I remember my mother buying a bag of broken biscuits. What an absolute treat that was. “We’ll take the five kilo,” said my mother to the buxom neighbour down the road who had them stacked from floor to ceiling in the pantry that was just behind the stable doors leading into the kitchen of her humble Chatsworth home.
“Y’all want dry biscuit or cream mix?” she asked. Of course it had to be the cream option even though that was 25c more. As I recall, the huge plastic bag which I hoisted on my shoulders like a pocket of potatoes cost all of three rand. Back in the day that was a great deal of money considering that my father earned the princely sum of around R300 before deductions.
In the build‑up to the major purchase, I would dictate terms to the younger ones. “We will take turns to pick one at a time until we have five pieces. If you choose small pieces that’s your problem.” The idea was that we could stretch the bag until the month‑end payday. In reality, we were scooping the dust at the bottom of the bag within three days. I was the major culprit, sneaking a few biscuits in the dead of the night and a few more to go with my school lunch.
The chocolate ones in foil wrapping were my favourite. Then came the ones styled as royal creams. A close third were the crunch Romany creams with the wavy pattern that one could nibble for all of five minutes. Several years later, I asked an Italian friend who came from Rome about them. She had absolutely no clue. The light Boudoir biscuits were the closest to what they enjoyed with their coffee in the Mediterranean.
