There are two ways to look at this recipe.

One is that it’s a fast, healthy recipe perfectly suited to a busy Instagram influencer. It’s quick, it’s portion-controlled and it borders on the clean eating movement. It’s essentially like taking porridge and frying it, eliminating nasties such as “four” and “salt”. You could even get around the whole butter issue by advocating to your horde of followers that natural butter is devoid of all those chemicals they put in other spreads. It’s, like, holistic, and stuff. Plus, you could also use this to frame yourself as a grounded, ethical eater who supports local dairy farmers (which you should always aim to do anyway, guys).

Or, you could look at this as a recipe for a singleton who is looking to fill the hole in their heart with food but trying to eat healthily enough so their body doesn’t become too pudgy to be a commodity in the singles market. You could also suggest that this person is trying to cut costs by getting the bulk of their fruit in the form of overripe office freebies.

The good thing about this is that you can frame yourself as someone from the former or the latter categories through the simple selection of legwear – tight, sucky-innie leggings for the influencer or stained, slighty-faded trackpants you bought back in uni.

You have the power to decide.

Also, I’d like to point out that “panc” is short for “pancake” and pronounced like “wank”. It’s imperative that you use this term when referencing this recipe in conversations with your most powerful, influential acquaintances.

Step 1: Toy with the idea of cooking up a big savoury breakfast with fried kale and tomatoes and all that jazz.

Step 2: Listen for the voice in your head that tells to embrace life. You just went to the gym/took out the rubbish/managed to drag yourself out of bed instead of wallowing in your own musk under the covers like a cozy jaffle (the mattress is one piece of bread, you and your bodily gasses trapped under your blanket are the filling, and your doona is the other piece of bread). The voice is telling that you deserve something sweet.

Step 3: Decide you don’t want any damn vegetables.

Step 4: Take out and assemble your food processor, first placing the components on the kitchen counter dramatically, as if they’re pieces of a bomb and you’re in a spy movie and you’re in the montage close to the end where you gather the strength to finally take down the baddies in spectacular fashion.

Step 5: Grind half a cup of rolled oats into a flour – it will never really get to the point of being a fine powder, but more of a meal.

Step 6: Crack in an egg – Mum always tells me to first crack it into a cup to make sure you’re not dealing with a stillborn chicken, so you may want to do that. If you don’t mind having the mince of a half-formed chick in your pancakes, crack straight into the food processor.

Step 7: Take one medium-sized over-ripe banana that you snagged from the staffroom fruit bowl and left sitting at your desk for days before finally transporting it home. Peel and chuck into the processor.

Step 8: Grind that jazz into a delightful, beige goo.

Step 9: Depending on how thick it is, add about two tablespoons full of milk and pulse again. The idea is to get the mixture into a runny state – thick, but runny. Aim for the consistency of a chunky smoothie. Add more milk as needed.

Step 10: Add a sprinkling of baking powder to the mix, to fluff these fellas up. If you want to stay true to the original recipe, just shake a bit in from the container – otherwise about a teaspoon will probably do.

Step 11: Once you’re happy with the viscosity of your panc mix, it’s time to add the flave. Depending on what your soul needs, this might be a good squeeze of honey, cinnamon and mixed spice. I haven’t reached this emotional point yet, but you could very well add a dollop of Nutella, some choc chips or, if you’re in a really weird, dark place, some chunks of pork crackling. Go with what you speaks to you.

Step 12: Give everything one final pulse, just to make sure everyone within a 10m radius is awake.

Step 13: Discover that the dishwasher is not full enough to be switched on, but too full to take a frying pan. Whether you’ve had a long, hard week or you’ve just been flouncing around doing the absolute bare minimum, you’re probably too good to be spending your Saturday morning washing up. Decide to use the sandwich press instead, because at least you can just wipe it out and then immediately piss off outta the kitchen afterwards.

Step 14: When the sandwich press is hot, slather on a bit of butter to fry the batter in. The volume of this slather is entirely up to you, but I advocate for generosity in this department.

Step 15: Pour a puddle of the mixture on to the hotplate, enough to make one medium-to-large panc.

Step 16: Wait until the edges harden up, then wait a little longer. These babies aren’t particularly structurally sound. I’d recommend closing the press so the upper hotplate hovers about a centimetre above the panc to speed things up.

Step 17: Flip carefully, using a butter knife along with your spatula if you need to. It’s better to be safe than burdened with a broken pancake/heart.

Step 18: Repeat the process until you have no mixture left, making sure to add ample butter before each fresh pour.

Step 19: If you’re feeling a little extra, cut two strawberries into slices about half-a-centimetre thick, chucking them on the hotplate when you make your final pour. Let them sizzle until their innards turn to the gooey mush you imagine your heart looks like when you see something cute.

Step 20: Chuck all this on to a plate, artfully arranging them (as pictured above) if you have the stamina, or simply plonking them on if you can’t be fucked with presentation. If you’re in the can’t-be-fucked club, I do recommend piling them on duck egg blue plate (as pictured above).

Step 21: Wipe the sandwich press clean with a damp cloth while it’s still warm so you don’t have to do any cleaning after breakfast.

Step 22: Enjoy your decadent breakfast for one in an empty living room, perhaps indulging in some supermarket catalogue reading material while you eat in silence.