Wednesday Stories : Malt Biscuits

Malt biscuits

It was before the busyness of the day poured in, with the heat and the sun. She sat on the wooden stool and stared out at the traffic building up in the street below. She opened the pack of malt biscuits, retrieved one and dunked it into the black coffee that filled her mug. The brown clay mug, that is the perfect size for her thick black morning coffee.

She sucked on the side of the wet biscuit, and then crunched her way through the bits that were still dry savouring the bitter sweet of the coffee infused cookie. She reached the pack and retrieved another. Relishing the biscuits as if they were freshly baked, from the oven, she sighs and smiles.

Some things come associated with something bigger. An emotion, a feeling. A certain sort of comfort.

As the sweet smoky malt, melts in her mouth she tastes the times when her brothers and her would open the pantry and find they had finished every single pack of the good cookies, and all was left was malt. The miserable yellow pack of Griffin’s Malt. She felt the slight disappointment when they would close the pantry, go back to watching whatever it was they were watching and wait for dinner. Unless they were really hungry. Then they would take it out of the pantry and she would make them each, all three of them, a cup of earl grey with honey and hot milk. And they would dunk their malts in tea and ravished the packe. She feels the warm biscuits fill their tummies as they continue to watch the evening sitcoms. Usually it would be My Wife and Kids, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and then Friends. They would laugh, joke and fill each other with some details of what had been their day.

With each malt melt she remembers the certain episodes they have watched together. They would usually gang up on someone and tease them throughout the whole half hour. Sometimes it ends in petty fights, sometimes a lot of laughter.

The malt biscuits tell her that she is part of a family.

Some mornings she laughs with the malt thins, and on other days she is wistful, and sort of homesick for that sense of belonging. But mostly, by the time her breakfast is done she would have been reminded that she has a home.

A home that each year they would all return to and fill once again with familiar laughter.

A home that will always be there to remind her she is loved.

The clock strikes eight and she heads out. Alone, in a city filled with millions to pretend amongst her colleagues that she was basking in the fullness of being the independent modern woman. To pretend amongst friends that she was oh so contented, happy, successful, and that nothing at all was amiss in her life.

Something she would not have been able to pull off if it weren’t for her daily dose of malt biscuits.