rhonda, still at the grill, working on a couple of sunny side eggs, called to us, "Make sure you do that. Next time you all can have all the biscuits you want."