[dropcap]J[/dropcap]amie makes biscuits whenever we’re on vacation. It’s a tradition. She makes them by hand. But they’re a lot more than biscuits.

See, when we first married, Jamie was fresh out of culinary school. A bonafide chef. Her culinary interest had even taken her overseas. Part of her New Orleans education included time in Southern France, studying cuisine.

Then she met me. The furthest I’d ever traveled was Texarkana.

Jamie tried to educate me about cuisine, but it didn’t take. She’d explain things like the biology of a perfect blanquette de veau. My eyes would usually glaze over.

Once, I responded by asking her about biscuits.

“Biscuits?” she said.

“Sure, can you make biscuits?”

She grew silent.

The truth was, I didn’t know anything about food. I still drank Budweiser and ate sausages from a can. The only thing I knew about biscuits was the popping noise the Pilsbury tube made when you opened it.

I was only kidding with her, but it was too late. Jamie had made up her mind. She would master the American biscuit.

It took three years of experimentation. She practiced every morning with small batches. I ate so many biscuits I gained eleven pounds and doctors thought I had a thyroid problem.

Today, few people know about Jamie’s biscuits. She doesn’t talk about them. She doesn’t like the limelight. And besides, she only cooks them on vacation.

But it still impresses me, that while some ambitious chefs are working on their resumes, others like Jamie have chosen another route.

And just work on their biscuits.