Viennese Whirls

There's a particular kind of afternoon that asks for biscuits like these. Grey light through the window, the kettle going for the second time, nothing urgent on the calendar. The radio on low. The sort of afternoon where you find yourself rummaging in the back of the cupboard for the piping bag because making something fiddly feels, suddenly, like exactly the right thing to do.

Viennese whirls are not difficult. They are, however, particular. The butter needs to be properly soft. The dough needs the cornflour or it won't have that crumbling, melting texture that makes them worth the effort. The piping bag will frustrate you for the first three biscuits and then you'll find your rhythm. By the eighth one you'll be piping them with the loose confidence of someone who has been doing this for years, even if you started this morning.

I make these when I want to bring something to someone. A friend who's been ill. A neighbour who took in a parcel. The school fete. They look like more effort than they are, which is the best kind of biscuit, and they keep beautifully in a tin for two or three days, which is the second best kind. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I got them right: cornflour, cold day, jam from June. The note is still there.

We're only making biscuits. But there are few better feelings than handing someone a tin of these and watching them lift the lid.