For reasons that I can’t quite explain, when I’m unhappy or depressed or feeling glum, I make biscuits. I don’t come from a biscuit culture, growing up Polish in Arizona. As a kid, biscuits came from a tube and toast was the only choice for your breakfast. My other comfort foods are pierogies and Mexican food, which make sense, but also matzo ball soup which is curious I suppose. Over the years I’ve sort of appropriated the foods that are delicious and comforting, like a warm hug, regardless of their origins. Making biscuits is a task that I enjoy; forming the dough, rolling and folding much like a traditional French pastry, and baking them to a nice and golden crunch. While they’re still warm from the oven, I’ll sit down with a biscuit or two and peel off the layers, one by one, popping them into my mouth. I may do this a few times before I feel better.