Biscuit

Biscuit — The Unauthorized Biography

Let’s just get this out of the way:

Biscuit was never supposed to exist.

The plan—the perfectly reasonable plan—was to make a normal bread board. A sensible bread board. A bread board that would not require philosophical debate, emergency recalculations, or the phrase “Is that… supposed to be happening?” shouted across the workshop.

And yet.

When the slab arrived, it possessed the unmistakable vibe of an object that had already made several decisions without consulting anyone. It was tall. It was round. It had a handle so dramatic it might qualify as a personality disorder. Everyone that touched it reported the same thing: “This board is getting ideas.”

Attempts to persuade Biscuit into a standard shape were about as effective as trying to negotiate with weather. The more you argued, the more committed he became to being weirdly huge in ways no one requested.

By day three, it became clear Biscuit wasn’t just being difficult—he was fulfilling a prophecy he wrote for himself.

Once sanded, oiled, and allowed to contemplate his purpose, Biscuit achieved a level of self-awareness ordinarily reserved for wizards, ancient forest spirits, and toddlers who have discovered they can say “no” with consequences. He understood two fundamental truths:

Guests don’t ask what Biscuit is. They ask what he wants.

And Biscuit?

Biscuit wants one thing:

To be admired, preferably from multiple angles, holding carbs with the smug serenity of a board who knows he cannot be replaced by anything remotely normal.

In short:

Biscuit is not a cutting board.

Biscuit is a highly opinionated incident in wooden form.

And the world, with impressive professionalism, has rearranged itself to accommodate him.