They were old fashioned biscuits, the kind you needed to dunk to save your teeth.
The biscuit brings a spring to Grandmother's step, as if the part of her that is still a child begins to play a little. I see her soften to someone so much younger as she regales the same tale I've heard a thousand times before, the one of how she once found an entire packet of biscuits and took them home to her family. She tells me of how her little sister was bouncing around the tiny living room and her mother and father almost refused to take any. She remembers those biscuits, and they are her memory-bridge to recalling the love of her parents and siblings. That's why I always take her plain digestives, they make her happier than anything else ever could as she relives that day one more time.
Autumn took a double take, her long hair swishing over her face. On the table were biscuits and not just any kind: custard creams and bourbons. It took a half second to remember she wasn't a child anymore, that asking for one wasn't the done thing. Then with a gentle bite of her inner lip she recalled splitting them in half, eating the dry side first, savouring the half with the cream filling. Before she knew it she'd taken a full detour to arrive at the plate and after a shallow swallow her inner voice found some volume. "May I have a biscuit, please? I haven't seen these kinds since I was a girl."
The rich tea packet was split right to the half-way point allowing several of the biscuits to tumble forward like cards in a rolodex. Art never once looked at them, instead he was guided by crinkle of the packet, temporarily playing his computer game with one hand to feed himself.
The biscuits were as hard as plaster and tasted of shelf. I ate the last one, dipping it into the tea and chewing it up mechanically before I realized I'd finished the package. That was a bad sign, I'd have to watch that.
Found in Lady Oracle, authored by .
Laurel browsed the "how to make biscuits" article, almost snorting out her coffee at the "sugar free" recipe. To her that was a contradiction in terms. If a biscuit had no sugar or butter it was something else entirely, what though she wasn't quite sure. Then her eyes fell on the peanut butter recipe, so many allergens and she could eat them all: gluten, nuts, dairy. Perhaps she'd take an attitude adjustment if she ever got diabetes, but until then it was the real deal or no cigar.
Shortbread biscuits: so easy to make, even easier to sell. River took the butter from the supermarket bag and set it on the counter to warm before setting about triple sifting the flour. The only difficult part was keeping Mom and Rose from eating his profits; generally "out of sight, out of mind" worked. If he could have them packaged before they got home he could just let them have two each. The to keeping his customers interested was variety within consistency. By rotating the favourites no-one got bored and sales kept growing. It was alright to make some unusual flavours, so long as the bulk were plain or chocolate chip.
Christmas biscuit cutters lay on the counter, dusted and with some dough still in the more convoluted shapes. The children hadn't a thought of cleaning up, such ideas had been driven out by the aroma of baking Santas, stars and christmas trees. Already on the counter was icing loaded into bags: red, green and white. On the side was edible silver balls and chocolate chips.
The christmas biscuit recipes were granny's secret and she guarded them with the fervour of a magician with his best magic trick. With the biscuits themselves she was generosity personified, tins of them going out to friends and family. Every one of them was decorated, golden and perfect. Every year we'd tease her for the recipe and every year she'd pucker her withering lips and shake her head with the slowness of old age but the firmness of the school-marm she'd been.