Remembrance of Biscuits Past:25 Years in the Life of a Biscuit Eater

1. 1985.  When I close my eyes, the resulting darkness isn’t completely flat black – there is something simultaneously both smooth and rough about it, both uniform and pitted.  I instantly equate the texture with the surface of ginger thins and continue to do so for the next 20+ years.  Ginger thins remind me of closing my eyes, closing my eyes remind me of ginger thins.

2. 1989.  Weekly pocket money from Nana must be spent instantly at the newsagents around the corner and the transaction must always include the purchase of a Choc Dip.  It is eaten quickly as not to spoil my appetite for the impending Sunday roast.  The majority of the biscuit sticks are eaten dry; the last biscuit alone delivers the anticipated orgy of chocolate goo.

3. 1992.  I don’t know – am genuinely perplexed – why anyone would pick an orange, mint or fruit Jacob’s Club when the all chocolate version is available.  They are eaten in the following way every time, without deviation: bite off the chocolate from the ends, gnaw off the chocolate sides, peel off and eat the chocolate on top, scrap off the cream with top teeth, attempt to clear the chocolate base with teeth (not always successful but an attempt is necessary) then finally, eat the biscuit.  The best part is the cream layer.

4. 1995.  I visit Ikea for the first time and discover their double-chocolate oat biscuits.  A new obsession is born.

5. 1998.  I travel 80 miles to meet my then-boyfriend’s family for the first time and after dinner, a tin of biscuits is opened – left over from Christmas but still full.  Amongst the assortment are some small biscuits: golden, slightly domed and vanilla flavoured.  The melt-in-your-mouth texture is divine and I instantly annex them off from the boyfriend and his brother.  The boyfriend calls them “forbidden biscuits” and realising they smell like my vanilla body spray, we call my scent “forbidden biscuits” for the duration of our relationship.  It’s the only thing that makes me nostalgic for that time.

6. 1999.  Oreos are a precious treat – only available once in a while, when the bargain shop in town gets a random delivery.

7. 2001.  Bourbon biscuits dunked in tea are the only weekend breakfast for me.

8. 2002.  Dan is obsessed with Echo bars.  I try to share his joy but don’t think they taste of much.  I repeatedly try to see what he sees in them and help him get through his stash in double-quick time.

9. 2004.  I realise I reach for dark chocolate digestives as my everyday biscuit of choice now and see it as a signal that my biscuit palate has matured.

10. 2005.  The anticipation of a cookie – not the finest quality but large and a refreshing choc-mint flavour – is the only thing that gets me through the day.

11. 2008.  I’m sitting on a bench outside the former kitchen block at Sachsenhausen concentration camp, listening to an audio commentary about life – and starvation – in the camp.  I eat a dark chocolate wafer biscuit as discretely as possible and I’m ashamed how good it tastes.

12. 2010.  The New Year is welcomed with friends, port and cheese.  We have homemade ginger shortbread in the shape of squirrels and dinosaurs – blue cheese and brie are (separately) pasted along the top for the ultimate sweet and savoury experience.  It begins and ends with ginger.

Louisa Parry

The City Of Remarkable Biscuits

In 2006 a Chinese artist called Song Dong built a replica of London using 72,000 biscuits. All provided free by McVities.

I have no idea why but it is very impressive.

Especially the use of wafer fingers in skyscraper construction: I am glad that someone has found a use for the dry and tasteless things.

The assembled shoppers ate the city at the end of the exhibition. More information here, here and here

There is a fabulous Flickr set taken by Paula Joan and visible here.

What’s in a name? That which we call a cookie by any other name…

Here in Canada, land of theoretical bilingualism, we Anglophones have for the most part embraced our British Empire roots, keeping the monarchy and associated holidays, retaining spellings such as colour, honour, humour, centre, fibre.

However, when it comes to what folks in the now UK call biscuits, we’ve had our own War of Independence and gone with our US neighbours, calling those delightful soupcons of confectionary delight COOKIES.

Our Francophone siblings, les Quebecois of Quebec and les Acadiens of parts of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, curiously side with their former sworn enemies in Britain and refer to those darling little baked items as biscuits, or sometimes as gateaux secs.

What WE refer to as biscuits are more breadlike, eaten with such delights as baked beans, stew, soup, or as the shortcake part of strawberry shortcake. Well-made, they are light, airy, delightful mixtures of butter, flour, possibly herbs or cheese depending on the use, milk and a wee bit of sugar. Not-well-made, they can be substituted for pucks in a good game of outdoor shimmy (hockey), or could be suspected as lethal weapons going through the ever-increasingly paranoid security mavens at airports.

It’s a good thing for some of us that the word cookie exists. For example, although it’s absurd enough that the tiny bits of information websites leave on our computers are called ‘cookies’, think how much more absurd it would be if they were called ‘biscuits’?

One of my favourite musicians is rocker David Cook, of Blue Springs, Missouri.

(this is him in Montreal in October, where he put on an amazing concert, part of it acoustic. Ignore the screaming fans and wait for the voice. I was in the balcony and did not scream.) This isn’t a digression. Stay with me.

Cook sprang to prominence in 2008 by his appearances on American Idol, which he ultimately won. He won the hearts of millions both with his amazing voice and his dedication to raising funds and awareness about brain cancer, which his older brother suffered from for more than a decade. Some of Cook’s fans in North America are referred to as Cookies (I, however, am not), while his ardent followers in the Philippines call themselves Cookistas. Calling them Biscuities or Biscuitas just somehow wouldn’t work.

But the most culturally significant rationale for the existence of the word Cookie comes to us from the charming address of Sesame Street. Submitted for your approval, one of the most enduringly charming icons of the past two generations, the Cookie Monster, singing his anthem. And for those of us who are enamoured with cookies of all kinds…well, it’s our anthem too.

C is for Cookie, it’s good enough for me. B is for Biscuit just doesn’t warm the heart quite as much, nor would calling that delightful blue fluffball the Biscuit Monster.

Shakespeare had it right, though: What’s in a Name? That which we call a cookie by any other name would taste as sweet (even if it wouldn’t quite scan on Sesame Street).

I now retire to reward myself with a cup of tea and a leftover Christmas sugar cookie. Somehow, we haven’t managed to eat them all yet.

Jodi DeLong

Singing in the Biscuit Tin

Heavens!

Holiday times are always a bit special for us because it’s when we get to spend some quality time with our niece and nephew. They live quite a way away, so we only get to see them a few times a year and they’re growing up sooooo fast. They’re at the age (12 and where they still appreciate the company of their uncle and auntie, so whenever there’s an outing in the offing they clamour to come with us rather than their parents.

Last holidays were no exception and on our final night’s stay we went out for a meal in Leeds to celebrate my brother-in-law’s birthday. This turned out to be a little more arduous than usual owing to the snow and ice, so desperate measures were needed to ensure our young charges were kept entertained, having already exhausted the possibilities of Dr Who, Harry Potter and Top Gear.

I finally resorted to dimly remembered songs we’d sung on the back seat of the coach on long school trips. To my surprise the many rounds of You’ll Never Get to Heaven turned out to be a big hit. Having already sniggered over the faults of Scout’s knees (too knobbly) and Playtex bras (won’t stretch that far) as skyward conveyances, the following verse was voted the best one because it’s really silly:

Oh you’ll never get to heaven

In a biscuit tin

‘Cos a biscuit tin’s

Got biscuits in

Now all together everyone, one, two three…

Though judging by the look on everyone’s faces, perhaps dad and Maria have gone through most of the verses

Michelle Chapman. plain.

Cookie Time

I have absolutely no idea what on earth this is all about.The original film was called Troop Beverly Hills but sadly I must have been washing my hair when it was on general release

There appear to be some spectacular hairdos, many ridiculous hats and some truly phenomenal leotards (around 2:20 in). It also has the legendary Pia Zadora (Winner of Worst Actress Award 1983 & 1984. Winner Worst New Star of the Decade 1990 and Nominated for Worst Actress of the Century 2000 – where she was tragically pipped at the post by Madonna) so well worth the effort.

One of the small girls is Jenny Lewis (as in Rilo Kiley)

It also has Frankie Avalon (for the older audience), Cheech Marin (for the stoned audience) and  Stephanie Beecham (for people with colds*)

(*very obscure and not terribly funny British joke.)

Double Dutch

My friend D found the following snippet in a magazine recently:

True or false?

Just looking at cake can help you to lose weight.

True, according to Dutch psychologists who found that women shown photos of a chocolate cake chose healthier oatmeal biscuits afterwards, while those shown photos of flowers preferred chocolate biscuits.

A quick straw poll amongst my friends revealed they thought this research is seriously flawed: they’d take the chocolate cake every time, thank you very much. Mind you, perhaps being out amongst the flowers every day might explain why our esteemed Commissar has a daily packet of Jaffa Cakes.

Thoughts anyone?

Michelle Chapman.plain.

Recipes From The Past

BB, before blogging, there was extra time to putter around the household. Notebooks were compiled with cutsie pootsie clip art as the new fangled computer was experimented with. The color ink cartridge was drained, so only black ink was available, making silhouettes the way to go as cover sheets for the various notebooks to hold our tear sheets from magazines based on subject matter. With index tabs and spine labels. The recipe book is by far the go to among these concotions of information. Commissar your honor, honour, isn’t that little kitty too adorable? How about the little petticoat peeking out from under the apron. I look just like that still, even as a grandmama.
Let us peek inside. The book.
Bits and scraps of paper with recipes scribbled on them are held neatly in plastic jackets, better to not smear flour and butter on as the right recipe is culled for the days cookie baking. Many have been discarded over the years, but these remain. The best of the best. Let us explore them further.
Ah, Magic Bars. Many of these recipes came from the days of our employment in the accounting department of a large oil company in Oklahoma. The ladies would often bring baked goods to the office, and the recipe would be provided upon request. As a young woman, just starting my own household, all recipes and cooking pointers were welcome. They also taught me to crochet, even though I was the only left handed one among them. A more generous group would be hard to find.
The famous Hershey Kiss Cookie. We still make these. Some call them peanut blossoms. Written on a sheet of stenographers paper.
This is the oldest one, from 1961. It was found in between pages of a cookbook that had belonged to my grandmother. We have made the brown candy, better known today in the US as pralines. Very delicious, nearly pure sugar with pecans.
Notice the pink card that this recipe for No Bake Cookies is written upon. It is a key punch card, for those too young to remember such things. Before there were bar codes that could be read by computers, back in the day, there were little holes punched into cards like this that represented a document of some kind. There were large rooms full of young ladies who would hit the keys that made these holes, the keypunch room. Trays of these cards would go to be read, added and printed out onto computer runs, large sheets of paper with holes running down each side. The total would be checked against yet more papers of numbers. If there was a discrepancy, still more large rooms of young ladies would check each card against the run to find the error, the run room. We were awash in little pink cards, as you can imagine. If one would write quite small but legible, always a plus in the accounting biz back then, recipes would fit.
The best has been saved for the grand finale. Written on a larger unpunched keypunch card, the Kentucky Bourbon Balls were far and away the most popular confection ever made. Fondant and nut balls were soaked in Bourbon and allowed to cure for several days, in a shoe box lined with waxed paper. Then they would be frozen on a cookie sheet. The fine art of dipping these into melted chocolate over a double boiler was finally mastered. Now one could use a microwave to melt the chocolate in a glass quart measuring cup, or do it in the old school method. Just so you know, a couple of these goodies would have you singing Oklahoma while you were looking for the error on the computer run.

The Orange Frances Garrison.

You will notice that Frances should now be addressed as The Orange Frances Garrison. This is because she has already contributed a phenomenal ten posts to this Blog. President Obama has been informed. For anybody who is perhaps a little fuzzy about how these things work the relevant post is here

The Mortals Guide to Biscuits and the Encroaching End

Death is sadly still a taboo subject amongst biscuit fanciers, but now, with every biscuit packet sheltering the possibility of diabetes, Hobnob rot or snacker’s larynx, it is something that all treat eaters must come to terms with. Death is inevitable, but it need not be feared, if a man can understand himself, and his biscuits, then he can go to the grave smiling. It is with this educative aim that I give you The Mortals Guide to Biscuits and the Encroaching End.

A mistake many biscuit eaters make when wrestling with visions of The End is to cut back on biscuit consumption, or worse still switch to a ‘light’ option. This casually reduces their life’s work to a mockery, and all the blissful biscuits of their past to bitter dust and ash. No, Scott of the Antarctic had it right: trapped in the blizzard that would eventually kill him he wrote: ‘Truly awful outside the tent. Must fight it out to the last biscuit, but can’t reduce rations.’ To fight it out to the last biscuit with no surrender and no reduction of rations!! His is a death we can all aspire to! Do not go gentle into that good night my chocolaty-fingered friends, Rage, rage against the option they call light! Feeling faint? Shooting chest pains? Rage on brave biscuit lover, open another packet, and prepare to meet St Peter with a smug and crummy grin. You may be dead but at least you can say you were alive to the very last.

I’m often asked by dying biscuit lovers ‘Will there be biscuits in the afterlife?’ and I’m afraid the sad but truthful answer is that I honestly don’t know. Some people argue that the Catholic Church’s 2000-year history of biscuit promotion proves there must be biscuits in heaven. They say that if transubstantiation on Earth means that biscuity wafers are transformed into Christ’s body, it logically follows that in heaven Christ’s body is transformed into a divine biscuit. I’m a historian not a theologian so I could not possibly comment, all I know is that Garibaldi, most war-like of all the biscuits, twice lead armies against the Vatican City, not something that endears the biscuits to God I suspect. Though in answer to the question, it matters not whether there are biscuits in the afterlife, if there are none then take heart that you lived your life in a crummy, jammy daze, you made the most of your threescore and ten and can have no regrets on your death bed. If there are biscuits in the afterlife you have nothing to fear from death anyway.

Something that should be acknowledged as early as possible to avoid anguish is that there will be a last biscuit. Once you have come to terms with the stark reality you can start planning what that last biscuit will be. Some go for the grand final hurrah, a 30lb ginger nut decorated with edible gold leaf and eaten off the naked belly of an oiled eunuch. Others say they will die as they lived, in their favourite comfy chair, surrounded by loved ones and chocolate digestives. It really does not matter what the last biscuit is, it’s the knowledge that death now comes with a nice biscuit that dispels the fear of The Reaper.

I hope this helps, we’re all doomed, but we might as well go out smiling.

Ben Dark

The Chuck Norris Of Biscuits

A Message From The Commissar…

Comrades, Biscuiteers and Members of the Order of Hobnobbery

Greetings.

You have all been a part of this great endeavour since it began way back in September. Since then we have published 107 posts and about 800 comments. As the Convenor pointed out to me only yesterday as we were relaxing in the sauna here at Biscuit Towers: 100 odd posts is the equivalent of about two years output on our other Blogs.

However, we have realised that this volume of output will be tricky to sustain over the coming months as the Convenor will soon have a number of dead trees to dig up and I will have clients wondering where I am.

So, as a result, we will be limiting our Encounters With Remarkable Biscuits to twice a week from now on.

We will however be Tweeting related stuff from across the internettage and will occasionally bung in a bonus post.

This scaling back does not mean that our contributors can slacken off: we still need your posts, we still want you to invite your friends, casual acquaintances and pretty much anybody you bump into in the street to share their Biscuitry.

Comrades we need your help to keep this show firmly on the road. Remember the honour and glory that awaits frequent contributors.

Shake the crumbs from your sweaters and go forth.