In my neck of the woods—the Jewish side of a New Jersey town—we didn’t even consider biscuits. Dough was for bagels and bialys. Biscuits were either something we gave the dog, or something popped out of a refrigerated cylinder. Lo and behold, I have now eaten biscuits, real biscuits, and they are worth their weight in bialys.
My husband Bill and I headed to Nashville for business and pleasure, respectively. His goal was professional, and mine was to take in the sights and breathe a bit of the South. After the recent 500 year flood, Nashvillians seem a little shell-shocked and a little “thrilled to see y’all.” Be assured, the city is quite cleaned up from that devastating flood, and is proud of having done the job pretty much by themselves. The honky-tonks are hopping; the streets are jumping with pedestrians and the sounds of guitars and fiddles. Southern rock and country are heard on street corners and in dry cleaners and just about everywhere. The lovely rolling green hills 10 minutes from downtown get an L.A. resident musing, “What would our town look like if we got a little rain once in a while?”