Every morning, I bake three biscuits.
No, I don't make biscuits. I open the bag of frozen biscuits I purchase at W-M and put 3 on my Pampered Chef pizza stone (you gotta get you one of these!) and bake them.
I never mastered the art of making my own biscuits from scratch. I know. I'm a complete and utter failure as a Southern Woman. I've come to terms with it. I'd rather let someone else mix and knead and do all that work and put them in a bag and freeze them, letting me focus my valuable time and attention on more important things.
As I was saying...
I bake three biscuits every morning.
2 for me with lots of butter. One for Lucky, no butter.
Today, he was hungry when his beautiful eyes popped open. He ate most of his biscuit but got bored when there were about 2 bites left. As I removed him from his high-chair, he knocked one of those already-broken-apart bites on the floor. He climbed all over me, still blogging at the table. When I put him on the floor, I couldn't see where the piece of biscuit fell...
who am I kiddin? I forgot about it.
A few minutes later, he reached up with his chubby, little hands for me to hold him. It was then I remembered the biscuit piece.
No where to be found.
I think I know where it is though...