[dropcap]J[/dropcap]amie’s in Birmingham this week. I took a picture of my breakfast and texted it to her to make her jealous. It didn’t work. She texted me back a picture of a fourteen-foot thick Belgian waffle.

Something not many people know about me is that my middle name is Biscuit. It’s true, my mother named me Sean Biscuit Dietrich. Growing up they all called me Biscuit-Butter-Butt, which was later shortened to Triple B.

Kids can be so cruel.

I learned how to make drop biscuits when I was twelve-years old from Betty Crocker herself, really. My mother and sister bought me the Betty Crocker Cookbook for Christmas, along with a blue denim apron that had three B’s embroidered on it. The book was an original edition cookbook, printed in 1950, complete with a few color pictures, and dishes that I’d never heard of.

I cooked through the entire book, starting from page one. One year I made everything from green olive ham rolls with avocado soup, to crown roasted lamb wrapped in cotton twine, served with deviled eggs. I learned all sorts of practical wisdom from the 1950’s. Such as: how to chew mint bubble gum when you cut onions. How to make a meringue pie using nothing but lemons, a glass of water, and a few pieces of wax paper. Years later, learned these culinary trends had disappeared with the Cold War. Who cares? I can still whip up a tomato aspic that will make your grannie give the come-hither look to your grandaddy.

And if he’s not alive anymore, at least the local Baptist minister.

My middle name endures. I am strong, I am Biscuit.

And I am currently unable to fit into my jeans.