Scottish Bannocks

There's a kind of November afternoon when the light gives up by half past three and the only sensible thing is to put the kettle on. The girdle goes on the hob. A bowl of oatmeal sits on the counter. We're only making dinner, or rather, we're making the kind of bread that asks nothing of the day except half an hour of attention.

Bannocks belong to the Highlands, not to my corner of England, and I cook them with the respect owed to a tradition I haven't lived. But they've earned a place in my kitchen because they do something no other bread does: they go from bowl to table in less than an hour, no oven, no proving, no mystery. Oats, salt, a little flour to help things along, and a hot dry pan. That's the whole list.

They cook on the girdle until the edges curl up and the underside speckles brown, smelling of toasted oats and warmth. Tear them open while they're still hot and the inside is soft and slightly nutty. Butter goes straight in and disappears. I wrote it down in the notebook last winter: 'Bannocks. Friday. Wind in the chimney.' Some meals don't need more explanation than that.