Two Days In The Toils Of A

Biscuit Forcer

By Rosa Moore

NOW that I may give up wearing the ice-pack on my head, and things are quiet again, they think it won’t do me any harm to have my type writer and try to explain what really happened during my Two Days with a Biscuit Forcer.

Before our trip to Australia I was a gentle creature. When I made biscuits, I just floured a board, put down the dough and quietly rolled it out with — of all archaic things—a rolling-pin, I came back changed, ruthless, de termined to Force my biscuits in the future. I had bought a cellophane covered box rioting with pretty pictures of biscuits Forced; into rosettes, into dainty ridged bathmats, pyramids, sea shells, fluted twigs. It looked such a charming hobby.

There was a lot of quiet reading on the back of the box, telling me just what to screw into what when I came to Forcing a Biscuit; but nothing about Keeping Quiet Till the Doctor Came, if things should go wrong. I started out all right. I washed, as per directions, all the playful little gadgets in hot, soapy water, followed by a solemn ten minutes of screwing A into B, adding C, and thrusting my pet biscuit dough into cylinder D. All I had to do, then, was to press plunger E and all my friends were scheduled to be amazed and envious at the results.

I had guests coming at 4 p.m. I set to work at 9 a.m., while the houseboys were out of the kitchen, so that I could be alone with my art.

After some enjoyable indecision I chose the dainty bathmat gadget and inserted it where directed. Trembling with sus pense, I pressed in plunger E, with a suitably greased tin at the ready.

Nothing happened. I pressed harder and harder. Slowly, slowly, a dainty ridged bit of dough coyly began to emerge. I changed to the left hand and shoved.

Another half inch appeared. Taking a deep breath, indifferent to my bulging muscles, I gave my all. Out came a biscuit.

I did it again and, five minutes later, again. By this time arms F and G (mine) were weary and worn. I bent forward and tried pressing plunger E with my diaphragm. Effective, but more suitable for a footballer.

By 10 a.m. I had Forced one trayful of dainty ridged bathmats, not counting eight which had to be disqualified for taking a right-angle turn half-way.

Then a cup of tea, a teeny sit-down, and I was ready to go on. Sometimes I used the right hand, sometimes the left, sometimes I reverted to one of my floating ribs. Came lunch-time, and I had Forced just enough biscuits to see the tea-party through, but I was really too tired to be my usual carefree self.

In fact, night fell and three-quarters of the virgin biscuit dough still sat in its basin, the Biscuit Forcer alongside, all ready for an early start next morn ing.

ON the second day, I decided to switch to the fluted twig job. Wow! Out writhed biscuits looking like tor mented caterpillars. Cross-eyed (With the effort, I kept plunger E, and arms F and G, working like mad, while bis cuits thudded on to the table and crawled up the sides of the tin. I baked

them all, except for three which fell on the cat.

Then something seemed to come over me. I brusquely removed the caterpillar gadget and inserted the sea-shell model.

Ah! this was easier. Just stand the Biscuit Forcer upright, isharply shove in plunger E, give a brutal smack to cylinder D and snatch the whole thing away before the biscuit dough guessed what was happening. The results were not shells so much as anthills of in different architecture. After a bit, I got out an old leather wrist-support and carried on madly.

Houseboys came and went, shaking the head solemnly: Missus work’im biskit all the same cement!

Beginning to tremble, I hurled aside the se£t-shell mould and went to town with a sort of rosette affair. Result: a small button of biscuit with seven little press-studs cavorting round it. The idea must have been that these would amalgamate in baking, but all I got were lots of cooked buttons and plenty of cooked press-studs.

Back, to the ridged bathmat effect.

No, the dough wouldn’t come out at all now, except in a series of fits and starts —and who wants to eat biscuits in fits and starts?

Savagely I changed to the pyramid model. Out rushed the biscuit dough with eager co-operation; up and up went the pyramids—stop them, some body! The first one’s six inches high; here’s the second, a mere five inches!

Look out for the third —nearly hit me in the nose—stop it, stop it, STOP IT!

Keeping my head for one last frenzied moment, I hurled the Biscuit Forcer to the floor and jumped on it. with a fine clash of metal and final writhing of biscuit dough. Next I think I joined it and beat my heels on the kitchen floor.

Then everything—the way it does— went mercifully black.

I AM better now, and things are quiet again. But I seem to remember in my delirium saying to my husband, “Order another Biscuit Forcer from Sydney—will you? I think that other one must have had defective works.’’

The trouble is, I don’t dare ask him if he did. I feel too weak still to know the truth.