Accidentally Purple Quilt.

Ohhhh, shiiiiiiiit.

I accidentally made another quilt.

I didn't mean to, I was just looking for an excuse not to spend all day dealing with a very painful stage of making my dad's jigsaw quilt, and I happened to notice those 6 squares of various 6 inch purple fabrics from that mail out block swap which never really took off.

"Better sew those fuckers together", I thought.

But now those fuckers currently number 121 fully sewn squares, and despite the fact that I was busily cutting, ironing, swearing and hammering them through the sewing machine at an incredible pace, I had no idea who those fuckers were for.

Purple's OK. I like purple.

I thought maybe I'd make it for my friend Pam, who could use it in her spiritual healing room. Or for my 10 year old niece, Yassie.
Nah, Yasmin's a green girl like me.

In the midst of my excitement, I closed my eyes, and just tried to match the vibe of the fabric (don't I sound flakey?) with the person....MAHEB!!!

FFS OF COURSE! My friend MAHEB.
The original purple FREAK!
Going through a rough patch too. Perfect!

At that precise moment, Jeff magically appeared at the door and handed me the phone......MAHEB!

Now, I can keep a secret, but not if it's my own.
Yours are quite safe, don't worry.

So, poor thing, within 10 seconds she knew I was making her a quilt, knew that it was purple, knew that it was all deliberately sewn backwards and that I'd knicked off to the belligerent quilting cow shop that very morning in order to expand my purple stash from plenty to fucking ridiculous, thank you very much.

A healthy stash is a beautiful thing. It really is.

Then today, I scrunched up said quilt top in my new Souths bag and tootled off to work with it for show and tell.
I also took the lunch box full of lollies that were left over from the re-make of Nanna's lolly jar blog.
We had a good day. ;O)

When I said that I'd sewn it all backwards, I meant it.
Once you clip the seams, they go all shaggy and look really cool.

And when I said I visited a belligerent fabric cow, I meant that too.

She's my hero.
She has a huge quad garage out the back of her suburban house filled with fabric.
And cats.

And it's all at a fraction of the cost that it is in a normal patchwork store.

But the best thing is that she really and truly hates people.
I'm down with that.
But I find it so enjoyable to watch her try to contain her angst that I feel compelled to engage her in annoying friendly conversation, even at the expense of my own health and mental well being.

It's hilarious.
She grunts out only the most basic pleasantries with such disdain and barely disguised disgust, that I can't help but see it as the all clear to demand more from her.

I ensure that the tone of my voice remains hideously familiar and invasive. I pepper her with the type of questions that she would clearly rather lose a limb than have to answer.

And I enjoy myself immensely.

As I leave I say "OK!!! Bye!!!I'll see you soon!!!", with all the energy and moderation you would usually reserve for dropping a 3 year old at day care.

My God, she must loathe the very sight of me.
But I love the very sight of her.
It's a symbiotic relationship.

And you know what I like about that place so much?
Apart from the fabric and the belligerent fabric cow?

Usually when you buy fabric -even from Ebay, the retailer will tell you that it comes from a smoke free, pet free environment.

Nuh-uh.

At this joint, I swear to you, she often has three lit cigarettes in each hand at any one time and there are 2 cats and a dog who hang around in there and sleep on the fabric.
I have picked up bolts before only to find them covered with ginger fluffs, and lots of it.
Saves my cats time.
If I ever find a print with a coughed up hair ball, I'm buying the entire bolt. Stuff it.

The smell of stale smoke is so intense that you must wash and air everything for days to restore it to health.
And God help you if you cough in there. She lights up deliberately and stares at you, willing you to object...
As much as I hate cigarette smoke, I immediately move straight over to where she is, in a bid to confound her and her dastardly plan.
So far, so good.

* hack* hack* hack*

PS Gretchen. I in no way forgot that you are a purple girl, or that you really want a quilt. I will bring you something special when I come tailgating/Bundrenetting. Just calm down.

Those fucking biscuits.

Yes, those.
You know the ones. I complain about them every year.
And then I make them with loving care anyway, just a few days before Christmas. A double batch, no less. And only because a triple batch won't fit into my favourite mixing bowl (from Mum's old 1970's Mix-Master).

And despite the fact that I read these ridiculous and charming measurements from a laminated, original hand written recipe of my Oma's, which clearly stipulates that I must bend said biscuits, I exercise my right not to do so with such a sense of joy and pride that I quite adore myself as I carefully place the lovely flat bastards into my lovely flat Tupperware container.

And why would I be such a belligerent cow?
Part of the reason I suspect, is that I am, after all, this woman's grand daughter. But that's a story for another day.

No, I'm misleading you.
Mostly I have a good reason for the things I do. And I will follow tradition to the letter if it suits me to do so.

If.
The biggest word in the English language. ;O)

The true reason for my annual stubborn display of flat biscuits is the weather.
Actually, most people quickly figure out that meteorology is one topic which is able to make me so angry so quickly that my eyes spin around in my head and I'm unable to complete a sentence. And so, why wouldn't it affect my baking? Makes sense to me anyhow.

Lets' try and imagine the weather conditions, in particular, the relative humidity, around about December in, gee I dunno, how about Slovenia? Then lets' compare these to typical conditions in maybe Sydney, Australia.

Now, picture a bunch of biscuits which are kinda foamy and cakey -certainly not crisp or dry. Good. Now try to imagine what might happen if you lived in Australia, bent them all and stacked them on top of each other just like Pringles chips.

Yes, that's right, rather a delicious lump of Play Doh.

So, as it has been my responsibility and pleasure to make these biscuits each and every Christmas for almost 30 years now, I'm sure that you can get a pretty good feel for just how much I enjoyed being told (every year without fail) by atleast 1 uncle (who doesn't cook) that these fucking biscuits must be bent.

In fact, the last Christmas the Tischler family was gathered in it's entirety, my uncle held up perhaps his fourth or fifth biscuit and said for all to hear, " You know, if your grandmother was alive today...". Finally I could bear it no longer and interrupted him with, "... I could show her a thing or two by now".

Never had another word since, unless it was in thanks.

Anyway, here's the secret family recipe:


Anise Bogen (AKA Aniseed Bends hahaha pfffffft, not kidding)

• 4 egg weight sugar (yes, you heard right)
• 4 eggs
• 3 egg weight plain flour (sifted...the only time I ever do this)

• cream sugar and eggs until foamy
• fold in sifted flour
• drop spoonfuls on GLADBAKE covered trays, allowing plenty of room for spreading
• sprinkle with aniseeds (mostly in the middle of the biscuit)
• bake in a hot oven until pale golden brown
• move entire baking paper sheet onto a rack to cool
  
• best to remove the biscuits from the paper once cold

• do not bend each biscuit individually over a rolling pin, unless you are a belligerent psycho or Slovenian hausfrau (Gretchen, you're excused, Cleveland is plenty cold)

Cripes, that's nothing like what I intended to talk about. LOL
Never mind.
Next time.