“No. Smelled something.” Stella came closer, studying the spread. “Is that golden syrup?”
“Found it in the back of the cupboard.” Fiona held up the tin. “I’m making Anzacs. If that’s alright.”
Stella’s eyebrows rose. “Anzac biscuits? You haven’t made those in years.”
“I know.”
“Nana’s recipe?”
“The only one worth making.”
Stella stared at the assembled ingredients. The oats, the coconut, the butter starting to glisten in the pan. She hadn’t seen these things together since before the twins. Since before everything changed.
“Can I help?”
Something flickered across Fiona’s face. “I’d like that.”
They worked side by side as the kitchen slowly warmed, the sun rising outside Margo’s window. Fiona talked her through each step — the way Stella dimly remembered from years ago, from a time when her mother had time for things like this.
“The butter and syrup have to melt together completely. See how it’s getting that amber color?”
“Yeah.” Stella stirred carefully, watching the golddeepen. “Nana always said you could tell a good Anzac by the color of the butter.”
“She did. She was very particular about her Anzacs.” Fiona measured bicarb into a small bowl. “She was very particular about everything, really.”
“I remember. Sort of.” Stella kept stirring, reaching for memories that felt fuzzy at the edges. “She always smelled like lavender and she had that drawer full of butterscotch candies that she pretended she didn’t have.”
“That drawer.” Fiona smiled and shook her head. “She thought she was so sneaky. Your grandfather found her stash once and replaced all the butterscotches with individually wrapped Brussels sprouts. She didn’t speak to him for three days.”
Stella laughed, surprised by it. “That sounds like Pop.”
“It was very much Pop.”
They added the bicarb to the butter mixture, watching it foam up in a way that felt almost magical. Stella remembered this part — the transformation, the chemistry of it. Her mother’s hands guiding hers.
“Not too close,” Fiona said as Stella shaped dough balls onto the tray. “They spread.”
“I remember.” Stella placed another one carefully. “That time you made them for my class and they all merged into one giant cookie.”
“That was a disaster. Your teacher was very polite about it.”
“She ate like four pieces. Said it was ‘efficient baking.’”
They slid the first tray into the oven. The smell of butter and oats and coconut filled the small kitchen, and Stella felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. This was familiar. This was before.
Fiona leaned against the counter, watching Stella shape the second batch.
“You’re good at this,” she said quietly.
“I learned from you.”
“Did you?”
Stella looked up. Something was different about her mum this morning. She couldn’t name it, but it was there.
“Yeah,” Stella said. “You used to cook with me all the time, remember? Before—” She stopped.
“Before the twins.”
