Biscuit baking

Monday morning arrived.

Nobody in the Brand household was particularly pleased about it.

Saturday and Sunday had been lovely. The sort of general family lounging/life that made Monday morning feel especially rude.

Barry was sitting at the breakfast table wearing his school jumper, one sock and absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Marmaduke had arrived with Marjory ten minutes earlier.

He was wearing his school uniform, although his shoes were on the wrong feet.

Alfie noticed immediately.

“Marmaduke.”

Marmaduke looked down.

“What?”

“Your shoes.”

Marmaduke examined it.

“Oh.”

“You’ve got the wrong feet.”

Marmaduke shrugged.

“They still work.”

Alfie closed his eyes.

This was apparently going to be one of those mornings.

Barry pushed his cereal around his bowl.

“I don’t want school.”

Mrs Brand glanced at the clock.

“You said that yesterday.”

“It was Sunday.”

“I know.”

“So I was practising.”

Mr Brand nearly choked on his coffee.

“Practising?”

“For Monday.”

“Very thoughtful.”

Barry nodded.

“Thank you.”

Alfie was already eating his breakfast.

He had packed his school bag the night before.

His PE kit was ready.

His homework was complete.

His reading book was in his bag.

He had even checked the weather forecast.

Barry looked at him.

“Why are you so ready?”

“Because I like being organised.”

“You’re strange.”

“I know.”

Mrs Brand looked at the boys.

“Come on. School.”

Barry sighed dramatically.

Marmaduke sighed too, purely because Barry had.

Then Mrs Brand said the magic words.

“Barry and Marm, you’ve got cookery today.”

Barry stopped sighing.

“What?”

“Cookery.”

His face transformed.

“COOKERY?”

“Yes.”

“Cooking?”

“Yes.”

“Food?”

“Yes.”

Barry stood up.

“I LOVE SCHOOL!”

Alfie looked at him.

“You literally just said you hated it.”

“That was before I knew there was food.”

“Of course it was.”

Barry grabbed his school bag.

“Come on, Marm!”

Marmaduke immediately stood.

“Coming!”

The two boys were suddenly so enthusiastic that Mrs Brand suspected she should have been using cookery lessons as a behavioural incentive for years. They might have done better than the guitar lessons that fell from favour three weeks in.

At 1.30pm, Reception class were welcomed into the cooking classroom by Mrs Rossi.

Barry remembered her immediately.

She had run the summer cookery club, where she had taught the children how to make all sorts of delicious things.

Mrs Rossi was one of those teachers who could make a room full of four-year-olds pay attention simply by holding up a wooden spoon.

“Good morning, chefs!”

“GOOD MORNING, MRS ROSSI!”

Barry shouted particularly loudly.

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“I think I heard Barry.”

“Yes!”

“So did everyone in the building.”

Barry grinned.

Marmaduke waved.

“Hello!”

“Hello, Marmaduke.”

Mrs Rossi clapped her hands.

“Today we’re making chocolate chip cookies.”

The classroom erupted.

Barry gasped.

A girl called Sophie actually jumped.

One boy shouted, “YES!”

Another child immediately asked, “Can we eat them?”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“If we make them properly.”

Barry raised his hand.

“What if we make them really properly?”

“Then we eat them.”

Barry lowered his hand.

“Excellent.”

Mrs Rossi began explaining.

She had chosen a recipe that was simple enough for Reception children to follow, while still producing genuinely delicious cookies.

There were bowls.

There were measuring spoons.

There was flour.

Sugar.

Chocolate chips.

And various other ingredients.

Mrs Rossi had everything carefully prepared.

She also had a special recipe for Evan, who was allergic to dairy.

The children began mixing.

At first, everything went beautifully.

Suspiciously beautifully.

Barry measured the flour.

Marmaduke measured the sugar.

Evan carefully followed the dairy-free recipe Mrs Rossi had prepared for him.

Everyone was concentrating.

Even Barry.

For approximately forty-five seconds.

Then Barry noticed the chocolate chips.

He looked at them.

They looked back at him.

Well, they didn’t actually look back at him. They were chocolate chips. But Barry felt they were communicating.

He raised his hand.

“Mrs Rossi?”

“Yes, Barry?”

“How many chocolate chips do we need?”

“As many as the recipe says.”

Barry nodded.

“And if we need more?”

“We don’t.”

“But what if the cookies are sad?”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“I don’t think the cookies will be sad.”

Barry looked unconvinced.

Marmaduke leaned over.

“I think they need lots.”

“Thank you, Marmaduke,” said Mrs Rossi. “But we’re following the recipe.”

Barry sighed.

“Fine.”

He carefully tipped the required chocolate chips into his bowl.

Then he looked at the packet.

Then at his bowl.

Then at the packet.

Then at Marmaduke.

Marmaduke whispered:

“More?”

Barry whispered back:

“More.”

They looked around.

Mrs Rossi was helping another group.

Barry picked up the packet.

Marmaduke held the bowl.

Barry tipped.

A few more chocolate chips fell in.

They stopped.

Barry looked pleased.

Then Marmaduke said, “More?”

Barry nodded.

Another small handful.

Then another.

Then Barry accidentally tipped rather more than he intended.

A great cascade of chocolate chips landed in the bowl.

Plop.

Plop-plop.

Plop-plop-plop-plop-plop.

Barry froze.

Marmaduke froze.

They looked at the bowl.

It was now approximately 40% cookie mixture and 60% chocolate.

Marmaduke whispered:

“I think that’s enough.”

Barry nodded.

“Yes.”

Then he looked at the packet.

There were hardly any chocolate chips left.

“Oh dear.”

Mrs Rossi appeared beside them.

She looked into the bowl.

Then at Barry.

Then at Marmaduke.

Then back at the bowl.

“That’s… a lot of chocolate chips.”

Barry smiled.

“The cookies were sad.”

Mrs Rossi took a breath. “Were they?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

She picked up the recipe.

“The recipe says one small handful.”

Barry nodded.

“I gave them a big handful.”

“I noticed.”

Marmaduke pointed at the bowl.

“They’re happy now.”

Mrs Rossi looked at the mixture.

“I suppose they are.”

But that wasn’t the end of the mishap.

Not remotely.

When the children began mixing, Barry discovered that stirring cookie dough was much more fun if you stirred it extremely vigorously.

He began stirring.

Faster.

And faster.

And faster.

“Barry,” said Mrs Rossi, “gentle mixing.”

Barry slowed down.

Then Marmaduke started stirring his.

Barry looked over.

“Marm, you’re going too slowly.”

Marmaduke sped up.

Barry sped up.

Marmaduke sped up.

Within seconds, the two boys were engaged in what looked suspiciously like a competitive cookie-stirring championship.

“Barry!”

“I’m mixing!”

“Marmaduke!”

“I’m mixing!”

“Gently!”

They both slowed down.

For approximately three seconds.

Then Barry announced:

“I think mine is winning.”

Then, as Mrs Rossi moved between the tables, she noticed something else.

Barry’s bowl contained far too much mixture.

“Marmaduke,” she said carefully, “why is there half your mixture in Barry’s bowl?”

Marmaduke looked down.

Barry looked down.

There was, indeed, a rather large amount of Marmaduke’s dough in Barry’s bowl.

Marmaduke frowned.

“I was sharing.”

“You were supposed to share the chocolate chips, not your entire cookie.”

“Oh.”

Barry looked delighted.

“I’ve got two cookies!”

“No,” said Mrs Rossi.

Barry’s smile disappeared.

“Three?”

“No.”

“Four?”

“Still no.”

Marmaduke began laughing.

Mrs Rossi laughed too.

“Right, chefs. Let’s rescue this.”

The children carefully divided the mixture again.

The cookies were eventually shaped and placed onto trays.

Barry stood back proudly.

His cookies were enormous.

Marmaduke’s were tiny.

Evan’s were somewhere in between.

Mrs Rossi looked at the trays.

“They’re all different sizes.”

Barry nodded.

“That’s because they’re individual.”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“That is a very generous way of describing it.”

The cookies went into the oven.

The children watched through the window.

Barry waited.

Marmaduke waited.

Everyone waited.

Then Barry noticed something.

“Mrs Rossi?”

“Yes?”

“Mine’s touching Marmaduke’s.”

“Yes.”

“Is that allowed?”

“It’s fine.”

“What if they become one cookie?”

“They won’t.”

Barry thought about this.

“What if they want to?”

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“Then we’ll call it a friendship cookie.”

Marmaduke looked delighted.

“Can we eat the friendship cookie?”

“Of course.”

When the cookies finally came out, they were magnificent.

Golden.

Crisp at the edges.

Soft in the middle.

And, in Barry’s case, containing enough chocolate chips to satisfy a small chocolate-loving army.

Mrs Rossi surveyed the trays.

“Well, chefs…”

She smiled.

“I think we have successfully made cookies.”

Barry looked proudly at his enormous, chocolate-covered creation.

“We made them better.”

Mrs Rossi raised an eyebrow.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Barry thought carefully.

“More chocolate.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“Much more.”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“Perhaps I should put that on the recipe.”

Barry beamed.

“Yes.”

Then he paused.

“But don’t tell my mum.”

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“Why not?”

“Because she has to pay for the chocolate.”

And that, Mrs Rossi thought, was probably the most accurate summary of Reception cookery she had ever heard.