On making biscuits

There is something meditative about baking, something calming. As a friend said, on delivering her a batch of biscuits, one should never underestimate a delivery of carbohydrates, butter and sugar. 

Personally, I think there is very little which butter, real butter, can't fix. 

Yet there is a soothing element to baking. The butter is macerated with the sugar until it is pale and fluffy. Flour is gently sifted and added to the mix, slowly changing the mix, changing the texture and feel of the dough. Then there's the rolling, the primping, the trying to get everything just right before it goes into the over. Then there's the tending of the biscuits as they cook, making sure the right colour, the correct consistency comes through.

Another weekend of baking. This time, a batch of jammy dodgers for a grieving friend. 

For what else are you supposed to do for a friend who's in pain, for which you really, you can't do anything more than sit there, drink tea and listen. 

The biscuits turned out fine - probably could have had another minute or so in the oven. They weren't pretty, but they tasted good. 

I took the biscuits round to my friend early that evening, after spending the day contemplating. I barely knew the woman who died, but I was well aware of her friendship with my Ginny - a good friend of mine. She was also friendly with Alice, who I called to relate the news later in the morning. 

"You know, there is nothing I can do to make this better. It's shit. But the biscuits will go down with the copious amounts of tea you'll be drinking over the next few days. Carbohydrates and butter can brighten a day."

"Yep, it's shit."

"And unfair and tragic and horrible and just an awful, awful event from which there is no sense can be found."

"She was forty-five."

"And she was your friend. None of this is fair."

"How can this happen?"

"Because life happens. And it's shit."

We talked a lot about her friend and her passing - like all people who die to young, there was a story. it's not my story to relate here. But the speed at which she went from healthy to critical, the issues, were completely unexpected. One in a million event. Like many who die young. 

"And you bring biscuits."

"I do."

"Why?"

My answer is layered. I remember when my father died. I was in London. I was 27. I couldn't get back to Australia. I remember spending the next week practically alone. I painted out the living room. I spoke to a few people on the phone - when you're 27 you don't have much sense or knowlegde of the world. I remember the downstairs neighbours being good to me. 

But all I wanted at the time was to having somebody around to talk to. Somebody to listen. I just wanted somebody to be there.  I didn't have that. 

I'm just doing what I wished was available to me at the time.

Today's song: