Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 16, 2019

Sometimes your “good enough” turns out better than your best.

It’s rare, but it happens.

I recently hosted a picnic, making a flippant remark about putting on a few trays of slice when I proposed the event. In my mind, I’d whip up tray after tray of impressive food in slice form while maintaining an aura of calm, like a competent mother in a baking paper commercial.

But, as a normal person would expect from making 10 trays of slice, it didn’t pan out that way. I was up late. I got distracted and whoooooy boy did I get sweaty. The output was very different to how I’d envisaged it, but no recipe was as different as my attempt at lemon slice.

Instead of a fudgy, zingy icing-topped treat, I ended up with a large golden brown crisp. But, amazingly, it was the most popular “slice” of the day. I don’t know if this was because it was actually super tasty or because it happened to be located closest to the hungriest picnickers who didn’t feel like extending their reach to fill their gastric voids, but it quickly disappeared.

And, because I’ve learned nothing else over the holiday period, I’m choosing to pass on my wisdom to you, should you ever desire presenting your guests with a impractically-large biscuit.

Step 1: Select a packet of bickies that are somewhat sugary, but so plain you would always pick them last if they were in an assorted packet. If these mild biscuits took a human form, they’d be that person who always turns up at barbecues on time and is polite enough, but who never really has that much to add to the conversation. Have this person in mind when you’re perusing the biscuit aisle. One of my guests was allergic to nuts, so I paid special attention to the list of ingredients when selecting my packet of underwhelming biscuits to insure she wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, thus stealing all the attention away from me.

Blitz up your inoffensive bickies in a food processor and tip into a mixing bowl.

Step 2: Note the recipe pitifully suggesting 100 grams of butter and scoff, knowing you’re not going to all the effort of using kitchen scales* or settle for such a small amount of butter. Plonk seven decent tablespoons of butter into small saucepan, then tip in half a can of sweetened condensed milk.

* Getting out and putting away the kitchen scales is one of those things that really irks me. I don’t understand why it is, but I find it infuriating. Perhaps there’s some undressed trauma there I need to explore.

Step 3: Become infuriated the recipe doesn’t call for a whole can, because you’re not going to be able to resist the temptation of an open tin of sweetened condensed milk in the fridge. You just know you’re only going be rid of it once you inevitably cut your hand on the rim of the tin while dipping in a finger, bleeding into the enticing milky elixir. Then you’ll have to explain to people how you injured your hand. “Ah, yes, well you see this half-empty can of sweet, sticky milk called to me from inside the fridge, bewitching mind, body and soul – turns out I couldn’t resist the power of an inanimate can.” It’s the deepest form of shame.  Resolve to use the remaining milk in another type of slice within the next hour to maintain your dignity.

Step 4: Slowly heat the saucepan until the butter has melted, stirring to blend the two sinful substances as one.*

* Feel free to cackle here, if you like. I don’t think there’s enough opportunities for witch-like cackling and stirring, so do take up the chance to do so wherever you can.

Step 5: Attempt to zest a lemon, despite not owning a lemon zester. Try all sides of the cheese grater until you find a side that doesn’t also zest your skin. Add zest to the mixing bowl. Decide to use the word “zest” as often as possible.

Step 5: Add about half a cup of shaved coconut to the zesty crumb mix, feeling defiant by not levelling out the cup measurement, thus adding an incorrect amount to the mix. You don’t live life by the rulebook and this rebellious spirit is reflected in your slice.*

* You could reasonable cackle here too, you free, untameable spirit. 

Step 7: Pour the buttery mixture into the bickie crumbs, mixing until you have a grainy gunge.

Step 8: Press into a shallow slice tin, place in the fridge to set and pledge to ice it later.

Step 9: Realise the summer heat will melt the slice, which is so weak-willed it cannot maintain its own structure.

Step 10: Angrily slam it into a moderate oven for about 20 minutes so it will firm up and get some backbone.

Step 11: Place it on the bench to cool overnight, pledging to make an icing for it in the morning.

Step 12: Sleep soundly, waking up later than you originally planned the following morning.

Step 13: Decide you cannot be bothered with icing and that it’s good enough as it is.

Step 14: Chuck oversized biscuit on the picnic rug, declaring to your guests that it’s a non-sliced slice designed to be picked at, like it’s some kind of baked revolution.

Step 15: Revel in its popularity. The taste of success is lemony. Savour its zest.*

* Yet another chance to cackle; your plan worked!