Labour of love

After the disastrous “cornflake cookie incident”, I was wary as I entered the kitchen on Wednesday afternoon. Although it was only four in the afternoon, the sky was dark and the mood sombre. It was the first ANZAC day since Pop died. I decided making some Anzac cookies may cheer me up a little. They are, after all, my second favourite cookie.

After the debacle of the cornflake cookies turning into a giant mess of siamese-dodecatuplet cookies, I resolved to follow the recipe to the letter. I got my ingredients ready before I began, taking careful inventory of what was needed. Flour, check. Oats, check. Caster sugar, check. Golden syrup, check. Butter, check. Bicarb soda, check. Boiling water, check. Desiccated coconut, no check.

This was not a good sign; one of the vital ingredients wasn’t there. Dad suggested making them without it but I argued him down, reminding him what happened last time I flippantly used that attitude. He relented and went out to the shops to buy me a pack of desiccated coconut. Being ANZAC day, many of the shops were shut; those that were open were low on supplies of desiccated coconut, oats and golden syrup because it seems everyone else had the same idea as me. Anyone who has tried to buy one of these key ingredients on April 25 knows what I’m talking about.

Dad returned, the bag coconut under his arm, and we set about preparing the cookies. I was making a full batch of 30 cookies with my lactose-free ingredients. Dad made a half-batch of 15 with his own butter.

I sifted the flour lovingly into the spotless stainless steel love-nest. I sang a gentle tune of hope and joy to the rolled oats as they joined the flour in their new silver home. The coconut was regaled with praise as it too joined its friends in the bowl. I mixed them together with a smile, reassuring the dry ingredients that they would soon find the love of their wet-ingredient partners. I put a small saucepan on the stove and lit the gas. I gently measured the butter and golden syrup and swirled them together, their golden bodies intertwining tenderly as I stirred. Once melted, I introduced the bicarb and hot water to the golden mixture. In an orgasm of frothy excitement the two climaxed in foamy bliss.

Returning to the dry ingredients, I combined the hot golden liquid of love and passion. I mixed the lot together tenderly with a wooden spoon. I made teaspoon sized balls of the mixture with my hands, caressing the dough adoringly. I placed them on the lubricated oven tray and then inserted them into the warm cavern of heat and life.

And the little fuckers still turned into one gigantic Franken-cookie.

This morning, as Mum was leaving, I told her I was going to make another batch of Anzac cookies. A worried look washed over her face. “Maybe you should wait till I get home, sweetie, so I can help you” she said, anxiously. “No way. I am going to make a decent batch of cookies, even if I have to kill us all in the process.”