I lift the lid on the pot that’s simmering on the stove. That explains the smell. The rush of chilli makes my eyes water, but it also makes me hungry. I haven’t eaten any of Mum’s dishes for years and all my favourite memories come flooding back: her curries and tagines, and the way she used spices and never measured anything when she cooked, just threw ingredients in like she knew they would work. She made comfort food. Meals that would fill you up so much you felt as if you wouldn’t be able to eat for the rest of the week.

‘Hungry, Clem?’ Mum walks into the kitchen and hugs me. The hug is not too long and not too short. A Goldilocks hug. As she pulls away, I notice she’s wearing the old t-shirt I slept in last night, the jam stain still on the front. I love that she’s wearing it before she washed it. I didn’t wash it for ages when I first found it because I was terrified her smell would disappear in the washing machine.

‘Yeah. Starving!’

She laughs. ‘I made biscuits, too. They’re in the tin.’

I look around the bench for a cake tin, hoping it’s full of the choc-chip biscuits she used to make me sometimes after school. I didn’t even know we owned a cake tin. Dad’s not really a baker.

‘Annie gave it to me,’ says Mum as she reaches past me. ‘It was Gran’s.’

She shows me the top of the tin. It has a faded painting of the queen. ‘Annie’s had it for ages. She’s got heaps of Gran’s old stuff at the farm.’

‘It’s great, but I’m more excited about what’s inside it.’

‘Hope they’re okay. I haven’t made them before,’ she says as she takes the lid off.

There is a mound of small squat-looking patties that aren’t really a colour I’d normally associate with biscuits. I take one anyway, bite into it, and my mouth fills with a strange flaky and nutty texture and taste. It’s not really sweet and it certainly does not have choc chips. I’m not sure I like it, but I nod like it’s delicious as she explains the recipe was given to her at the health retreat.

‘They’ve got chickpeas in them.’ Mum smiles, like it’s a miracle. ‘You’d never believe it, would you?’

‘Actually, I would.’ I manage not to pull a face and quickly finish the mouthful I’m chewing.

‘More?’

I shake my head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll wait for dinner.’

She starts laughing. ‘Are they that bad?’

I laugh, too. ‘Yep. Worse.’

‘Sorry, Clem. I’ll go back to sugar-filled recipes.’

‘Yes, please!’ I throw the rest of my biscuit into the bin.

‘Do you think your dad will love them?’