It's important with intercontinental marriages to educate your spouse on your native culture. So I explained to Gareth that tomorrow is Anzac Day, when Australians and Kiwis honour the bravery and sacrifice of those who served us in war. It's an important day, one of reflection and rememberance. And watching the news for the annual How Many WWI Diggers Have We Got Left Now report.
I decided to make some Anzac biscuits. I think I made my first batch when I was 6; in our house if you were old enough to walk you were old enough to cook, clean and herd animals. I've never been confident with Anzacs, especially after we made them in Year Seven Home Science. My batch huddled like angry little dog turds, but my friend Joanna's were the most uniformly round specimens the world had ever seen. The teacher gave her 10 out of 10 and I just gawked at them, marvelling in their perfection and seething with jealousy. How did she do that? Had she used a compass?
Today's batch were a bloody disaster. I should have realised that cramming sixteen on one tray was too ambitious. I peeked into the oven after ten minutes to see they were advancing faster than the Germans in WWII. It ended up blurring into one giant mutant biscuit, clinging steadfast to the tray. So I hacked away with a big knife and told Gareth how the ladies would bake these for the troops. They'd travel well and last for months thanks to the lack of eggs.
They're not pretty but nothing I cook ever is. But Gareth was quite happy to eat them, saying they were a good example of what could happen to a tin of Anzac biscuits if shot by the enemy. Behold the biscuit shrapnel!