biscuits

I love biscuits. Biscuit comes from the French, means twice baked.  

When I’m six years old and lucky enough to find sixpence I go to the corner grocery in East Warrnambool for a bag of broken biscuits. Biscuits don’t come in packets, but live on a shelf behind the grocer in square tins. Housewives ask for half a pound of Milk Arrowroots or Nice.

The grocer flips the lid on the tin, scoops the biscuits into a silver dish mounted on the scales, deposits them in a brown paper bag. The broken biscuits at the bottom of the tin are put in sixpenny or shilling bags. The best thing is to find bits of broken Cresta biscuits in the bag, long oval shapes, sugar crystals on top.

  

As a slightly older kid I come home from school and eat two sweet biscuits before saying hello. Every afternoon, no variation. I’m not greedy; I can probably get away with a couple more but always have two. Any more might interfere with my bowl of Weeties.

The biscuit tin could fit a bowler hat inside, has a glass of pink Condy’s  crystals screwed into the lid. The tin never empties, but the contents are never fancy. We have cream biscuits only on special occasions. Sometimes my mother makes biscuits, jam fancies or coconut macaroons.

I’m in my early twenties I hike the Tasmanian wilderness with friends. On the tenth day, starving, we ask each other what’s the first thing we’ll eat back in civilisation. They opt for lavish me; I crave Butternut Snaps.

Always wanting to ride a little lighter I try to avoid biscuits, but it’s impossible. The supermarket has aisles full of them. Every work meeting has a plate of biscuits on the table. Every cup of tea needs a biscuit. Or two, or three.

My favourites are not the expected Tim Tams. They’re fine, but plain old Malt’o’milks take the cake. They’re dark brown, thin, crunchy, need to be sucked off the teeth. The Monte Carlo always tempts but disappoints. Shortbreads are pretty good—all that butter. The Lemon Crisp straddles the cracker sweet biscuit divide with lemon cream and salt on top.

The only biscuits I cook are Anzacs—oats, sugar, coconut, flour, golden syrup, butter—slightly chewy, golden, crunchy at the edges. One day I’ll make a perfect batch.

Rock on.