Biscuits are one of the first things we learn to cook when we’re little – or at least roll and stamp out, get the feel of, which is just as important – and there seems to be a sense in which we’re recapturing some remembered, no doubt idealized, past whenever we make them in adulthood; they still feel like playing. When I want to cook but have no fixed idea of what, and have no actual meal to prepare to justify fiddling about in the kitchen, I often convince myself that there are biscuits that need to be made.