Golden Syrup Flapjacks

Some afternoons call for nothing more ambitious than this. A grey Sunday. A wet Wednesday after work. The kind of weather where the only sensible response is to put the kettle on and slide a tin of flapjacks into the oven.

Butter, golden syrup, sugar, oats, a pinch of salt. That's the whole list. There's no clever technique, no resting overnight, no skill being tested. You melt three things together in a pan, stir in the oats, press the lot into a tin, and bake it until the edges go dark and the middle holds its chew. Twenty-five minutes from idea to tea-time.

I've made flapjacks for school lunchboxes, for long walks across cold fields, for the back of the cupboard when someone needed feeding without ceremony. They travel well, they keep for days, and they improve on the second morning when the syrup has settled deeper into the oats. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Add some sultanas if you've got them. A handful of seeds. A scrape of orange zest if it's that kind of mood. None of it is necessary. The plain version is the one I keep coming back to.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. 'Flapjacks. Tuesday. Rain.' I've never needed to write it down again.