My Nanna is renowned for her flapjack. For those of you thinking ‘and just what is that…?’ basically it’s a luscious blend of oats, butter, sugar and golden syrup that’s been baked until crisp on top and soft and chewy on the inside. It’s then cut into slabs and devoured with a good, strong cup of tea. It’s a popular sweet treat in the British Isles, and particularly good if you’re having a shit day and need something that’s going to give your insides a warm, comforting hug.
When I was growing up, my Nanna would bake flapjack all the time and store it in a greaseproof paper lined Quality Street tin. I can still remember the lightly sticky texture when picking a square up. However, my Nanna’s flapjack was one thing that had to be eradicated from my diet when I decided to lose weight, and it was incredibly difficult for my Grandparents to comprehend why I wouldn’t eat it any more. Every time I went to visit the tin would come out. But my reply was always the same.
Several years ago I started eating flapjack again, but there was still a heavy element of guilt attached to every bite. It’s only been recently, say, in the last year or so, that I’ve felt I can eat it and not feel like ripping my body to piece afterwards. Today I know that I’m well because eating a piece of flapjack is no longer a big deal. I can do it and continue on with the rest of my day like nothing particularly major has happened. That, for me, is freedom of the greatest kind.