Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 20, 2019

I made up this recipe the other weekend, when I felt like eating something delicious but wanted to lie to myself that I was being healthy.

My answer was to celebrate the coming of autumn with pumpkin scones, challenging myself to use oats instead of regular flour (if that’s not the whitest, most basic middle class sentence I’ve ever written, I’ll burn my tasteful linen dresses).

I actually began writing this recipe down half way through, so I could recreate whatever I’d done in the event of it not being too terrible. Then I made it again, following the recipe. I think I’m a legitimate recipe writer now, so I’m just waiting for the Le Creuset pots to come rolling in. Any day now.

Important note: I love raw mixture and have no fear whatsoever of catching salmonella from eating raw eggs – in fact, I didn’t event know that was a reason people didn’t eat raw dough until I was a grown woman and I turned out fine*! So I made my recipe a little doughy, but please feel free to cook for longer if you like your baked goods as dry as your soul.

* LOL I’m absolutely riddled with defects. These fault can be traced back to a lot of things, but I’m pretty sure the consumption of raw eggs is not listed in the DSM as a determining factor for any of them. 

As such, please store these in the fridge*, because they go bad quickly if left out in the mould breeding ground of a sealed plastic container in a humid climate. The smell of rotting pumpkin is not nice.

* They keep for a good week if stashed in an airtight container in the fridge. They keep even longer if you make them look like sloppy lumps of dried vomit, thus limiting their appeal and warding off any rouge tasters. 

Step 1: Peel and chop about a sixth of a small pumpkin into tiny cubes – they don’t have to be exact cubes, they can be rectangular prisms if you’re feeling sloppy.

Step 2: Chuck these pump chunks into a saucepan, trying to mimic the kind of flair you would see on a cooking show. Perhaps pretending you have long fingernails will help.

Step 3: Boil the arse out of those chunks until you can jab a fork though them with such ease that you no longer get any catharsis from stabbing an inanimate object. Set aside to cool.

Step 4: Blitz three cups of rolled oats in a food processor until they have the consistency of sand. This is going to be your flour and forms the majority of the wankery in this recipe. Tip this powder into a large – preferably fancy – mixing bowl.

Step 5: This is one of my recipes, so you’re going to need to break out the ground ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and, my gourmet fave, the allspice. Go with two teaspoons of ginge, one-and-a-half of all spice, and about half each of the nutmeg and cinnamon. Go for a good pinch of salt too, while you’re at it. Tip all this added pizzaz into the mixing bowl, with as much flair as you can muster.

Step 6: This is one dense, grainy mix. If you don’t want to be eating rocks, add three teaspoons of baking soda. Yep, three teaspoons. Don’t be fucking shy.

Step 7: Fork this dry mixture together, in a vain attempt to lighten up the oaten gravel.

Step 8: Blend the pumpkin in the food processor until it has the consistency of Clag Glue. It should be clumpy but not lumpy, if that makes sense. In case this doesn’t make sense, just aim for a thick puree. Scoop about one-and-a-half cups of this gunk into the dry mixture.

Step 9: Mix, realising you’re probably going to add more liquidy goop to the mixture to avoid eating something with the mouthfeel of a dried cowpat.

Of course, butter is the answer to this question. Butter, is always the answer.

Step 10: In the already hot and dirty saucepan, add about 50 grams of butter, which works out to be two large/normal tablespoons. Then add two tablespoons of brown sugar before melting over a low heat.

Step 11: Beat an egg and consider adding milk, given it’s a key ingredient in the classic recipe.

Step 12: Remember that you forgot to buy milk earlier that day and decide against adding whatever dairy juice you have, because otherwise you won’t have enough for a cup of tea tomorrow.

Step 13: Stir in the sugary butter mix and the egg.

Step 14: Decide to add in a cup of normal rolled oats, because you really want to drive home the point that these guys are rich in wholesome oatiness.

Step 15: Slop on to an oven tray in golf ball sized clumps, spacing out if you can. Remember, clumsiness in presentation in the kitchen is merely homeyness, which is rustic charm. And rustic charm is pretty fucking trendy right now. So if your balls look like splats, don’t fret, pet.

Step 16: Chuck into a fan-forced oven set to 210 degrees, setting the timer for seven minutes so you can make a “seven minutes in heaven” joke… to yourself, because there’s no one around to hear it.

Step 17: Take out one clump to try as a tester, smearing in butter. Decide that, even though you love raw mixture, it could probably do with a bit more time in the oven.

Step 18: Rotate the trays, chuck them back in the oven and set the timer for seven minutes again. Again, realise that you’re all alone and there’s no one around to grimace at your “more like seven minutes in hell, because it’s so hot, ammiright?” remark.

Step 19: Take out of the oven, allowing the steam to disappear before you take a picture of your oaten treats to post on social media.

Step 20: Begin badgering your mates with texts that read: “I just invented a new wanky kind of oats. Come over!”.

Step 21: Sit in silence for hours before deciding it’s probably time to go to bed.