Piling in the door like a pack of wild dogs, we would pause for a brief moment to make sure that no lingering adults were there to scold us or beat us back from our prize. Occasionally, one of the grandfathers of the church would be there, drinking coffee and looking at us with indulgent amusement. But often, there was no overseer to witness our rampage. And so we would throw ourselves at the trove before us. Boxes of Popeye's biscuits, golden brown and unlovely lumps of steamy goodness, sat neatly on the folding table in the center of the kitchen. Plates of the large, red-hot style spicey sausage links would sit nearby, sliced in half and fried crispy. Mounds of eggs and bowls of cooled, congeled grits were at hand as well. All of these filled the air with a heavenly rich scent of cooked pork, melted butter and warm bread. We children were no match at all.
I doubt that men dying of hunger and thirst in the Sahara would have thrown themselves into a repast as eagerly as we did. Biscuits would be ripped in half, steaming and fragrant, to accept a wedge of sausage and maybe some eggs as well. Then that first bite, a timeless moment of buttery biscuit and the crisp snap of the sausage casing. I can still taste it, even twenty years after the fact. I wonder, sometimes, if I will ever recall how to take such pleasure in even the simplest of food and to revel in them unabashedly and unreservedly. Certainly, in this manner, it is a good and proper thing to eat as a child would.