Scran Issue One

SCRAN

Scran has many meanings. Simply put scran is food. It has also been slang used by the army to refer to rations. Some associate scran with leftovers. Others associate scran with food of inferior quality. But here at Scran, we believe there is no such thing as inferior scran. All scran is good scran and we want to showcase that.

Scran press seeks to share good food from everywhere and everyone. This zine features award winning marmalade recipes, love letters to various fruits and vegetables, cherished childhood memories and poetry that will make your stomach rumble. Hopefully it will prove to you that not all scran has to be Michelin star to nourish your body and soul.

IssueEdited by Shelby Gibbs Cover photography by Shelby Gibbs

Editors note

Scran issue one is here! Can you believe that? I can't!

Thank you for deciding to give it a read. Since finishing my MA in Publishing this August, Scran has been the thing keeping me afloat in many ways. The publishing job market is immensely competitive and London centric making it tricky for those living in the North of England I love publishing and creating content that I hope others will connect with but above all I love scran. This has been a way for me to discover new and fantastic food writing, keeping my publishing tools sharp and to keep my creative juices flowing. I only hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did making it.

Scran would not have been possible without the help of a handful of very lovely people. Firstly, to Alex Bestwick (who you may know as the EIC of Ram Eye Press and Editor at Ergi Press) for being my official unofficial creative assistant since Scran's inception. To Rob O'Connor for being a mentor before, during and after my MA and for providing me with most (if not all) of the knowledge needed to make Scran. To my boyfriend James for letting me pinch your phone every time I need to snap a scran picture because mine is broken. To Will and Bara for being general supporters, occasional proofreaders and design consultants. To the contributors who trusted me with their work. And lastly, to each and every person who submitted to Scran, liked a post, retweeted a tweet and followed a page

I really hope you enjoy reading and please share amongst your foodie friends.

Shelby Gibbs

Our First Parmigiana, 1985 3 14/2 4 Chicken and Rice 5 Scone Stone Walls 7 Sharing is Caring 8 The Palate Pleasing Pike Place Market 12 Michelin Stars not for me! 14 Banjan 15 Bleeding Fruit 16 On Nectarines 17 Family Recipe 18 Mine 19

Ode to Extra Virgin 20 Mole 21 Instant Happiness Masala 22 Meal Between Friends 24 to a burning malum 25 Peach 26 the trapping chef 27 Soggy Cereal 28 The Supermarkets Prayer 29 Picking Blackberries with my Daughter 30 Cress 31 Mama Luisa's Marucha 32

Making Marmalade with Memories 34 Kitchen Love (after Ella Risbridger) 3 36

Hobnobbing on line six: a life in biscuits

Our first Parmigiana, 1985

By Alan Bern

No, I wasn’t drunk. I was sleepy, sleeping in your small yard. I’d drunk some vino rosso. Just in from Napoli, Marco’d brought the vino rosso along, and his wife Annamaria carried the parmigiana You were just meeting them, the Napoletani, and the parmigiana! You’d fallen in love with it, the sharp salt, fallen full for it, and since they were my friends, then fallen even more for me, too

A nap together.

What woke me, the garlic on your fingers on my lips. It was 2 am, and all the guests had gone. My birthday party, the first you’d thrown me We were new And I was now legal, 35. Why was that legal? Divorced? Dante’s midway year? Maybe. Well, anyway, ready for you.

Hungry. Lukewarm parmigiana still in the dish. You took first, fed me a small piece.

By Alex Murphy

Your lemon glow

Is not my lemon glow. You are as honey and olives, Glowing like apricots in the market That you take home to have With black coffee And yogurt and card games.

My lemon glow

Is not your lemon glow

I am the farmer stuck at home Glowing in candle light With a driving ban A bottle of diminishing spirit, An abandoned game of patience.

chicken and rice

By Lisa Lipipipatvong Macaione

We ate chicken and rice for every meal Every meal for almost a whole week. By the end of the week, I was so sick of chicken, rice, and Ovaltine I begged for fast food, anything American, but all we could find in Haikou, the capital of Hainan, China’s largest island located in the South China Sea, was Kentucky Fried Chicken. My Hainanese relatives pronounced the restaurant’s name like “Kin duck ee,” but it was not duck. It was chicken.

I didn’t think much about what we’d eat before I made the trip. I was familiar with the style of Chinese chicken which is referred to as “Hainanese chicken,” popularized by modest food stalls in Singapore markets. It is slowly simmered, whole chicken combined with rice cooked in chicken stock. It doesn’t sound like much, but the tender meat paired with warm rice and a zippy ginger chili relish is pure comfort food

Thailand has its own version called khao man gai, and I had eaten both because my father’s parents immigrated from China to Thailand, where he was raised. He, in turn, immigrated to the United States, where I was born and still live. Throughout my childhood, Apa, Mama, my younger brother Seth, and I would return to Thailand every few years to visit relatives, and we’d eat chicken for Chinese (Lunar) New Year, first setting it out for the ancestors alongside burning sticks of incense and fake paper money.

One year, when we were young, Seth and I rode with my father and uncle into Bangkok’s city centre to an open store front where the men chose a chicken from under a bamboo cage, still alive and clucking. We watched in horror as the bird was seized with two hands, disappeared into the back room, and emerged wrapped in craft paper, defeathered and in pieces. We cried for the chicken on the ride home The men didn’t bring us again after that

Then when I was twenty one I returned to Thailand with Apa. The mission was to join my grandmother, uncle, aunt, and cousins and deliver my grandfather’s ashes to his native island, Hainan Seven family members flew from Bangkok to Haikou. Right off the plane, we were transported by a previously unknown cousin of my father and uncle’s generation named Ma Kian to a restaurant in a town called Wenchang. We climbed to the second floor of an ancient looking building to a private room with a circular table bearing a lazy Susan. Here we were to eat the most famous dish of the region in its place of origin. Soon enough the pale yellow flesh, cut into crescents and arranged on an oval platter, appeared on the table, along with white rice and the maroon dipping sauce as fiery as its colour suggested. I ate with vigour, trying to ignore the still wet serving plates, the grime in the corners, the crumbled and charred buildings outside the tall windows Was this China?

After a bumpy, dusty bus ride through a jungle like thicket, we came to my relatives compound, a one level, walled in mass of rooms without doors where multiple families resided. One room had a boxy TV with antennas on top. Another had a canopy bed with mosquito nets around it That is where we were to stay during the celebration of my grandfather’s life

For dinner, they brought us chicken and rice. The chicken, Ma Kian boasted, was their own, slaughtered that morning for our benefit. We sat on pink plastic chairs in the courtyard and sipped lukewarm, chocolatey Ovaltine as beige silt billowed around us.

Lush tropical plants waved from over the enclosure walls. I wondered when we would eat noodles or stir fries like I was used to in America when we ordered Chinese food. The night we arrived, the entire village emerged to catch a glimpse of us foreign visitors and participate in the memorial services for my grandfather At sunset, everyone snaked through a rice paddy field in a long procession, passing a farmer and two water buffalo, to a riverbed where the master of ceremonies beheaded a chicken on the bank. I watched the blood pool from its neck, the head moving independently from the body, and I understood the phrase.

Fire, song, and fireworks lasted from evening until dawn. At breakfast we were graced with chicken and rice. “Again?” I grimaced at Apa. He waved his hand, to say: Be respectful.

Ma Kian puffed out his chest like a rooster. “It is the most famous meal.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and thought, “You already told us that.”

We left the village a few days later, my grandfather’s ashes scattered on a hill near a stone tablet carved with his and other ancestor’s names. Having fulfilled the journey’s true purpose, we were to spend the remainder of the trip exploring Hainan. We stopped at a restaurant in a small city.

Certainly here, I thought, we’ll eat something different Opal inlay screens adorned the ornate room Chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling. Ma Kian ordered in Hainanese We chatted and laughed, three languages between family. The waitstaff brought out chicken, rice, and the usual accompaniments

By this time, the frustration that nagged at my taste buds was apparent on the faces of my uncle, aunt, and Thai cousins, too. My uncle, an ever polite businessman who arranged the trip, gently suggested to Ma Kian that we order some dishes for variety.

“No, no,” our host dismissed. “This is the famous food of Hainan. Celebrated all over the world.”

And we were his American and Thai relatives who traveled from faraway places, and we were to eat only the best

We toured the island and stayed a few days in Sanya, a beach resort town for wealthy mainland Chinese and Japanese tourists. Surely, we were all thinking by that time, we could eat something besides chicken and rice. My uncle persuaded Ma Kian to take us to a Manchurian restaurant. We ordered noodles and thick soups, Northern Chinese cuisine, anything but chicken and rice. Our host and his wife refused to eat. We returned to Haikou in preparation for our flight back to Thailand, which is where I made my final, futile plea for fast food burgers. Ultimately, I accepted my fate On the last night, Ma Kian arranged for us to dine in a private room in a hotel. We ate chicken and rice, and this time none of us minded. The salty chicken was delicate and familiar, the floral rice soothing We shared a bottle of Chinese wine and sang karaoke, and we knew many of the same songs

Before we left, Ma Kian told me I would always have a home in Hainan.

Years later, my aunt taught me how to cook khao man gai, and I make it for my kids They don’t complain, don’t ask for chicken nuggets instead. Along with spicy relish, I serve it with a side of,

“Did I ever tell you about how I ate chicken and rice for a week straight?”

My grandfather’s spirit is back home in Hainan, China, but also lives on in Thailand and America. He always had a mischievous sense of humor, so I know he’s laughing at this story while he takes a bite of chicken and rice.

scone Stone walls

By Dominic J Sweeney

Scone stone walls oh baked so tall let’s crawl and scrawl our names to call. And if they fall, we’ll eat them all! Scone stone walls with tea and dolls.

sharing is caring

By Elizabeth Colcombe

Disordered eating and suicide

“A lot of people, cleverer and more learned than me, have written books about why people try to kill themselves I prefer to think of the reasons I didn’t.”

Ella Risbridger; Midnight Chicken

I find a lot of comfort in other people’s words. I read books that make sense of how I’m feeling. I lose myself in authors like they’re my friends sitting across from me, drinking a cup of coffee in our usual café, telling me everything I’m feeling is valid and I’m going to get through this. The pages are the ringstained wooden tabletops, and their words the hot steam rising from my cup and blanketing my senses in warm affirmations Right now, my hyper fixation is on Ella Risbridger’s Midnight Chicken. She writes about food which she feels saved her life, the daily rituals of making her favourite meals helped her find purpose and love in a life worth living As I read, dog earring pages and scribbling notes in between her words, I feel as if I too am on a journey to fall back in love with food. Her work is written in past tense, assuming she had already found her reasons to live again, while I’m still stuck in limbo, on my 100th time trying to recover from bursts of chronic depression and a childhood eating disorder that creeps up each year like seasonal colds. An inevitability that is never shocking and takes a lot of TLC and good food to momentarily heal. I’ve written countless poems, essays, and novellas during each burst of healing seasons and setbacks. Creating pieces on how eating cinnamon buns every day, when briefly living away from home in Sweden, helped me stay afloat as I wrapped myself in the folded dough and bad coffee; or personifying my stomach’s cries in poetic verse and avoiding direct acknowledgement of my own cries for help in the ambiguity of short stanzas; and now this, an essay that like Risbridger, is going to focus on the days food feels like home to me.

I think the best place to start is the actual beginning: the time when I couldn't make my own food because my eyeline barely reached the handles of the kitchen cupboards. A time where all my meals were made by my Grandparents while my Mum worked, joining us afterwards as we were just sitting down on the sofa, knees covered with a throw cushion and tea towel in front of the TV. These moments are the home I always return to I now copy recipe’s I originally learnt standing on a chair next to my Grandad, recreating his movements and instructions so that I can get a piece of home again No longer needing his hands to guide my own eager ones so I won’t get burnt on the cooker top. His hands now write the recipes down on crumbled scraps of paper, in a thick Yorkshire tongue, his scrawled words, tomato-stains and inaccurate lack of measurements guiding me as he once did.

I have only recently considered myself a writer. My university offered a joint honours creative writing course alongside my English literature degree, and I took the opportunity as something new to learn, with no expectations of success or the writing future it led me to. Lately when people ask what I do, I say I write, instead of the 50 hours a week, minimum wage, soul, body, and mind debilitating waitressing job that actually pays my bills. I’ve mentioned this now because one of the first ever ‘pieces’ I wrote was when I was first learning to form long sentences On the first page of an A4 notebook for our topic class was a food writing ‘essay’ about the Saturday nights with my Grandparents, (imagine me air quoting ‘pieces’ and ‘essay’ because it was just a page where the chunky letters filled three lines, and I drew a potato looking portrait of my family, sat on a questionable sofa, at the bottom of the page).

The classroom filled with joined desks and the identical dark red notebooks peeled open, kid’s heads bent, pencils held carefully to carve out each word about how they love playing catch with their dogs or their holiday with their parents to Butlin’s that summer. And then me, excitedly scribbling away about how my favourite day of the week, of every month, year, was the curry nights I had at my Grandparents bungalow Still to this day if you asked me what home meant to me it was those nights So, I’m going to immerse you in those evenings, like early primary school Elizabeth did (hopefully with more sophistication now that I know how to keep my letters confined in the lines, and I have a bachelor’s degree in writing) From as early as I can remember, until I was sixteen, I left my own house with a tiny pink Minnie Mouse suitcase (this part didn’t continue until I was sixteen) and went to stay at their house. I would go when I finished school on a Friday, until Sunday afternoon. It was a ritual I’d have carried on if they didn’t move to Spain

Saturday night was curry night This meant any form of curry, either a takeaway, one made by my Grandad if he hadn’t been working nights, or a classic microwave meal from Sainsbury’s. Sainsbury’s specifically because my grandad preferred the heat of the jalfrezi that this supermarket offered. My favourites were the microwave meals because it meant I could go with my Nanan to the shop, a place not in my usual routine, so it felt special. Walking the brightly lit, fluorescent white aisles amongst the weekend food shoppers, filling our basket with all the curry components and beer for my Grandad. When I got a bit older, they also let me partake in the beer, but I chose more fruity, lower percentage drinks that didn’t taste anything like alcohol. These specific lazy nights meant I could spend more time with them, sipping bright orange drinks with the plastic trays balancing on our laps while we watched our usual shows

Like Risbridger, I want to include the recipe to this moment, and lazy meals are no different.

First, take yourself to your favourite supermarket and their ‘fake away’ aisle.

Pick your curry, rice, bread, side dishes, whatever your heart desires, (usually in these bigger supermarkets they’ll have deals on for certain prices so you can get all the components you need for a lower cost).

Our usual checkout looked like this: lamb jalfrezi and pilau rice for grandad, chicken korma for me, vegetable korma for Nanan and a pilau rice for me and her to share Then for the sides we’d get two naan breads, again one for me and her to share and my Grandad would get one to himself (they were only small, my Nanan doesn’t eat much and I had a child tummy that couldn’t consume as much as it wanted to) Then we’d get the onion bhajis, which we would eat cold throughout the evening before we even got close to having the meal, samosas and whatever else came with the side selection on the cheaper deals.

And then you go home and prepare it all for when you’re ready My Grandparents always prepare everything hours before they intend to eat it, and microwave meals are no exception. The side selection would already be laid out on a baking tray ready for the oven; the meals on the top shelf of the fridge in order of cooking time; and the naan breads dipped under running water from the tap to make them soft and laid where their bhajis would be, had we not already eaten them.

I know you can’t call that a recipe in the traditional sense, but I’d say it’s important instructions for what I call home, all the perfect ingredients to feel at peace The components of that meal go beyond the naan breads and beige snack selection, the perfect side dishes are the hours we spent sitting next to one another on their brown, suede recliners. I always sat on the left hand side, my Grandad on the right and my Nanan in the middle or across the room on the smaller two seater so that she could get up and down to sort the food out My heart was always calm from the warm glow of the side lamps, the hot microwaved food on my lap, and the laughs from my Grandparents who were immersed in their programmes and their love for me

This ritualistic nature of food followed me into adulthood. I’ll only eat when I really want to, and when it’s something I really want. I have no concept of fuel for the body, it’s more about comfort and taste and I’ll feed the hunger exactly what it craves or nothing at all. I imagine it as the character Calcifer from Howl’s Moving Castle, the demon aspect being my eating disorder, with the heart of the younger Liz underneath it all that still needs to be nourished. The younger Liz who used to stand on chairs against the counter of her Grandparents’ house, on her tiptoes, to get a closer look into her favourite part of the day, which was eating the food she obsessed over being prepared.

These rituals look a little different now. I can reach the kitchen counter and I love to cook on my own the most, but my favourite food moments are when I share them with people I love. I’m now 23 and I’m in a long winter of my eating disorder. I went through a really tough heartbreak which forced me out of love with most things in my life, including food and the comfort rituals I could always turn to. While trying to fall back in love with being alive again and allowing myself to be vulnerable to everything that helped me do so, I found new food habits to help me get through.

For the longest time, in my 23rd year, I wanted nothing to do with food until I started sharing it with the people closest to me My body would be crying to be fed but my head was heavy and tired of living, so I lost the function to listen to it. The moment where this changed was the beginning of the summer, after a long 13 hour shift, me and my friend needed something to ease our bodies into rest. We were limited because it was midnight, meaning there were only greasy takeaways open and we’re both vegans, so a kebab wasn’t exactly on the cards, guiding us to try a Lebanese restaurant up the street that opens until 3am We ordered their vegan falafel shawarma with all the salad, pickles, and their homemade tahini vegan sauce (they wouldn’t tell us exactly what it was, but it had a lot of dill in it, and it was so fresh and helped smooth the tart taste of the pickles). She knew I was struggling with the concept of food so offered to share the wrap with a side of chips, which they kindly separated for us without questioning One of the greatest struggles in my eating disorder is when someone comments on the little food you’re buying, in this instance I was expecting a comment about it not being enough for either of us or why wouldn’t we just get a wrap each. They wrapped the wrap in foil and sliced the huge khubz bread in half, showcasing the greens of the fresh veggies, pinks of the pickles and neutral tones of the tahini and falafels. We paid and thanked them, and the owner laughed and said he had a special vegan treat for us both to take with us, handing us two brown paper bags filled with carrots. He now waves and giggles every time I walk past. The vegan carrot girl. On our walk to the York Minster public picnic benches to eat our meal, my friend said it was raining, which I didn’t feel, and was confused when she was adamant that her legs were getting wet. She had actually just made the foil around her half of the wrap loose and the tahini was dripping down her tights. We sat and laughed about carrots, the tahini rain, and the craziness of our understaffed shift, leaving room for long pauses only to eat the shawarma that saved me

I wrapped myself in khubz bread and finally let myself be filled with food which added colour to my life again. I even fell in love again with a boy who turned to food for security as much as I did. In moments where I struggle with whole meals we will sit and eat hummus, bread, and olives in bed, watching our favourite show Bread which he would have spent the day making as that is his way of taking care of his mind, just as sharing my moments with food with the people I love most is for me. Something as small and thoughtful as this turned one of my greatest trigger foods into a home for my tired body to find respite. We’ll spend dates at vegan restaurants, despite him not being vegan himself, where he will let me order for us, insisting we split the dishes so I could have all the food I’ve missed out on.

Amongst these moments of care my favourite is watching him cook for me while I read and smoke on his garden chairs, in the warmth of the summer sun. Once I sat inside instead so I could lay on his sofa in direct eyeline of the counter where he diced garlic and fresh herbs from his garden, into the tiniest pieces I have never managed to do in my own kitchen.

I was reading Midnight Chicken and having one of the worst mental health days I’d had in a long time I started the day on hour 15 of being in bed, crying, so he scooped me up and took me to the nearest Asian market to get ingredients for some miso mushroom noodles and took me to his house Those noodles are one of my last meals, the one thing you would want to have if it was the last thing you ever did. If you’ve never thought about this, I insist you do, it’s the thing I ask everyone on our first encounter. What someone wants as their final meal is the one where they feel most at home, at peace, and there’s always something so fascinating to me about that. Food is a comfort for everyone, even for those who don’t realise it. The man you met on hinge who apparently isn’t interested in cooking, or food in general, will pick the spaghetti hoops on toast his mum made him after school before football games, fueling him quickly so he could get there early with his friends Your Turkish manager at work will choose the tomato based dish native to his home, made with vegetables he grows in his own garden in order to imitate the flavours of the land he grew up on as best he can in the British climate. And your best friend, despite being vegan, will choose the jacket potatoes with cheese and beans she used to eat in a small cafe with her dad. You eat for the moments you want to relive, feeding your memories, fueling the soul.

He could have cooked the meal at my flat, but he has lots of fancy pans, knives and a herb garden that my temporary rented damp, moulding flat is seriously lacking in. As I was losing myself in Ella Risbridger’s recipe’s worth living for, he brought me a bowl of cherries to snack on and a large glass of red wine while I waited. I sat and cried during that meal as he told me how much he loved me and wanted to make all the noodles I needed to have more moments I thought were worth living for. I realised while I watched him cook the fresh greens and made the wiggly forms of the chanterelle, enoki and shiitake mushrooms dance in the pan as he sang along to his favourite songs, I was back home. I was back in my Grandparents house on my tiptoes, watching my Grandad create red and yellow sunsets on toasted, garlic olive oil bread and calling it bruschetta Even on the worst mental health days I’ve recently experienced, the food, people, and moments I’m sharing nourish my soul. I slurp, chew, and swallow the serotonin these moments give me while I feel so low I take these moments like an antidepressant and continue to create recipes for my life until it’s more than just a moment worth living for.

The Palate-Pleasing Pike Place Market

By Nicole Woon

The iconic Pike Place Market is the heartbeat of Seattle, Washington. As one of the oldest and largest continuously operating public markets in the United States, it is frequented by locals and tourists alike on a daily basis Its humble roots began in 1907 when the Seattle City Council passed an ordinance establishing a marketplace where customers could purchase goods directly from local farmers. Since then, it has grown dramatically from those first eight farmers and their wagons to a nine acre labyrinth of shops, restaurants, and open air stalls.

One principle that has guided them from the beginning is “Meet the Producer,” a concept that prioritizes vendor space for those that have raised, produced, or manufactured the goods they sell.

I have a deep affection for the market Pike Place is where I run my errands, whether I’m picking up groceries for the week or grabbing a quick lunch in between work meetings. Pike Place is where I constantly make new discoveries, like cheeses I’ve never tasted in DeLaurenti’s vast collection or the community led Secret Garden overlooking Elliott Bay. And Pike Place is where I’ve celebrated some of my happiest milestones, like an exquisite omakase birthday dinner at Sushi Kashiba or a wedding photoshoot around the market with florals from Lee Lor Garden.

This piece honors well known spots like Pike Place Fish Market (their expert fish throwing technique draws attention far and wide), Starbucks (the coffee brand known across the globe), and Pike Place Chowder (popular for their namesake dish). It celebrates seasonal treats including plump Rainier cherries in the summer and vibrant tulips in the spring. It also recognizes hidden gems, such as Marnin Saylor’s food inspired pastry pet plushies and the creamy soft serve at Rachel’s Ginger Beer. Pike Place Market is part of the fabric of my life in Seattle, and will be for years to come

Michelin stars - not for me!

By Chris Husband

I have no truck

With fancy pants muck

And multi starred acclaim. Is snail porridge your dream? Or bacon ice cream?

Then we are not the same.

To see a quenelle

Is my kind of hell

Just serve me one big blob Amuse bouche my ass

I think I will pass Just shove it in my gob.

I don't want a jus

Just some grub I can chew And it's gravy I do beg.

The only swish smear

On my plate should appear

When I dip my chip in my egg.

I do wonder why

There's no longer a pie

With pastry as thick as my head

What the hell's a pithivier

You can give them away

And bring me a pork pie instead

So, no nouvelle cuisine

Or cordon bleu that I've seen

It makes me want to gag.

Just some straightforward grub That I get down the pub

With my leftovers put in a bag.

Banjan

By A.R Salandy

Floral shrubs, sombre skies, delicate raspberries falling onto verdant leaves scattered across swarthy earth We tread lightly as pots clamour and water boils and hisses scalding steam through the kitchen window. She plucks tender strawberries rising ever so slightly above the ground on plants weighed down by tepid winds that tease fragrant humidity with the slightest hint of summer’s warmth. Eyes fixate on succulent blackberries oozing dark juice, reddened in fleeting moments of stealthy sun But sneaky rays cannot permanently penetrate extensive clouds accumulating just overhead.

Auntie calls out to the garden and we set the table in turquoise ceramics, dishes carved in caucuses unknown to my eyes. Then the kitchen door opens and dishes descend side stairs and model their way through curious spiders and rogue daffodils caressed by portly bees ceaselessly hungry for satiating nectar. Baguette Tradition she begrudgingly went out to find is broken over plump tomatoes, tender avocados and luscious rice spiced with cumin and charred lemon and adorned by mighty rocket draped on the edges of the serving dish.

Roasted chicken is served by loving hands that raised three children through sacrifice and grit unimaginable. A testament to motherly love, where a sense of purity beyond the strife of life reverberates off her every word But finally, she sits and relishes the fruits of her labour as aromatic aubergine Borani Banjan is passed from end to end and warmed yogurt mingles with savoury turmeric washed down by frigid water and grateful chatter. It is only in simple moments where morsels of broken bread decorate dining tables that the human spirit can replenish itself and rejuvenate beyond the drudgery of schedules and expectations frivolous.

bleeding fruit

By Katie Palmer

Everyone agrees my aura is pink but no one specifies what shade

Am I grapefruit, the one who’s always passed up for another?

Am I passionfruit, beautiful yet tasteless? Not everything pretty is sweet

Or am I peach? Baked before I spoil, too soft to stick around long.

I want to be red; not like Taylor Swift but like pomegranate dripping down your chin, cherry caught between your teeth.

On nectarines

By Olga Riebeling Amozorrutia

In a bin at my closest corner shop, their sheen orange soft skin lured me in. As whenever I’ve seen them in stores, my mind raced to images of browned spoiled fruit, weird smells and bruised peel. My city, my country, is not a place to grow nectarines. Perhaps in the north, cities like Chihuahua, where winters get really cold, but not here, where sweaters in January are a formality to feel the seasonal change. It’s funny to me, such juicy and tender pulp feels like Summer and Spring, like warm days by the pool or, in lack of such, of Sunday strolls with friends and lovers. I guess by growing in the cold they take in all the sunlight they can and turn into precious sunny fruit. It comes to me as no surprise, the essence gathered from its flowers is said to light a spark in us to do good for others, as well as to speak kindly to others. My story with such lovely fruit dates back to some years ago, when my mother and I travelled to Europe in one of those bus tours, visiting a crazy amount of cities in a few days. Our hotel in Paris was so far from anything tourist and she, being so nervous to go wandering on her own, that we stuck to the bus schedule and kept to our group. The only place around us to visit was a small shopping center with a large supermarché. I wasn’t yet gifted with the wonder it is to visit shops and supermarkets when travelling to another country. The essence of daily life is stocked in their halls, colourfully arranged by size and theme. There I found nectarines, thinking it was a peach, so I bought a few I also got a fashion magazine, a box of Petit écolier and tasty canned goods What a delight! That peach was so much more peachy than a peach! Juicy and soft, bright in color and perfectly ripe. The bag was gone in no time and so, my search for nectarines began.

Once I saw them in San Francisco, at a farmers market in the back of Ferry’s building. They smiled at me, round and proud, from a stall. I walked away with a brown bag and half a dozen pieces to be devoured, one already in my very happy mouth. This is the same place where I laughed with my father, drank a bottle of beer from a bag with a lover while watching the sunset and met with a long lost friend and her family. Places, like food, keep us from getting lost. Sadly, when I’ve seen them here, as colorful and attractive as they look, the taste is not. We have many beautiful fruits, even large and soft peaches for a small season, but nectarines tend to be soft on the outside and hard on the inside. Not to mention expensive! I would buy them in hope of them ripening at home, only to find them two days later watery and bruised. That is, until yesterday. Once again I saw them at the store, even in fear, I could not stop myself and bought one, only one, in case the same would happen. I let it sit in the fruit bowl not paying much attention to it, just in case it would smell my excitement. It didn’t. I took a knife and cut all around it. Though I tried, I couldn’t separate the flesh from the bone but oh! what the wound uncovered: gorgeous, orange, soft and juicy insides. I can't say how fast I ate it, the excitement got to me and now only this remains. For a moment I was back in Paris, back in San Francisco, back in a sunny joyful day Sadly, on my return to the shop I found the rest of the nectarines gone. Hopefully someone just like me got them home and is now making a pie, eating them in slices over toast and cheese or simply, just like me, biting them on top of the sink.

family recipe

By Alyssa Walker

The way to any man ’ s heart is through my flapjack

Cosy little oats in a syrupy bath tucked away tightly into the pan seeping into every pocket of space

Don’t forget the cherries unless you’re Brontë in which case forget the cherries the oven trundles on kitchen thrums with scents of butter golden syrup and… cherries? Summoned by the viewing portal more interesting than Netflix Final gooey gift of love conglomerate mush on molars every taste bud reeling Fingers sucked lips smacked make every sliver count

I don’t know about the way to a man’s heart but it’s certainly the way to mine

By Helen Gwyn Jones

ode to extra virgin

By Katie Coxall

Simmering nicely around my mushrooms, I bought these little button ones because they looked less intimidating to me, you are spitting the salt back at me but I forgive you, you are just doing your job. Do you swallow up my freshly ground pepper? And then triumphantly cackle and swirl around the bottom, leaving no trace up and down the slopes, with a grin, and a wink, left, right, up, down. My mushrooms are bathed in you My hands recoil at your touch, yet I owe everything to you. It never leaves me that trail of sunshine, stock image dove holding stock image branch up and down my fingers a rough cat tongue when presented with you

There is no surface boundary there is no line to be crossed slip up and down and see what happens I owe it all to you There has never been a picket fence encircling my allotment, despite what you may have been told the gate at the bottom of the steps is always unlatched hanging off its hinges and the carrot tops have always been vibrant dewey stems enticing the slugs I have always been sat in here, on my rocking chair or tending to the tomatoes in August when are you walking in, I saved you a mushroom but I can’t just pour you down the drain, would you like a minute to cool down? to take a breath, as I coo and purr. oh darling you’ve carried the heaviest weight and moved so fast and so far we want to dip our crusts in you, will you be so kind as to retain that flavour, for a moment longer? that wild garlic, poorly minced, week old white onion will you tell the performers to take their places whilst I embrace you cradled in a scoop

Mole

By Angelica Flores

I was five years old when I had my first taste of mole

My grandparents took me to Mexicali to visit my Tía Lupe and my Tía Angelina Their kindness always showed in their insistence that they cook for us Saying no would mean that we didn’t love them

The story goes that there, on the unstable table was a cracked plate that to this day, has yet to shatter

The chicken was covered in a beautiful, brown sauce I had never seen anything like it

They sat me down, grabbed the spoon, and pretended that it was an airplane

When I bit down, I felt a joy that I remember I remember only a few seconds of it

It’s a story that is often told because after I bit into that delicious Mexican dish, I wouldn’t stop eating I was a 5 year old who ate five pieces of chicken covered in mole

The adults never stopped me

They tell this story every year and they blame me for being overweight on those five pieces of chicken I laugh all the time

It was the mole’s fault, and I am okay with blaming the mole When I announce that I am going to visit Mexicali

My Tía Lupe and my Tía Angelina always have a cracked plate full mole waiting for me

Instant happiness masala

By Mugdhaa Ranade

As a middle class, late 90’s Indian kid, Maggi noodles were my heaven sent, one and only go-to, cheap yet lip smackingly delicious, I’m full but please can-I have more Aai? snack that I could devour at any hour of the day, every single day.

Of course, Aai didn’t approve. As a result, I put Maggi noodles on a pedestal for me to worship. I demanded it as a reward whenever I scored well on tests at school, Aai made it for me whenever I came home from school, crying because of one thing or another. Maggi noodles were the sunshine on rainy days, and the Sun itself on sunny days.

Cold, yellow masala drenched Maggi noodles coagulated in the shape of tiffin boxes—circles, squares, rectangles were a delicacy that tasted good when shared with friends at school, and downright sinful when gobbled hidden away from salivating mouths and grabby hands. Maggi noodles were the icebreaker for new friendships, and sometimes, the reason for old friendships breaking apart

Amidst the raging “Maggi noodles have no nutritional value” debates, as I set forth on my journey from Grade 2 to Grade 3, my school authorities took a drastic measure: they banned Maggi noodles at school, forbidding parents from supplying their children with the curly strands of edible gold with the threat of demanding a fine if the rule was broken.

With Maggi noodles becoming contraband, in the first couple months, it led to our tiffin boxes being stringently inspected by our teachers prior to lunch break. It was either laziness, or the realisation that banning Maggi noodles at school was hardly a solution to the nutrition problem in kids, the teachers soon became lax in their duties. Thus, the underground Maggi revolution began.

Kids brought Maggi noodles to school and passed the word along to their friends in hushed whispers. I, however, was too scared to take part. Moreover, inspired by my school, Aai had banned Maggi noodles from the household. Day after day, all I could do was watch my classmates with envy and yearning, wishing I could trade my fancy lunch for a bite of their cold, sticky, Maggi noodles Until, one fateful day, in the middle of lunch break, I crossed paths with Miss S, the Head of the Department of the Junior School.

Miss S was old and cranky. As she was rarely happy with anything or anyone, we were never certain whether her head constantly shook because of her age or her foul temper. She hadn’t succumbed to the laxness of the other teachers, and peered at me through her bifocal glasses as soon as I wished her a “Good afternoon, Ma’am” in passing, tiffin open, half eaten vermicelli upma in sight

Whether due to her faulty eyesight, or her faulty mind’s eye, but instead of an acknowledgement of my greeting I received a slap across the face. As tears sprung to my eyes, Miss S grabbed my arm, asked me what classroom I belonged to and dragged me to my class teacher, brandishing me in front of her with disdain, eager to chew her out for not punishing me for breaking the no-Maggi noodles rule. When my class teacher pointed out that Miss S was mistaken, Miss S spat an apology at me and stalked off

No action was taken against her as physical punishment had not yet been banned at my school. I don’t remember what I felt or what I told my parents but my craving for Maggi noodles disappeared instantly. I spent the rest of my school years avoiding Maggi noodles, even after the school authorities lifted the Maggi noodles ban

During my first semester at University, living away from home, my flatmates were my only source of comfort. Despite being allowed the use of only a kettle by the landlady, I did not turn to the ease of Maggi noodles even when my stomach felt like it would cave in from the stress of working on assignments late at night, hungry, knowing food deliveries were not possible at that hour.

At the end of the semester, a day before we would all part ways for the Diwali break, my flatmates decided to have a movie night, complete with chips, cola, and of course, Maggi noodles. Though I had no intention of partaking in the Maggi noodles feast, I lent them my kettle and helped them cook two large packets of Maggi noodles.

Once the noodles were cooked, one of my flatmates introduced her how-to-make Maggi noodles even tastier hack to us: add a pinch of salt and fill a Tupperware container with the piping hot noodles, and refrigerate for 10 minutes Despite the sceptical looks we shot at her, she merrily emptied the kettles into a large, square Tupperware container, added the salt, and popped it in the refrigerator

Ten minutes later, as we settled in for our movie night, putting on the terrible Hindi dubbed version of Twilight to laugh at, my flatmate brought out the Tupperware container. We gasped as soon as she opened it: the Maggi noodles had coagulated slightly, but were still hot. My flatmates dug in eagerly, and ordered me to partake in the feast

Despite my protests, I found myself grabbing a fork and twirling noodles around it, blowing on it to cool it, and then closing my mouth around it. The hit of nostalgia was so overwhelming. I nearly sobbed as I went in for seconds, thirds, fourths, more, more,and more

That was when I realised: childhood trauma and Maggi noodles are forever.

meal between friends

By Scout Faller

forgiveness if i made you pasta tomato crushed by hand, basil two ways the thinnest slices of bloomed garlic pecorino & cracks of pepper over nests of bucatini

reconciliation some marinara smeared across your chin & slid out the sneaky turn of your mouth like a toddler, one who needs me to twirl the fork & swipe red from your lips with a linen napkin i don’t own

in eating, everyone reveals a softness at the crown of their head. heating up with the busyness of digestion, everyone takes their overcoat off. anyone would linger in unlit living rooms with crouching plants and little skirted stools

at meal’s end you could eat cherries slept on cheesecake, walk the reservoir, smoke a cigarette like you used to, become fossilized in the drywall of my apartment slide yourself under the dining room floor, to rest.

coffee is a question and breakfast, an exercise in make believe dinner is a promise: signatures on lines, invitations by mail. pictures when you leave the city an adherence and i would like it to hold, with the addition of half cup or so of the water it's boiled in

to a burning malum

By Keira Armstrong

1

I was having an apple when you left crisp and green the kind I only ever bought one of because the red ones were cheaper and I began to choke as you began to burn “they taste the same you know” no they fucking don’t

2

soda tastes strange if you drink it after having an apple so here you are, handing me a glass of water and I give it to you because you are on fire

3

the thick pulp of a red apple is in my throat chalky like glass that I pretended was ice after I saw that there were no green apples left and you were still burning

4

I don’t do anything in the mornings, anymore or the rest of the day (including the night cause you always were insistent about the difference)

I lay in bed

awake in the cold stones you left me to lie on while you got lit on fire

5

there are no green apples because people keep on sending me goddamn oranges with pink bow ties you would have laughed at this please keep laughing when you finish burning.

By Wendy Allen

You’ve been away on holiday and come back with peaches wrapped in brown paper, not in a plastic box. You have selected each of the peaches individually and placed them into this sustainable packaging with hands that now stroke my inner thighs. You don’t know exactly how much I’ve missed you and I say nothing but press your head down towards my vulva and tell you to make me come.

CW: sexual themes

the trapping chef

By Abby Moeller

you fed me lies like pomegranate seeds sweet easily devoured ate so quickly like it never happened but i had and you had tricked me and i was the victim the willing fool who let myself be dragged down to your haunted abode stuck on the island endlessly treated and trapped

soggy cereal

By Bronte Cook

Breakfast in bed isn’t always poached eggs, or pancakes stacked, drizzled in syrup. It can be cereal, soggy from the trudge back upstairs, and a cup of steaming black coffee.

You’re saying ‘I love you’, whether muttered or sung

the supermarkets prayer

By Pip McDonald

Our fridge freezer with food from Aldi, Defrosted and caused some pain; Thy shop, will be done; In store as it is online. Give us this day our daily sourdough. And forgive us for our use of quinoa, As we forgive those who use kale against us. And lead us not into Tesco; Deliver us from Waitrose. For Lidl is the kingdom, the sweet and savoury, With a bag for life that can be used forever and ever. Amen.

picking blackberries with my daughter

By Sarah Cain

You carry purple lips and a beaming smile

Bruised fingertips with the scent of summer’s boundless fruit

And I, the worn Tupperware pot with our seeded treasure Together, as we wander the overgrown path, memories entangled within softened thorns

We think of home and the warm apple and blackberry crumble Awaiting our timely return.

Cress

By Kira Critchlow

When I was only little, I'd visit my grandmother's house. We’d go to the supermarket every Monday morning, every week during the summer holidays. I love and miss her, and hoped to share this precious memory that means so much to me. I think about it so often despite losing her over 10 years ago now. This is a reminder to treasure the people closest to you, those you love and make every moment special. You never know what silly little things they'll remember, and don't forget to eat your greens

Did you know that garden cress is a part of the mustard family? I didn't either. I don't think cress is anything special, just leaves like the rest, the spinach, the kale, the lettuce. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a big fan of cress She bought it every single week without fail. She would let me trim the cress leaves with the kitchen scissors and I'd pretend to be a professional hairdresser. It was such a silly, little thing but I loved to do it and I think about it every time I spot the cress in the supermarket

Food brings people together, even something as insignificant as cress, eating more food and making more memories.

Note: To this day I have never personally tried cress, I don't want to taint my unsuccessful hairdressing career with something that doesn't taste good. Maybe one day.

mama Luisa's Marucha

By Iris Flores-Iglesias

I believe the Flores’ are a perpetually nostalgic family, fueled by memories of the past and a yearning that will never be fulfilled because we simply love too much. Often, we find ourselves stuck in a particular moment in our four generation timeline, reminiscing, reliving, and forgetting it all over a cup of coffee, a bite of pan dulce, or a bowl of sopa. With time, we unlock words, phrases, and recipes that were buried beneath the onset of newer memories like weddings, births, and deaths never failing to bring a cloud of melancholy over us. But when the weight of the past became a little too heavy for all of us to hold, there, on the long wooden table filled with bowls of soup, tortilla towers stacked tall, dunes of salt, lemon wedges, and cubes of cuajada, the ache in our hearts would melt away.

Sopa de res is the comfort meal for almost everyone in the Flores Family. But from my earliest memories of El Salvador, and the two story house in Pozo Santo, Mama Luisa’s Marucha’s was mine. I was always a picky eater, a trait that has only begun to dissolve itself away from me, and my stubborn tongue along with Mama Luisa’s love for me and my rolls of fat, too alike to the cuajada she’d make every day, created the delicacy I hold closest to my heart. Her soft, brown, crepe skin hands could create the most wonderful of dishes, transporting you out from Pozo Santo and towards the lush green pastures, or over the towering volcanoes seated atop dizzying altitudes, or plunging into the vast seas of the blinking yellow glow of the fireflies I didn’t want to sniff and sip las sopas de res o las tortas de pescado, much less las sopas de mondongo. Not even the rich, fatty broth of the caldo was enough for me, but Mama Luisa already knew what to do. This is how our tradition was forged, one that would extend onto my siblings, my parents, the sirvientas that would come and go, the rest of the Flores, and now, you. It is a recipe to forever be safeguarded within the confines of our hearts because Mama Luisa poured her selfless love into every bowl

In the days after our arrival when my craving for another greasy mouthful of Marucha returned, I would follow Mama Luisa into her kitchen. It was a vast space, with a square doorway in the middle of it, a big concrete pila on the opposite wall, names and phone numbers of each and every person in all of Gotera written in beige tape plastered against the faded stucco walls, a delicate wooden hutch and its peeling white paint stocked with plastic multicolored mugs; fine cutlery, mismatched floral bowls, a box of chicken flavored Maruchans (beef was rarely stocked in La Dispensa at the time, and the recipe truly wouldn’t be the same with it), and one small window that overlooked the always green grass and a hill. I would sit in the plastic deep green chair to the right of the doorway, close enough to watch her cook without needing to strain my neck to see, but far enough so I wouldn’t be splashed by rogue and explosive Marucha bubbles. Sometimes, I’d follow behind her, barefooted across the small spread of smooth white tiles with geometrical blue flower accents to the uneven concrete by the hutch that scrapes and aches bare feet if stood on for a little too long, and finally, to the pila. I’d watch her, in her pale yellow dress, black hair tied into a low ponytail, and her bright blue delantal tied over her waist.

Mama Luisa had a pot, the perfect size for her Maruchas, with a broken handle that was taken off with time. If there was caldo, she’d fill the pot with it and use it instead of water, break the orange packet of Maruchan noodles into smaller pieces against the counter cluttered with today and yesterday’s cuajada, milk to be strained in big, plastic violet, blue, green, red pailas, and plates of food waiting to be served.

She always overcooked the noodles and mixed the Maruchan powder immediately before frothy bubbles rose and collapsed in the center. Before removing the pot from her two-stove flame, she’d drop three cuajada chunks, and squeeze an entire lemon—or lime into the bowl with her wrinkled hands If I was sitting, she’d call me over, if I was standing, I was already waiting for her by the pila for my favorite part: the Marucha boat. Mama Luisa would submerge the pot more than halfway underwater, mixing the soup while the thick steam rose into the air. To me, it always felt like the pila was made for that very moment. My chubby hands always found themselves in the water too, preparing them for the moment when my fresh bowl of Mama Luisa’s Marucha was handed over to me If it was still hot after minutes of mixing, she’d slip two or three ice cubes beneath the blanket of noodles. When I got older, I brought the bowl to the long wooden table, but most of the time Mama Luisa did, and I’d eat by the door, watching cars zoom past the two-story home.

This was our tradition, one that continues even after Mama Luisa passed, because the memory of her cooking Maruchas for me, my siblings, my parents the Flores; is enough for our taste buds to remember what those easier, simpler days tasted like, buttery, lemony, a creamy incomparable and sacred delicacy Today, the recipe changes depending on who you ask, some don’t crush the noodles at all, others wait for the boiling foam to appear before adding the powder, or prefer no lemon or lime at all however it is made, it always transports you back to Pozo Santo and that long wooden table covered in soup rings, tortilla towers, salt dunes, lemon wedges, and cubes of cuajada and Mama Luisa’s love.

making marmalade with memories

By Alex Grehy

Step One:

In January when the air is full of snow and spite, buy your oranges. They have travelled all the way from Seville, carrying sunshine in their knobbly, bitter rinds. Sunshine like your mother’s love, harsh like her tongue, wondering why you waste your time on such things

Step Two:

Wash the oranges in cold water, checking for imperfections. This is important. Remember how your grandmother forgot her diabetes appointments; forgot to check her circulation-starved toes for damage until the rot had spread too far to save them.

Step Three:

Cut the oranges in half. Press them one by one to extract the juice. Recollect how life pressed your grandfather until he was just a husk.

Step Four:

Put the orange peel and the juice in a large preserving pan. Add a generous amount of water and bring to the boil. Simmer for hours, like you simmered in your insecurities until you lost the shape of the girl you used to be.

Step Five:

Every now and then, take a piece of rind from the pan and test its consistency. Keep testing, you will know it’s cooked when the rind is soft and yielding. Remember how many loves you tried before you found the one? The one whose love brought a comfortable fulfilment to your life.

Step Six:

Take the peel from the liquid and cut into fine strips. Revisit the times you cut the tedious days of toil into hours and minutes to make them more palatable.

Step Seven:

Add the peel to the liquid and measure the volume; calculate the weight of sugar you will need. Like you once calculated how much money you needed to set yourself free from the tyranny of work.

Step Eight:

Add the sugar to the oranges, stir, and bring to the setting temperature. Let the scent of oranges fill your nostrils like the perfume of lilac flowers that May. The month you finally stopped working and found a new path.

Step Nine:

Put a little of the mixture on a cold saucer; let it rest a moment and run your fingertip over the gel. Feel the thrill of satisfaction as the surface wrinkles, much as your own skin does, a sign of perfect readiness.

Step Ten:

Allow the mixture to cool for a moment and ladle into hot, sterilised pots. Fill each one to the brim, happiness potted, like your memories, astringent pith left on the compost heap.

Step Eleven:

Label your marmalade and post to the World Marmalade Awards. Taking chances, as you have before, ignoring your mother’s voice saying, “Don’t make a fool of yourself; that’s not for the likes of us ”

Step Twelve:

Three months later, open the envelope and admire the award certificates gold, silver, bronze. You have succeeded with marmalade as you have in all things with which you have persevered Gold for validation, silver for encouragement and bronze to give you room to grow.

Spread marmalade on toast in every season that follows allow it to enliven the spring, to refresh the summer, to satisfy in autumn. When winter comes, and you scrape the golden sweetness from the very bottom of the last jar, feel a thrill of anticipation the Seville oranges will be back soon

Enjoy the marmalade, as you have enjoyed something in every season of your life

Kitchen Love (after ella risbridger) 3

By Naomi Head

I know a man who can always find me with food, sometimes at four or five in the morning, the time when we used to find ourselves at McDonald’s or the all night barbecue

We didn’t have much in that spicy little town but there was always the promise of second dinner.

I think of it often a little bit in love with the sheer audacity of it because that’s where the real magic happened.

We had the best. The best snacks, the best laughs and the best people no timewasters, no bores, no small talk.

I can still taste that smoky, drunk, boundless love From the dark, sticky river bank

One summer Half a world away.

Hobnobbing on line six: a life in biscuits

By Ellen Clayton

Is there any snack more versatile and universally appreciated than a biscuit? Whether it’s a Kit Kat in your packed lunch, a digestive dipped into your cuppa, a packet of shortbreads shared with your grandparents or a homemade cookie squished between a child’s chubby fingers, there’s a biscuit for every occasion I strongly believe biscuits are the most superior of all snacks

I can track my relationship with biscuits throughout every stage in my life. As a child, after school, I’d get home and see what was in the biscuit tin: always disappointed if it was only custard creams, after gorging on them at about four years old and never being able to stomach them since. Bourbons were a regular staple in our home and I loved the joy of triple chocolate. Kids parties in the nineties always showcased a whole host of biscuits; Iced Gems, pink wafers, Fox’s Party Rings, Tunnock’s teacakes and BN biscuits (who can forget that advert?) were crammed onto paper plates and enjoyed alongside warm cola.

Into the teenage years: I think every school packed lunch I ever saw had some form of biscuit within it; usually a biscuit bar such as a Kit Kat, Penguin or Gold Bar and the more adventurous folk would have oat flips or even a Wagon Wheel. Marshmallow and jam? Pure decadence! These were the heydays of the early noughties, before Jamie Oliver ensured schools cracked down on what children and teenagers consumed during their lunch breaks. We had the luxury of all the saturated fat and sugar we desired! When I moved away to university, I existed on the supermarket value brand variety packs, perfect for the munchies and eating in front of endless Friends reruns on E4 (though I had to farm out the custard creams to my housemates, due to the aforementioned aversion).

When I worked a brief, miserable stint in a call centre, biscuits were a bright spot in an otherwise grey day I’d get a sad looking, dishwater coloured cup of tea from the hot drinks vending machine (put in place to reduce the amount of time beleaguered staff members spent making tea, as waiting for a kettle to boil apparently took too long) and buy some chocolate digestives from another vending machine Those moments taking a breath and enjoying the kick of sugar and warmth spreading through my belly felt like a little hug, a boost to get me through another afternoon of steeling myself every time I heard “call incoming, line six” through my headset

And while I’ve always been a fan of biscuits, my love for them was truly cemented when I met my husband.

His family are borderline evangelical about snacks and nibbles; his grandmother would host “Dunky Club” (so named because biscuits can be dunked into hot drinks, obviously) where her great grandchildren would gather at her flat after school and have their fill of biscuits, crisps and cake. These gatherings had a real celebratory feeling, a discarding of any boring parental attempts at persuading kids to eat vegetables and just soaking up the joy of a multi generational family. It was the very definition of cosy

Nowadays, the main reason I reach for biscuits is because I can speedily munch them. Having three young children means the time to sit down and truly enjoy a snack is pretty rare and being able to grab a biscuit is the closest I get Even my one year old has her own – the overpriced ones that are lower in salt, sugar and taste and are shaped like farm animals. If we are talking about preferences, I’m a big fan of a chocolate hobnob – ideal for dipping into hot drinks as they hold their shape, and the more savoury, oaty flavour of the biscuit is perfectly paired with melted chocolate. It feels like a more substantial snack than a cookie or bourbon, too, arming me with the energy to continue with the demands and chaos of parenting.

Biscuits can also make you look like a good host. If someone pops by unexpectedly, or is just dropping in for a cuppa, you look generous when you offer biscuits with the tea (especially if you have shortbread). This requires zero effort, other than not eating all of the biscuits before people arrive

Sure, there are other snacks with more je ne sais quoi, with a greater glamour or intrigue about them. But you’d be hard pressed to find a better snack that can be found in most household store cupboards / snack drawers there’s a biscuit to suit almost every budget, and the sheer variety is staggering. All texture preferences can be covered by biscuits; something soft? A fig roll! Something so crunchy you’ll break your teeth? A ginger nut! If you’re nauseous, a plain digestive or rich tea is an ideal, tentative step towards eating: bland enough to stomach after a bout of illness or during pregnancy sickness. On the other end of the spectrum there’s super rich delights such as a chocolate Viennese whirl or a Florentine: the kind of thing you buy in a fancy tin to present as a gift to those tricky to buy for family members.

Show me someone who cannot find a single biscuit that they enjoy, and I will prove that they are, in fact, a robot. Biscuits are a comforting friend in tough times and a joyful treat to share with loved ones on ordinary, glorious days

Lisa Lipipatvong macaione alyssa walker katie coxall chris husband katie palmer a.r salandy sarah cain scout faller bronte cook abby moeller mugdhaa ranade alex grehy

olga riebeling Amozorrutia alex murphy kiera armstrong pip mcdonald ellen clayton helen gwyn jones dominic J. Sweeney naomi head nicole woon elizabeth colcombe wendy allen alan bern iris flores-iglesias kira critchlow angelica flores