Lamb chops and Afghans

It’s Sunday night and we sit down at a small table in the TV lounge at Toad Hall in Napier to eat dinner. My dad’s lamb chops with stir-fried veg and fried potatoes.

Inches away, fellow backpackers are glued to Nicolas Cage in National Treasure (Sky Movies 1), so we attempt conversation in hushed tones.

It goes something like this:

Father: "Mmm, the broccoli was a good choice."
Daughter: "We’ve got cheese for pudding." (A local washed rind cow’s milk overlaid with white mould, I can now say out loud.)
Mother: "And I bought some Afghans!"

The combination of forbidden whispering and my mum’s excited announcement has us all stifling laughter.

If you’ve never had an Afghan from a packet, let me explain. They’re New Zealand’s thick-cut answer to milk chocolate hobnobs with coconut. Excellent for dunking as they’re incredibly robust. According to the packet they’re "the delicious taste of home". Presumably they’re not aimed at the Afghan market, then. Let’s be honest, Christchurch or Kabul… I know where I’d rather spend a long weekend. You can feed the ducks on the river in Christchurch for a start.

We soon drain the first bottle of Pinot, and father and I look at each other hopefully for bottle number two, which we both know is only metres away in a locked room. Apparently (or rather, according to my mother), he’s already had "half a pint of gin" and she has the key to the room.

"Dad, don’t you need to, er, change your socks?" I ask helpfully.
"Oh! Yes! Right, yes, yes, I do!" he beams. His enthusiasm is a dead giveaway; she looks at us sadly. "It’s a screw-cap so we Don’t Have To Finish It." Hell no! We win.

Out come the Afghans, mostly heading my way it must be said, and a spot of after-dinner table exercise in the form of Connect 4 (or 4 In A Line as it’s called on the box) ensues. I beat my dad in, oh, about 10 seconds (I'm green). He claims he didn’t know it was "four in a row".

Never mind Afghanistan, I feel like I’ve eaten my way to Russia. I have to lie down so I take the washing up into the kitchen and… what have we here! A biscuit-making enterprise by the name of Bobo from Taiwan.

Backpacker Bobo hasn't merely strayed from the safety of two-minute noodles or instant soup à la ping to craft, say, a semi-challenging toasted cheese sandwich: she has turned her hand to baking! Only once before have I seen this performed at a backpackers: in 2001 on the West Coast of Australia I witnessed a girl (who turned out to be a chef) make caramel sauce for her ice cream. Suddenly I’m embarrassed by my Afghans (though, luckily, there’s little evidence of their former existence).

So what’s the recipe, Bobo, flour, sugar and butter? "Of course!" she cries, though her secret is that the sugar is brown, there’s cornflour mixed with the flour and a little honey with the sugar. It’s not a Taiwanese recipe - it’s inspired by a shortbread recipe she read in a cookbook.

They’re a bit stuck to the tin by the time the photos are over and the removal process is slow. Luckily I’m patient enough to be offered a taste. Actually it was probably just to get rid of me now I come to think of it. They’re good, though!

Now I’m full of cheese, chocolate and Bobo’s biscuit. I crawl back down the corridor to dream of Pinot on tap, homemade Afghans and Connect 4 strategies.