I recently heard a story about a visiting pastor invited to a men’s breakfast in the middle of a rural farming area. The group asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace before they all dug in.
“Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the old fellow began. The pastor opened an eye to glance at him, wondering where this might be going.
“Lord, I hate lard!” the farmer loudly proclaimed. Now the pastor was growing concerned.
“And Lord, you know I don't much care for raw flour,” he went on, without missing a beat.
The pastor once again opened an eye to peer around the room, and noticed many of the other men shifting in their seats uncomfortably.
“But Lord,” the farmer added, “when you mix them all together and bake them, I do love them warm fresh biscuits.