Let's say for the sake of argument that you've been drinking. For a day or two. Possibly three. It's the holidays (which you loathe), you've been hanging out with family (who loooove themselves some holiday cheer), and your home borough (hundreds of miles away and to the North) has suffered a snowpocalypse that has inspired every national newscaster to tell you, with no small measure of glee that all your worldly possessions, neighbors and colleagues have likely been consumed by yeti. (So sorry.)
You probably would not mind a biscuit. Oh, who are we kidding? In order to survive the next hour of your life, you're going to require the ingestion of a biscuit roughly the size of a hassock, ideally with some manner of viciously salty pork nestled within its floury depths.
None of that. It's going to be a biscuit and it's not going to be herb-flecked or heirloom-cheesed or precious in any way. It's going to be kneaded into submission by a task-oriented woman with linebacker biceps who has made fifty million biscuits this morning alone and she's got fifty million more to make before supper. She's not going to make your biscuit with love, but she will make it with skill, and skill like that is hard to come by.
Plus the sign outside proclaimed, calloo callay, that "BOLOGNA IS BACK!" You'd had no idea it had gone away and you almost pause for a moment in regret that you couldn't more acutely feel the bliss of its return. But then you come to your senses, gnaw at the mass of it like a crazed badger, get crumbs all over the floor mat and drive on North.