My mother always made sure that we were well fed. We might not have had all the new toys or clothes but we always ate well. Apart from the baking, it was always tasty home cooking. What do I mean about the baking? Well my mother was hopeless at baking. Her rock cakes were indeed rock cakes, and her scones , well they seemed just like the rock cakes.
I remember one night in particular. We had our usual Friday night meal, one I always looked forward to. Then she produced a plate of home baking, burnt biscuits. I remember my father taking one and putting a large dollop of margarine, no butter in those days, on it and some homemade jam. He ate every bit of it and said it was good.
My mother said she was sorry they were burned and he told her he loved them.
Later I asked him if he really did like the burned biscuits. He told me that my mother had had a long day and had tried hard to make that treat. "Nothing wrong with a burned biscuit now and again."
It is so true, life is full of imperfect things and more importantly imperfect people I learned early in life that I am far from the perfect being. I have a terrible memory and I forget all sorts of things I should make a point of remembering. But one thing I have never forgotten is the message of my father that there is good in accepting others faults and celebrating others successes . This is the road that leads to friendship.
What is a burned biscuits between friends? What does it matter that people are not perfect if they are there when you need a help?
Do not put the key to happiness back in your pocket just because someone else does not measure up.
So pass me that biscuit, does not matter that it is burned I am going to dunk it in my coffee anyway.