Anzac biscuits- the national food snack of the ANZAC and the exact yummy biscuit I have a hankering for. I need to clear this clutter and cook. If anything in life is able to make me a little happier it's food, especially lollies and chocolate. Never had much of either growing up, chocolate would be a molten mess in seconds in the Australian summer heat and lollies were a treat when we made the pilgrimage to town.

It is a full day since I broke my toe. He never made it home, a lucky sheila receiving his personal entertainment for sure. Panties dropping like a plate of buttered toast to the floor. She'd be happy with toast all over her floor I suspect.

Don't care for much entertainment currently. Too much rot has set in. Not to my lady parts of course but to the old ticker, to the noggin. John sure looks good though, when he saunters in the door. A bit soft but crispy-smart responses, eyes that can read you from a thousand paces. He would be a good one to be entertained by. Slow shutting windows of course but that only has pluses in this case scenario. Conversely I'd be willing to lay a hefty wager he could have openings opened wide in seconds. Ha! Using windows as sexual innuendos, who would of thunk it.

Packing up and scanning over the correspondence as I go, I feel unsure of how Paul viewed all of this. Did he read everything? The worst bits? The best bits? Oh, I don't know perhaps he just stuck two piles on the table and stuck jam jars on them -the end.

I get to the bottom and lift the last of the pile from the table and that's when I see it.

A letter.

No not another piece of legal bullshit. A true blue ridgy-didge pale blue envelope, addressed to me.....

In Paul's handwriting. It's quite bizarre. Scary even.

A notice of eviction perhaps or everything that gets up his nose written out for me to file with the rest of my life. I place the unopened envelope on the window sill and turn towards the larder.

Golden syrup thick as molasses, sweeter too. Perfect. Porridge oats, rolled oats I mean... only porridge when it's cooked. Shredded coconut there is a small bag here at the back but suffice to my needs, and sugar; From the big ole jar, not the small cut crystal bowl sat in the centre of the kitchen table ready to dip a teaspoon in for afternoon tea.

Butter, bi- carbonated soda which, in magnificent foresight, I purchased a week and a half ago, and finally I think... yes, finally flour.

I get to work.

It's a good thing I brought mum's cookery book with me. That sucker wasn't getting out of my sight, no sirree. You see, I'm not the best at this stuff. Oh, I can stir and sift and melt and wash up but getting the measures right... well I'm a little, how shall I say, free and liberal with the weights and measures side of cooking. A cup of flour becomes an overflowing mountain of white and a tablespoon of golden syrup becomes slightly more like two as my sweet tooth takes over and dictates to my head. These biscuits are good though, they can take a far bit of my hit and miss technique and still come up tasting like Australia- like a cosy chair on the verandah and feet up on the rail. Like sitting way out west 'round a campfire on a chilly nigh swigging billy tea and dunking pieces of golden crunchy heaven in the sweet warm mug of liquid.

And the envelope watches from its perch. It isn't that I'm afraid. Everything bad he could say I'm pretty sure he could sidle up and say it to my face. The boy has a temper, well in my case he has a temper. I'm not sure if he's like that with everyone or I just bring that throat throttling love out in him.

Sooo, what's inside then....? I have no idea and still I ponder and mull over opening the missive as I mix and stir and form the dough mix into rounds.

The oven heats. Its gloriously simple and a hail Hallelujah all in one. No fire to start, no timber to chop. The invention of electricity is one of the most mind-blowing wonderful displays of human ingenuity in this world.

Hundreds of miles of vast Australian countryside make it an almost impossible mission to connect outback properties to electricity; And the generators we do have don't need to be running fancy ovens. The old fridge chock full of beer yes but the oven... well there are fallen trees all over the shot, might as well collect the lumber and chop and light instead.

So... we have wood fires, temperamental wood fires. If you use the wrong type of wood or wet wood or soft wood or pine or she oak or eucalypt. Or! Or!...

It is indeed a skill to select the finest log for the job.

A woman getting those finicky ovens to correct temperature is a dead set magician. No joke. No bloke could achieve the feat near as easily as a woman in that regard.

Setting the trays each to a shelf, I smile. Mum would be terribly proud. Me in the kitchen being domesticated and all. Old Mel would hang about in the shade of the water tank, metres from the back door smelling the exact moment the bikkies were ready to deliver from oven to bench. Daddy would tease me a shocker then devour a pile a mile high, teasing both mother and me to whom was the best biscuit maker of the Mohin women. Wispy memories make my eyes sting with hot tears. I turn and regard the oven with more determination than necessary. I don't need to hover, nor stoke.

No, this oven is not a wood fire...

Nor are my parents near.

Leaning on the sink I check out the back yard. I could mow again, the blades of grass flutter in their lofty two inches of height, the rain and mild weather sending the strands ever skyward for some wacko to mow regularly. Now if I had a cow or a horse. Oh! A horse that would be bliss. My very own lawn mower. Perhaps a smelly sheep or goat would be more suited to the inner-city stylings of St. Johns Woods. Although Martha leaves enough dung about on her own... let alone having a pile of sheep dropping or slapping slop of cow poo to scoop up daily. Maybe that should be a hard no on the livestock.

The oven timer pings and- 'tah-dah!' they are done!

Biscuits!

Piles of golden biscuits. I take one and switch it quickly between fingers "Hot. Hot. Hot!"

Cool in seconds, shoved in my gob moments thereafter.

"What are you up to Martha!?" Mad as a cut snake that dog. Flies like a maniac all about the yard, hair in her eyes; she couldn't see a bloody thing til I trimmed her fringe up a tad. She's big and cumbersome and silly as a sausage yet loveable and always ready and willing for a good pat. A lady came to bath her the other day. I don't know who was wetter- the dog or the woman. Every time Martha slapped and shook her fur, water would wizz far and wide and loose moulting hair would escape frequently too. Dog bath lady's black cardi became grey and cream. Her purple skirt dripping, heavy with Marthas flood of doggy scented water.

Martha chose the moment to roll on her side and lay ever so still at the very rear corner of the back garden, the only corner I hadn't reached on my foray into cleaning the place up. Her stillness was very un-Martha like. I consider another Anzac biscuit as I watch her. Six biscuits of generous girth were ok to polish off- right? Eight would be a definite push past the appropriate level of gluttony I usually achieve. I leant half through the window and called the dog. "Martha, you silly sausage, want a bikkie? They're pretty bloody good tucker!" Nope she doesn't want my biscuits, her loss. Strange though; that the forever hungry pooch was passing up these delicacies of mine. They were much better bikkies than those boring old store-bought milk arrowroots by a long dusty country mile, if I do say so myself.

I took a stroll down the back yard to offer Martha another chance at ANZAC heaven. The light was weak, the sun stuttering and shy behind todays clouds. "Oh you silly pup what-" I shut my gob quick smart upon seeing her plight, instead I dashed back to the house at speed, careening up the staircase, flubbing stairs and recovering in my haste. I was on a mission of such import I cringe internally at the very thought of failing. Delving down to the loose bits and bobs at the bottom of my kit bag, I struck gold. My pliers. A girl should never leave home without them.

Somehow the silly mutt had tangled in the ivy vines, the only monstrosity in that garden I had yet to trim. But that wasn't the problem...

Martha had found ivy alright and more worrying- a great strangle of barbed wire. Yes I know, why is there wire in the yard, barbed at that. I do not know and don't really care. Maybe there where sheep here previously.

The poor old pup couldn't move, she was lashed and strung tight to the ochre coloured rusted barb.

Her whimpers grew as I approached for the second time. Her heart beat rapidly under my hand and I hummed to calm the poor shaggy girl down. The light was fading fast and her squirming didn't help one bit. The more I cut the harder it got. Snip through the dense wire, she then flips out, squirming wildly underneath my weight. I lean heavier, she calms and the process repeats. As I take each piece pressing into her body the scenario plays out like one of those black records of Sparkles. Round and round. Although, we spin faster through the loops... as she hears the defining sound of my next snip.

Blood drips from a number of rips on her legs, twirled and tight the barbed wire lassoo'd her haunches and with every wiggle the remaining barbs push deeper, her movements making some rip. Her whimpers kill my ears... She's very good though, no snaps of sharp teeth, no snarls nor growls of pain at my working over her. She is smart under all that madness.

Finally, we are free, and I lift her in my arms and waddle over the short distance to lay her carefully on the kitchen floor. It's a good strong light overhead in here and I drop some biscuits for her to nose and sniff and perhaps even nibble as I rush to collect everything for the next part of our evenings adventure.

Everything rushes back. All the care and tending and mending that I have witnessed and preformed over the years floods to the fore and presses confidently into my psyche. My hands remain calm as I hurry for the necessities to stitch her badly lanced legs. Don't think- do.

It's easy in the main.

Clear the area, clean the area, stitch the area, dress.

And repeat.

Marching to the beat of the animal doc drum feels like an extension of myself and nary a moment goes by with thoughts of- should I, shouldn't I. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, unfortunately currently, for all my terribly worrying dealings with Paul, I overlook it all.

Her legs are shaved when he walks in and howls, louder that any dog I've ever heard, begin. First instinct he had was to push me far away, and he did. Surprisingly strong, his arm and shoulder ram me aside into the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. Then he howled once more seeing all the blood, the rags, the hair that I had shaved away so far on this adventure Martha was taking me on.

"What the hell are you doing to my dog!"

"Fixing her! She was wrapped up good an' tight in some wire. She'll be right" I crawled back and laid across her to stop her trying to rise and flee.

"Get off her. You're hurting her"

"I'm helping her Paul"

"You need to leave her alone. I'm calling the ruddy vet"

"What!? And wait hours for him to arrive?"

"We don't live in the colonies; This is London, you idiot" His hands fist by his side as he hovers close stroking his beloved, and I cringe. What am I doing!? This is London, I'm not hundreds of miles from help, its round the corner... And he's Paul bloody Beatle Moptop, of course a vet would rush over rapidly.

Sat back on my haunches I dropped my eyes to my reddened hands and concurred quietly. He had to look at me twice to actually take in the fact that I just sat back and agreed.

The vet was then called.

The man that was my brother watched me from the hall table, telephone in one hand, handset to his ear, as he listened to the person on the other end. As I surreptitiously watched him, light and shadow played out over his face. He in turn watched closely as I pet his beloved pooch, snuggling my face into hers. Martha's tongue distressingly slow in dishing up wetness to my cheeks.

The vet was now apparently summoned... the telephone was slammed down but Paul wasn't happy. The scowl was back, his shoulders tense as I was approached once more, and, with a heavy thud, his knees hit the floor beside me...

"Out on a call. Could be two, or even three, hours" The dejection and sheer pain of his witnessing Martha bleed was not at all nice. Paul may be mean to me but to Martha he was a prince. She was his companion and even with the amount of time he spent away... he loved her, and she him. Martha licked my hand as she tried to wiggle and raise from the floor. "You know what to-... arrrrr. You know how to-?"

"Yes" I whispered scared by the sudden 'us against them' turnout of this event.

He was offering the ultimate -trust- to me.

Right now...

With his beautiful treasured Martha.

And it wasn't the time to analyse or tease or raise an eyebrow that looked so like his. It wasn't the moment to reflect on his actually speaking to me. It was time to get into action. Now. I pounce back into doctoring Martha.

"Right, so I've given her a skin full of your best scotch, we are good to go" His eyebrows raised as I took a small swig of the bottle sat beside me. Ok, it was a rather large swig, I needed the calming of my senses as well. The thought of Paul right there offering me such a precious rope was indeed scary, ...huge even.

Before, she was just Martha.

Now she was an extension of Sparkie, Pauls' baby.

I handed him the bottle. "You too, medicinal of course"

"Of course." He swigged and wiped those lips as he gazed into me, trying to decide if he was insane or in perfect mind to let me touch his precious darlin' further. Martha relaxed under his hand and his head nodded assent. I was good to go.

I have to will my hand to stop shaking from his weighty stare. Martha was, and will be, fine. She lay almost docile as I shave away a little more hair and clean the blood, both, clotted wet and dry, away. Paul ever watching. Never moving unless I positioned his hand or murmured a request. And I stitched...

And stitched. Small yet jagged and many. More still slashed lightning strikes across her haunches and backs of her legs. She will be fine, it was all flesh wounds- nothing too deep, nothing life threatening. Unless you count Paul of course. If I get this wrong my life will be threatened. His hands run firm and steady over Martha, he hums and talks quietly to her and his eyes tear up if she strains against us. And I stitch...

I'm slow of course. I'm no vet but I know what's what and work diligently away for an age to get all of the small lacerations tendered. I'm offered the bottle of scotch but I ignore the sway of liquid in the bottom. Now, I just want this done. Shaking my head at the proffered liquor my fingers are numb from holding the needle so tight. I can't get this wrong. I mustn't stuff up. I couldn't bear it for Martha's sake, or his.

This moment will be with me and, most likely, him forever and I cannot get anything wrong.

Finally, I'm done.

I swig a good swill of the scotch at that point, stretch, twist and set the bottle aside as Paul gets up to answer the gate buzzer. The veterinarian is here. Wonderfully timing as usually for an animal doc- all the heavy lifting done, invoice still weighty on the final sum billed though.

An older gentleman bustles in, apologies all round and quickly he is down on the floor with my patient coo-ing and stroking and working over her body. Paul stands gazing down with a pained expression, his beloved is completely still now, tired and rather tipsy from the episode. I slip away, I can't stand to know I've done something wrong.

What if everything was in disarray and poor Martha had to be put through the whole horrid ordeal all over again.

Showering puts some heat in my bones, my body quivers like leaves in a light breeze. I concentrate on toweling everything, willing the shudders to leave my body. And as I stare down at my hands pressing against the vanity sink the whole of me begins to rattle. The rattles have clawed free of quivers thus becoming, almost, too much. My head overthinks the events.

I should have left her for the professionals.

I should never ever have taken on, and attempted, such a task.

Should never have touched her, such an important part of Paul's life.

I peer at my face in the mirror. Drawn, pale; and my eyes are shining overly bright, on the cusp of tears. 

Stupid, stupid, stupi- 

The rap on the door stops my certain deluge of disgrace. Stops my tears falling.

"Thank-you" Meets my ears. It's quiet. Only a murmur yet direct. Uttered through the timber with a steady firmness to his voice.

I slowly creep open the door to make sure I heard right. It's strange laying it all out in front of him. All of my panic, the eyes too shiny, fingers still shakey. Showing my trepidation of all the things I might have done wrong. And he sees everything with those doe eyes as he repeats himself with conviction and a small tired but wonderfully relieved smile.

"Thank-you... Thank-you Terri... Arrr Mister Clark said what you did was outstanding... I... ummm. Just... Thanks luv" He smiles at me. Me! I'm saluted with a long forgotten Anzac biscuit and Paul disappears down stairs. Back down to his beloved Martha, no doubt.

All I do is catch the 'Terri' and the 'luv' he calls me and place them in that pocket of my heart reserved just for him, my brother.

The letter still overlooks the kitchen, perched on the window sill.

Towels lay discarded on the floor.

But the letter can wait; Paul's sincere acknowledgement was worth way more than any piece of paper could ever say.

Glossary

ANZAC day, the 25th April each year, is one of the most important days in Australia it is a national day of remembrance in both Australia and New Zealand. The nation is up bright and early before dawn filling public parks, RSL clubs and main streets to pay tribute to what our soldiers endured on the battlefield. ANZAC day marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War but includes all those that have served in all wars and peacekeeping detail since.

It commemorates all Australians and New Zealanders "who served and died in all wars, conflicts, and peacekeeping operations" and "the contribution and suffering of all those who have served".

My son drew this on his driveway. With Covid-19 we cannot leave home to pay our respects this year. So everyone plans to stand at our gate and watch any diggers, that can, drive past.

'They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them'.

So how does this all relate to biscuits? 

During the war wives and women's groups would bake biscuits and send them to their husbands on the battlefield. Biscuits were a tasty treat but had to be made from ingredients that didn't spoil easily. Thus, the biscuits kept well during naval transportation across the world.

ANZAC biscuits are an Aussie icon. Great with a cuppa or as an afternoon treat for the family.

ANZAC biscuits....  The all-important recipe.

Ingredients

1 cup (90g) rolled oats

1 cup (150g) plain (all-purpose) flour

1 cup (220g) firmly packed brown sugar

1/2 cup (40g) desiccated coconut

125 g (4 ounces) butter, chopped

2 tbsp golden syrup or treacle

1 1/2 tbsp water

1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda (baking soda)

Method

1. Preheat oven to 160°C. Grease oven trays; line with baking paper.

2. Combine oats, sifted flour, sugar and coconut in a large bowl. Place butter, syrup (spray the measuring spoon with cooking-oil so all the syrup comes away) and the water in a small saucepan; stir over low heat until smooth. Stir in soda, then stir into dry ingredients.

3. Roll level tablespoons of mixture into balls; place 5cm (2-inches) apart on trays, flatten slightly. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden; cool on trays.

Tips

Anzac biscuits must feel soft to touch, even when they're done; they will become firmer on cooling. If you like the biscuits soft, decrease the oven temperature and/or the baking time; experiment with a few biscuits until you achieve the texture you like best. Make a note on the recipe of the time and oven temperature that the biscuits were baked.