I was seized by the unquenchable desire to bake on Monday. I’d had plans for the day that were swiftly thwarted when Orion woke up ill and and a late afternoon doctor’s appointment left my morning suddenly free.
I’d been shuffling through my recipes (which are an exceptionally well organised collection of randomly sized, loose bits of paper that I shove into a free section of my bookshelf) when a recipe for Anzac biscuits literally fell out. It’s a sign, right, when that happens? Well for whatever the reason, I decided that biscuits were in order and off to the kitchen I went.
As soon as they were out of the oven, I did what comes naturally – grabbed a steaming hot bikkie and juggled it for a minute or so until it was cool enough (sorta) to jam in my mouth.
My vision immediately clouded. My kitchen disappeared and instead, I sat at my grandmother’s kitchen table, cheerfully debating the merits of chewy biscuits vs crunchy ones. Neither of us would give ground, and Grandpa chuckled quietly as he picked the crunchiest biscuit on the plate and carefully pushed it across the table towards me. I ate while Grandma shook her head and dunked her decidedly chewy biscuit in her tea a couple of times. The smell of baked goods permeates the room, embedding itself in the walls, the linen, my heart.
Grandma would have hated my attempt at Anzacs. They’re teeth breakingly hard. Tiny golden rocks on my tray. She would have scolded me, and dunked that biscuit in her tea until it was almost soggy enough to come apart. And we would have laughed, whilst I stubbornly ate mine how it was, because I like them crunchy. Although I will admit, I feared for the longevity of my teeth on these. Whatever their faults, the flavour was there, the memories were there – and unexpected, I might add – the heart was there. And the traditional tongue-burning of that first biscuit? Yup, that was there too.