Sunday, February 20

Diary of a morbidly obscene biscuit addict


I have been going through a wildly experimental phase, pushing the boundaries of biscuit eating to the very limits of time and space. I have been on a supersonic journey and have returned with the following knowledge.


Ha! Controversy!

I tried to do a bit of research but stopped after one lazy Google search. Turns out it’s all down to the Americans making biscuits wrong right from the off. When they realised that their versions of biscuits weren’t actually all that nice they had to try again. But they couldn’t call them biscuits, they’d already screwed that up and so the cookie was born.

I am going to claim right, here right now, as a self appointed biscuit expert, that cookies are just big biscuits. Yeah Maryland, you’re not cookies, you’re just biscuits, or by my logic only small cookies, which are called biscuits. So says I. And I reckon I’m right. Right?

Enough of this high-brow biscuit existentialism! To the point!

I have recently got into the terrible habit of buying Sainsbury’s white chocolate & raspberry cookies. Casting my eye over biscuit shelves across the land I must conclude that these are possibly the most unhealthy biscuit items ever. Basically a wonderful combination of soft cookie dough, annihilated raspberries (to ensure no goodness remains) and great globs of white chocolate (the only kind of chocolate that doesn’t actually have any chocolate in it!).

Fig 1. These are they. Bloody gorgeous!

If you could describe any food stuff as being comfortable, it would be these cookies. They are so delightfully soft that I just want to get loads of them and make a cookie bed. I would sleep and nibble in equal quantities. I would be a slothful glutton and a fantastic genius to boot. I would start a church of cookie and biscuit disciples will worship at the altar of the little round baked consumables. I of course would never attend and maintain that wonderful air of mystery, and besides by that point I will need to be crane-lifted out of my cookie bed and you’ll see me on the next series of Britain’s Biggest Loser.

And on a side note, they come in packs of four. Which means you have to eat all four. Preferably one after the other in a violent and rather unpleasant scoffing action.

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