Half Man Half Biscuit

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Sweet Pleasure & a Willingness To Yield

In my spotty youth, only one biscuit mattered and that was the McVities chocolate digestive, washed down with copious amounts of milk. The combination delivered on every level as the initial sweet crumble gave way to a chocolate milkshake when the liquid was introduced. I was a packet-a-day chap in those carefree times when consciences were never pricked by Government health warnings.

I cannot say for sure that they were the cause of my spots. But it is a matter of record (in my unpublished diaries) that my skin cleared up not long after I ate my last MCD and bedded my first girlfriend. She was French and she taught me to appreciate les escargots, les cuisses de grenouille and les huitres – while convincing me that biscuits, although fine for children, were eschewed by sophisticated adults. She also stopped me wearing socks with shorts. One way and another, I learned a great deal from her; but there was irony in her denouncement of biscuits for the word came from her homeland where it means twice (bis) cooked (cuit).

But a year later, she denounced me too and thereby freed me to experiment with biscuits and other girls. Soon enough, I learned that I could never be a dunker, although I have great admiration for those who do. This genteel form of Russian roulette seems far too risky to me. And the potential losses are total: not only can the much-anticipated biscuit crash and burn before one has even tasted it but the same catastrophe ruins a lovingly made cup of tea, giving it the appearance of sewage floating on the Nile.

This annoying and expensive calamity happened often to me and always without warning. The dunked biscuit would hold its form perfectly until it cleared the steaming liquid – only to collapse spectacularly at the very moment that my lips opened to receive it.  Compounding the disaster, the falling shrapnel would spray my limbs, clothes and newspaper with scalding tea.

Knowledgeable dunkers have told me that I should stick to one type of biscuit so as to become familiar with its molecular structure; and to ensure that my tea is always at the same temperature. It matters not which biscuit one chooses, nor the temperature of the tea as long as it is constant. Thereafter, with a moderate amount of practice and some notes, I should be able to determine how many seconds a biscuit can survive under tea. Then, as long as I count with metronomic accuracy each time, I will invariably be rewarded with a safe and delicious mouthful of hot, wet crumble.

If this were the whole story, I might have succeeded one day. But the final part of the formula renders the whole exercise pointless. Do not on any account (they say) submerge more than one quarter of the biscuit before raising it gently to your waiting mouth. Well, I cannot speak for you but chez moi, a quarter biscuit is not worth the effort: I need at least half a biscuit per mouthful to derive any gratification from it. It’s a class thing, or possibly a male thing, but dainty little moist nibbles just don’t work for me. Thus I run the gauntlet by absorbing so much tea into my biscuit that the extra weight is more likely than not to cause it to collapse.

Various studies have been carried out but none of them is comprehensive. Even the learned research- which proves once and for all that Hobnobs survive only half as long in tea as digestives or Rich Tea biscuits – fails to carry out the crucial volume test which has been the ruin of me.

As an aside, I must sound a warning about oatcakes. Foisted upon me by my Scottish ex-wife, they have no redeeming features. They are resistant to dunking and trying to eat a dry one is pointless for it is impossible to swallow. Add enough butter, or other lubricant, to facilitate its passage down the gullet and it will eventually pass through; but whatever health benefit is claimed for the fibre will be trumped by the damage caused by the butter. What’s more, it is flavourless and can only be justified when no other platform for cheese, jam or caviar is to hand. It does not meet my definition of a biscuit which is that it must give sweet pleasure and a willingness to yield.

Happily, there is one such oat biscuit. Enterprising biscuiteers have transformed the inedible oatcake into a delectable concoction by the simple – some would say obvious – act of adding lashings of sugar, syrup and butter to the mix. What was once repellant has become delicious – so delicious in fact that I have two for my lazy breakfast every day. But if the flapjack has given a new lease of life to oat biscuits, the discovery of one which comes half-dipped in dark Belgian chocolate has elevated them to “oat cuisine”.

Fudges Flapjacks – from Waitrose and possibly other discerning retailers – have changed my life. But for reasons I can well understand, the shelf is frequently bare. If you should be persuaded to try them, please don’t shop on Fridays.

Simon Chapman

Rubber Biscuit

New Zealand Nostalgia

Having been raised in the US, my love for cookies (or biscuits) is eclipsed only by the number of choices in the cookie aisle of the grocery store. With hundreds of choices, it was easy to have a completely different taste of cookie every day, if desired.

But the very best cookies were never from a package from the store. They were always from the oven in our kitchen. Mom was an excellent baker and I remember that we always got excited when we knew that cookies were baking. Licking the bowl (not literally, of course, but using your fingers to get the last of the dough from the bowl) was part of the process. I have to admit that my favorite was chocolate chip cookies. Made from the recipe on the back of the Nestle’s chocolate chip bag.

Fast forward many, many years. Now that I have moved to New Zealand and have inherited a family with two young teens, I am very please that they have the same reactions when I bake the same cookies. I bake many kinds of cookies, but the chocolate chips are definitely a favorite.

Here is the recipe, from the Nestle’s site. I find it so weird that they warn us to bake the cookies before consuming them. Everybody knows that eating raw cookie dough is the best part of baking cookies!

 

 

Original NESTLÉ® TOLL HOUSE® Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients

• 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 3/4 cup packed brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 large eggs

• 2 cups (12-oz. pkg.) NESTLÉ® TOLL HOUSE® Semi-Sweet Chocolate Morsels

• 1 cup chopped nuts

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Directions

PREHEAT oven to 375° F.

COMBINE flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in morsels and nuts. Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets.

BAKE for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; remove to wire racks to cool completely.
PAN COOKIE VARIATION: Grease 15 x 10-inch jelly-roll pan. Prepare dough as above. Spread into prepared pan. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until golden brown. Cool in pan on wire rack. Makes 4 dozen bars.
SLICE AND BAKE COOKIE VARIATION:
PREPARE dough as above. Divide in half; wrap in waxed paper. Refrigerate for 1 hour or until firm. Shape each half into 15-inch log; wrap in wax paper. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.* Preheat oven to 375° F. Cut into 1/2-inch-thick slices; place on ungreased baking sheets. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; remove to wire racks to cool completely. Makes about 5 dozen cookies.
* May be stored in refrigerator for up to 1 week or in freezer for up to 8 weeks.
FOR HIGH ALTITUDE BAKING (5,200 feet): Increase flour to 2 1/2 cups. Add 2 teaspoons water with flour and reduce both granulated sugar and brown sugar to 2/3 cup each. Bake drop cookies for 8 to 10 minutes and pan cookie for 17 to 19 minutes.

Remember to follow baking instructions before consuming.

Betty Luckhurst

The Future is Oblong? Really?

There are two things that we know to be true of Jaffa Cakes.

1. They are cakes – but we forgive them

2. They are round

You can only imagine my abject horror when, on the 8th of October, I saw a post on this venerable blog concerning the introduction of oblong Jaffa Cakes. I quickly surmised that this could only be the work of either Satan and all his little wizards or The Mad Arab and the Elders of Cthulhu.

Turns out, it was the Germans.

Obviously, further investigation was needed if I were to work out what those ruthlessly efficient, Teutonic devils were up to. So, bravely, I arranged for a box of the un-round terrors to be sent my way.

I waited, both in nervous anticipation and in a rather fetching Brown Derby hat which I wore at a jaunty angle.

Eventually they arrived and it quickly became apparent that these were not the Jaffa Cakes I had been used to. The box, for example, is a slim stylish looking affair and the name – Bahlsen’s Messinos – tells you immediately that something foreign is afoot.

Intrigued, I decided to open them and see how these square cornered Messinos would compare to my beloved circles of orangey goodness.

The first thing that struck me was how thin they are. This was most disappointing as I was expecting something more akin to the thick sponge of our native Jaffas. But maybe there was more to them, after all the Messinos main selling point is its orange centre which, they tell me, goes all the way to the edge.

It does too. And it appears to be a horse of an entirely different shade of orange. It’s stickier, than the Mcvitie’s jelly centre and orangier too. Bahlsen describe it as a marmalade. It goes right to the edge of the thin sponge giving them a surprising moistness.

Does this make them better than our own lovable Jaffa Cakes? No, it does not.

Our beloved Jaffa Cakes are thick and robust and can take a decent dunking if they have to. They are a great example of how a cake can become a favourite biscuit. The Messinos are more cake like, but they have their place.

If, for example, you are a Jaffa Cake lover and find yourself inviting your posh neighbours round for coffee and you wanted to show them how posh you were but still be able to serve your favourite biscuits/cakes, then the Messinos will fit right in. They are a posh Jaffa Cake. Stylish to look at, delicate to hold and with an orange centre that says, “I’m posher than you.”

It’s just a shame that they are entirely the wrong shape.

Mr Uku

The Future is Oblong

A Biscuit or Mortar

They are a good source of calcium, iron and zinc for healthy growth and development. So says the promo on the website for Arrowroot biscuit/cookies.  These are even called biscuits in the States, being a little too hard, read like concrete, to fit into the cookie category.

When it was noticed while reading the sidebar of this fabulous bit of literaryness that The Tenuous  Purpose of this blog includes wishing for  an archive of Arrowroot, a little tinkling bell of remembrance rang out in the growing out cinnaberry cerebrum.  Arrowroots were recommended by the paternal grandmother of our first born child, Chickenpoet when she grew to be able to sit in the wooden high chair stuffed with pillows to keep her little self upright, as she was teething.  Sore red gums needed something soothing and nutritious to gnaw on as the pearly whites broke through.  One of these store bought baked goodies was placed on the tray within reach of grasping little fingers.  She spied it, grabbed it and straight into the slobbering mouth it went.  The idea seemed to be that since this cookie was tough as a brick it would not break off and choke the little darling even with copious amounts of saliva digesting it in hand. True enough, there was no need for a Heimlich Maneuver.  However after a thorough cleansing of said child and a little rock a bye to dreamland, the fancy wooden high chair neglected to clean itself of the Arrowroot paste with which it was now covered.

Fast forward a few days.  Since the high chair was not really used for feeding yet, the babe was still on a liquid diet at this tender age, the Arrowroot goo had been allowed to set up and cure, becoming a nearly permanent fresco on the heirloom quality chair.  When finally it was discovered that the chair’s previously smooth tray, seat, back and legs were now bumpy as a gravel path in the garden, the task began to chisel it back to pristine condition.  After all, this was to be used several times a day by the precious person in our care, it had to be perfect.  Ah the naivete of a young mother concerning her first born.  After many attempts trying to clean the chair with the standard soapy arsenal, it was taken outdoors for a spray with the garden hose.  Wetting down the entire thing to soften the biscuit sculptures and scraping each surface down with a plastic cake icing tool did the trick.

The three subsequent offspring were allowed to chew on rubber toys, ice filled teething rings and their own hands and fingers.  No Arrowroot was offered up, for with four to keep up with there was no longer the luxury of time to run the high chair through the car wash.

Frances Garrison

Not Your Father’s Chocolate Chip

When we Americans hear the word “biscuit,” what we usually think of is a bread type thing, served with gravy.  Instead, we use the word “cookie” to mean the small, sweet baked treats most often associated with childhood.

It has been noted that the British are more fond of their biscuits than anyone else.  One possible reason why Americans aren’t as into cookies is the dearth of good domestic commercial cookies.  (Hit Biscuits are wonderful, but one has to go to places like Trader Joe’s to get them.  It’s possible that I acquired a more European taste while studying in Rome.  Those biscotti with the smilely faces provided hours, ok, minutes, of fun by twisting them so the filling gooped out of the eyes.  But I digress.)  On the whole, American mass-produced cookies are way too sweet and almost completely lacking in flavor and texture.  I am completely at a loss to explain the popularity of the Oreo, the cookie equivalent of a Twinkie.  What is that white stuff?  Sugared lard?  Why would anyone want to eat that?

No, the best  American cookies are the homemade varieties, and the quintessential American cookie is the chocolate chip.  In the Talking Heads’ song (Nothing But) Flowers , David Byrne sings, “I dream of cherry pies, candy bars, and chocolate chip cookies.”  It’s also my favorite.

Chocolate chip cookies were the first food I ever prepared.  At age 12, my best friend Sandy showed me how she made them by mixing in some whole wheat flour with the processed white stuff.  That simple deviation from the Toll House recipe on the back of the Nestle Semi-Sweet Morsels bag has lead to the creation of, in my opinion, the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

For me, cooking is like a chemistry formula, with the recipe followed exactly.  Baking is more of an alchemical experience, with tweaking and experimentation.  Lost to my memory is why Sandy and I joined 4H, the organization for farm kids. We lived in a small town and had friends who lived on farms, so it must have been a social thing.  The highlight of our one year in 4H was the County Fair.  While the other kids were entering their cows and sheep, Sandy and I entered the baking competition.  I submitted two entries, one peanut butter cookies, the other chocolate chips.  The judges were wowed by my chocolate chip entry, awarding me the blue ribbon.  My cookies were made with half whole wheat flour and shortening instead of butter.

Butter makes the chocolate chip cookie flat and crunchy.  While some poor misguided souls (such as two of my nephews) may prefer this type, the best form of the chocolate chip cookie requires shortening for a thick, chewy cookie.  For years I made my cookies with it.

Then, I discovered a vegetable-based shortening substitute without the nasty trans-fats.  It even came butter flavored.  The older I get, the more I appreciate dark chocolate, so I use the darkest chocolate I can find to make the cookies.  (Dark chocolate promotes healthy arteries and heart.  Chunks of chocolate work the best.  Mini-chips don’t have enough substance, and milk chocolate chips don’t have enough gravitas.  I also use the darkest brown sugar available, for the most intense taste.

I don’t have a recipe, I work off the one on the back of the Toll House bag, but I use only whole wheat flour, with the amount listed as a starting point.  Then I keep adding until the dough reaches the right consistency.  Like Justice Potter Stewart’s standard for pornography, I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.

Then, when the dough is fully ready, a decision must be made: bake it all, or eat some raw.  Yes, the eating of some raw dough has always been part of the ritual of the baking for me, salmonella be damned!  I’ve yet to be sickened by it, but, in the interest of being a good and responsible parent, I don’t let my children eat any raw.  My husband and I accept the duty to lick clean the beater, and consume the scrapings from the sides of the bowl, ourselves.  Sometimes we put some aside to eat raw by the spoonful.  (Chocolate chip cookie dough is the only kind worth eating raw.  As proof, witness the popularity of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream, with chocolate chip cookie dough.

The best way to enjoy chocolate chip cookies is still warm from the oven, and dunked in milk, not coffee, not tea.  There’s something about the contrast of the warm, salty-sweet melty cookie with the cold creaminess of the milk that makes the whole taste greater than the sum of its parts; a perfect synergy of flavor and textures which can be justified as healthy eating.

These cookies are almost too good to waste on children.

Barbara Pintozzi

The Party Benchmark Biscuit..

There are many things that remind me of my ever distant youth – eating warm raspberries fresh from the bush aged three, watching storms over the sea aged five and falling off the top of a wardrobe aged six.

And of course there were the parties. Jelly and ice cream, Wotsits, pineapple and cheese hedgehogs and bleach white sandwiches.

But the biscuit of my youth and the item by which EVERY party’s catering provisions were judged was the spangly bright and sugar rush inducing Fox’s Party Ring.

Even the name states that it has an integral role to play in all celebratory gatherings and we were most miffed if a plate of the bejewelled beauties were not found on the tea time table.

Coming in five different icing colourways, the Party Ring was first introduced in 1983 by Fox’s to celebrate the new brash chemical food dyes that had been developed to brighten up our mealtimes. There was a slight scare when the purple and yellow combo was removed due to health issues linked with the dyes, but after a large scale uproar from the University community it was reinstated with a safer list of ingredients.

Given this information, there is no wonder we ran around like 90’s ravers when we attended a party in our pre teens.

The ring formation also allowed the biscuit to be used in various party games as they fitted a finger perfectly – so in true ‘pure design’ terms the form, function, aesthetic and presentation was spot on with the name they had been christened.

There is also a very particular way to eat the Party Ring. Having placed one of your chosen colourway (pink with yellow lines is my favourite) on your index finger, you proceed to lick the glossy icing from the biscuit until the entire coloured surface has gone. The challenge is to complete this without the biscuit cracking or collapsing – it is an art.

One downside to this method is that the carob gum icing is quite abrasive and after a couple of biscuits you end up with a scratchy tongue like a cat. The fact that ‘try rasping’ is an anagram of ‘party rings’ I am sure is no coincidence.

I am very glad to say that Fox’s Party Ring can still be found on almost every supermarket shelf, and I was actually given a whole tins worth a few Christmases ago, so there is no excuse to not continue the trends of my youth as I enter my thirties.

Fox’s Party Ring – the first and best celebratory biscuit.

Claire Potter

I Only Joined For The Biscuits

So I there I was, innocently minding my own business, secretly yearning for a chocolate digestive, but hoping not to have to make the tea. It was nearly tea-time. Well it was some while since lunch, anyway. I hadn’t broken anything for an hour or two, I’d ripped up a bit of bindweed in the corner, moved some stuff about in the shed, picked a few raspberries. I deserved, at least from my point of view, a biscuit.

She comes to the door of the shed. She puts her fork down, wipes her slightly sweaty brow with a muddy glove and she tells me her idea.

“Why don’t you do the compost heaps?”

I reply: “Do you want a biscuit?”

Her: “No, I mean, why don’t you take charge of doing the compost? It could be your job.”

Me: “What about a cup of tea, AND a biscuit?”

Her: “You just need to clear that corner, the other side of the bin. Then you could build another heap. Or make a new bin. You know, if you were my compost steward, it would really help. What do you think?”

I thought: “I want a biscuit.” But I didn’t say it.

This conversation wasn’t going well. Apart from the obvious fact that she was trying to get me to do some work, I mean some actual WORK, on the allotment, which was in my opinion a clear breach of our agreement, it was also obvious that she wasn’t interested in a cup or tea, or a biscuit.

Recklessly, and in the interests of creating goodwill, purely as a precursor to creating the circumstances for moving the subject closer to farinaceous products, you understand, I said: “Er, well…, um, I suppose I could, maybe.”

She said: “Great. It’ll be great. We can do it together. You do the compost, I’ll do the rest. I’ll help you with the rest.” There was silence. Or at least silence apart from the sound of goalposts being torn out of the ground and moved several yards to the side.

She went on: “Otherwise, you know, I don’t think I can…we might have to…it just takes too long all on your own… and you’re the one who wants to keep the allotment and…”

That was a series of unfinished sentences which added up to her saying this: “I’m too busy to keep this allotment going on my own. You are the one who likes coming down here and sitting on your fat arse eating biscuits. If you want to keep it going. Pull. Your. Bloody. Finger. Out.

“Digestive?” I said, proffering her the packet.

George Hicks

Saturday Rap