coconut, cardamom + ginger ice cream with honey

dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)
dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)

There was a dog tied up outside the job center. A young, male pit bull type dog, full black with a white blaze. Lean, fit, his whole body rippling with nervy muscle as he waited for his human. I was waiting to cross the road, preferably before the human. The human came out of the job center, a man in his maybe his mid twenties. Grey sweatpants, a Nike hoodie, buzz cut. Tattoos and scars. Two lookalikes behind him. I attempted to cross and hovered on the curb, waiting for two police cars with lights flashing to pull out of the police station; out of the station's doors came two men. Older, stockier, wearing black leather jackets and balaclavas, like something out of an 80s film.

I had left my car at the supermarket and walked into town, but hadn't been in a while so took a wrong turn straight out of the parking lot. I walked left, almost into the council estate, three sides of grim flats hemming me into a concrete courtyard. It was strangely quiet, 2pm, maybe most kids were at school. A dog barked from somewhere in a flat and the wind whistled through my hood, carrying the first drops of icy drizzle. I back tracked, from out of those grim concrete walls, walking past the casino. A woman smoked in the doorway, I wondered why she was staring so much,  but realized the looked right through me, off on a trip to places she'd never otherwise see. 

dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)

Not some deprived inner city, no downtown LA. But this dying seaside town. It's the biggest town close to our house. If you read this blog a bit, you'll know I live in a cutesy village, popular with tourists. Londoners love the area for it's big farmhouses and barn conversions, the proximity to the Queen's summer estate, flowery thatched churches. Pretentious? No doubt. But respectable, which was likely we chose it. Turn left out of the house, 15 minutes, and we're in this town. I used to go to high school quite nearby, one seaside town south along the coast; it's residential, solid and hardworking. I'd change buses here, leaving the cheery yellow bus that came through the north Norfolk villages to one of the faded, tattered town buses with their jaded, hardened drivers. They sure drew the short straw in terms of routes. I'd stand in the crush of other students; older people, getting the hell out of the town; 14 year old mothers with crying babies, no dads in sight. There'd sometimes be groups of youngish men, polite and wearing grease stained overalls, who'd give up their seats to the mothers and the older people. They'd get off by the docks, where a couple of vessels were moored and workboats are repaired, remnants of when the gas industry kept this town moving. They boarded the big ships, often from Scotland, so the only  one that was permanently tied to the quayside was the shady Mumbai registered barge. There'd be a few middle aged men sitting at the back of the bus, you'd wonder where they should be and why they weren't behind a desk, like everyone else. It was a weird atmosphere. Not just on the bus, but in town too. A divide. It was a them versus us type attitude - normal people came into town, did what they needed to do, then left as quickly as possible. The students, the seamen, and the shoppers bussed through. They thanked the drivers, the real locals just flashed passes and wrangled screaming kids on, and I'd think about how those kids would do the same, tossed in a gritty spiral of broken homes, wasted youth, dingy buses. 

The only people who lingered in town were... the lost ones, I suppose. Lost to whatever hard streets and no foundations do to you. It wasn't the kind of town where, on a cold winter day, waiting for the ATM, you'd look into the nearest cafe at smiling, glowing faces. Distant, blank stares; figures in doorways; raised voices. Incomprehensible English, a mashup of other languages. A half-dead port town without the flair of Marseille or the determination and edge of Rotterdam. Going to the bookshop between buses, here I'd casually walked past drunken fistfights and the leftovers of a fire started by some despondent local youth. No big deal, all the kids who went to school in the area accepted the place was rough and avoided it as much as possible. No active hate, more apathy. I never felt unsafe, just not really ever at ease. That day,  I suppose I'd forgotten how... soul sapping the town could be. As I walked through to the health food store, a few lines of a song were stuck in my head. Running over and over, like a whirring treadmill. It took me some time to place the words, they were so warm and gentle, in such a cold and hard place.

dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)

 oh my darling, clementine. Just that. I don't know a whole lot of the lyrics, but my darling clementine was one of the few songs my mum would sing to me, when I was young and couldn't sleep. She sat on the edge of my little pink bed, looking out of my window. It wasn't an intentional thing, she wasn't trying to be a "good" mother, she wasn't trying to be anything, just to be there, and that's how she continues. Out of the blue, the tune came to me. Almost eery.  Almost cliche. As if a ray of sunlight had cut through the thick clouds, the words ran through my head, all the way back to my car, and as I warmed my hands on the heating vent. I couldn't help but think, perhaps, if more people had mothers who'd sang them songs they still remembered, and if their mothers had filled their kiddie days with warmth and generosity , whether those grim blocks of flats would be still be full. Maybe their inhabitants would've been curious to do more, to work harder, to get out of their rut. To hold onto their families, no matter what. It's not a particular day to think about mothers, but I was driving back through the green countryside, to a solid and quiet place, that is how it is because of her. I wondered, if others were like her, and all the parents who are solid and quiet, whether the town would be so grey, and whether the doorways would still be dark with the shadows of people with nowhere to go. 

dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)
dairy free, honey sweetened coconut + cardamom ginger ice cream (anti-inflammatory)

Hi from the new site! What do you guys think? It's not totally finished yet, there's still quite a bit of link checking to do and I realise a few recipes were lost in the move but they're slowly coming back up, so if you're ever looking through the archives, there will be a couple of updates to each post. Rome wasn't built in a day and similar comments. That aside, Layla and I are away this week in Thailand, for a bit of winter sun (and yes I have taken 3 textbooks with me.) Our mum is staying home with the dogs, which I feel guilty about because she really hates the cold and I don't mind it all that much. So I stocked up the freezer with some coconut milk ice cream with a lot of cardamom which she loves. You could just call this anti-inflammatory ice cream if you wanted to (honey + ginger) or I call it favourite things ice cream, because I adore honey, ginger, cardamom and coconut. The looong infusing time in the fridge gives it such a heady, floral flavour and a bit of  gingery bite which is balanced by the mild honey and creamy, pale coconut. My mum is total sceptic of some of the "non-conventional" sweets I make (dairy free ice cream? what no sugar?) but she was genuinely scooping it, half frozen, out of the tub, so I guess that mean it's ok. Even in the winter, cardamom ice cream is so appealing. And easy to make when you're busy with 10,000 suitcases and bags. 

It will be a quiet on my end for a bit, the week we are back I have work experience so it's going to be pretty crazy. I wish you guys could also have a sunny holiday, but make this ice cream and you'll be quite close to the tropics. Hugs and ice cream for you all xx

Coconut, cardamom + ginger ice cream with honey

makes about 2 cups / 500ml    // gluten + dairy free (easily vegan too)

1 can full fat coconut milk (400ml / 1 2/3 cup)
2 tablespoons cardamom pods
1-2 tablespoons freshly grated ginger, depending on how much of a kick you like
1/4 cup (80g) honey

Pour the can of coconut milk into a small saucepan. Bash open the cardamom pods with a pestal or something similar and add them to the pan along with the ginger and honey.

Place the pan on the stove over medium high heat and warm the liquid till it starts to steam, stirring the honey through. Remove the pan from the stove and pour the batter into a heat safe container or measuring jug and set aside to infuse, in the refrigerator for about 4 hours. Stir the liquid occasionally so it doesn't stick to the sides of the jug. It may look like the coconut milk is starting to curdle (ginger is slightly acidic, that's why some recipes ask you to blanche it first) but you'll strain it, so don't worry.

After 4 hours, retrieve the ice cream mix and pour it through a fine mesh strainer, discarding the cardamom pods and any other solids. You may now be able to churn the ice cream, or allow it to cool for longer in the fridge, depending on the temperature of your fridge (and your eagerness for ice cream).

Churn according to your ice cream maker's manufacturer's instructions. Pour the batter into a freezer safe container and freeze overnight, if you want something more scoopable than sorbet-ish texture. Allow to sit at room temperature for about 10 minutes before enjoying, for easy scooping.

You can cover the container with a piece of parchment paper or cling film and it will keep for some time in the freezer, it just might get a little icy. 


To keep this vegan you can use maple syrup, or even coconut sugar, in place of the honey.  If you don't have an ice cream maker I think these would be really nice as popsicals too. I was even tempted to drink it as a hot, creamy cardamom-y milk when it came off the stove...

more ice cream

buckwheat rolls with blackberry, rosemary & apple - honey compote

buckwheat blackberry rosemary rolls 3-1.jpg

Winter has had Norfolk wrapped in its cold embrace this week. The village is quiet. The farmers in their pick ups have pulled wool hats low over their ears, the local tree cutter wears a tattered khaki fleece and the school kids are in their bright blue sweaters, like confetti as they run along the frozen sidewalks. The few dog walkers who are out wear hoods and scarves, any piece of skin exposed bitten by the easterly wind off the sea and echoing through the empty countryside.

It’s the empty fields and the windswept beaches that bring the place to life in the summer. It brings them here – the tourists. In cars packed to the roof with beach chairs and spades, pulling caravans and pitching tents, lighting barbecues and laughing, playing music till late. There’s traffic on every country lane, when we go shopping, we leave the house at 8am and don’t hope to be back before noon. It’s lively. The whole place buzzes with…happy chaos. New dogs to encounter on walks, the locals keep theirs on leads and wearily cross the road. Six months of long days, hope of heatwaves, beach days, the long sunshine hours giving so much. But the nights draw in, and the tourists leave. Maybe that’s why people say that winter is cruel, its grasp seems to take the life out of a place.

The squawking flocks of tourists are slowly replaced by hundreds of migratory birds. You hear the birds before you see them, in a field in the distance, circling like a low hanging dark cloud. Sometimes they fly so low overhead you can hear each wing beat, feel the warmth of their feathery bodies, admire their unity. The dogs too will turn their heads skywards, ears pricked, dew on each shiny nose from the frosty grass. They’ll listen to the other retrievers barking somewhere in the valley, busy on a hunt. The peace will be broken by stereotypically staccato rifle fire, the geese will lift off and fly, pheasants will fall. When we walk through the village, the limp bodies of the birds hang from the beams and rafters of garages and wood sheds, their rich red and green plumes still clinging onto their sheen. Ah, winter. There you go again, robbing life.

We only meet two other walkers. The usual tweed-jacketed and cheerful, Aigle-booted man, his stern wife and his wolfhounds, emerging eerily out of the frozen fog. We wait on the verge for the big, harmless dogs to pass and watch the chubby blackbirds skit about under bare hedgerows, picking at the red holly. Listen to the church bells ringing in the next village, no tractors ploughing the fallow fields, no caravans trundling through, no tourists asking for directions. After the walk and the girls are dry, curled up in two balls, I stand against the radiator and feel the burning heat on my back. Ran my fingers under the tap to get the life back into them. They’re dry and chapped from holding the dogs’ lead in the biting wind, my face is pale, my eyes used to a dim grey light and the sun setting by 4pm.

And still I’m a winter person. That cold embrace. Lots of people love the winter, perhaps up till Christmas. It’s a complicated, delicate personality that runs further than December. Further than pale skin and hunting season. It’s haunting and humbling. There’s quiet reflection. There’s life. The bird feeder on the cherry tree is in constant chaos, the robin and the little yellow birds darting in and out, swallows swooping low as the dogs chase a sheltering pheasant out of sight. The fields are empty enough to watch hares racing and deer jumping, the sky gray enough to match the doves cooing from the roof. It’s cold enough to throw a colourful quilt over my all-white bed, a shock to these weary eyes. The winter skies are clear enough to be lit by a thousand stars, it’s dark long enough to see them. When the dogs have been out first thing in the morning, they bring into the warm house a gust of bitter air, their fur is cold and their eyes smile from running on the frosty ground. You go outside and the cold burns your lungs when you laugh, it singes the wet tears off your cheeks. It reminds you that this is living, that you have lungs to burn and warm cheeks to singe.

The geese take off and fill the empty skies, going further south, perfect unison. From the wooded thicket, rifle shots fill the deafening silence. In the distance, the earliest of the year’s lambs bleats. Winter, hovering somewhere between taking and giving life.

So it’s been super cold here lately, but we don’t really get that much deep freeze in these parts so I don’t really mind. Especially when I have a box of these rolls in the house. They’re surprisingly simple to make, especially considering the compote can be made up to 2 weeks in advance! Because I like whole grains etc I usually go for spelt flour, since for being so grainy it still bakes up quite light, soft and mild, but I wanted something a bit bolder and slightly bitter, so I added a small amount of buckwheat flour. Not overpowering, but the taste is just enough to add another layer of flavour to the heady rosemary, tart fruits and floral honey. And in terms of rolls, don’t fear the yeast, this recipe is pretty much fool proof (no pun intended). In the recipe notes I link to my cardamom wreath recipe which has lots of details on proofing etc. You can of course also replace the home made compote with Store bought but just try to choose one without too many junky ingredients (I used to love Bonne Maman or St. Dalfour), but you might just want to add a little more rosemary and ginger to the dough for the fragrant, complex flavour that they give. As a side note, I have been having trouble with my domain and hosting services for the blog so I’m going to be switching providers and moving away from WordPress. This means the site may be down for a couple of days at the end of this week, but I’ll be back and hopefully things will be running smoother!
Stay warm, bake bread and have a good week xx


These rustic honey sweetened rolls are made with a combination of mild, supple spelt flour and earthy, slightly bitter buckwheat flour. The fragrant and complex flavour of rosemary and blackberries with Apple in the simple, spiced compote are a perfect, jammy filling. Try one straight out of the oven if you can, or heat leftovers and enjoy throughout the week.

//makes 9-12 rolls & about 2 1/2 cups (400ml) compote

//For the compote

1 large apple, whatever you can find where you are (about 150g)
Juice and zest of 2 lemons
8 cups (volume-wise, 2L) blackberries, fresh or frozen
2-4 sprigs fresh rosemary, to taste
2/3 cup (200g) honey
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon fresh ginger, finely grated

//for the buckwheat sweet rolls

To proof the yeast

2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast
1 tablespoon honey
Pinch salt
1/4 cup (60ml) warm* water
2 1/4 cup (260g) spelt flour
3/4 cup (95g) buckwheat flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary leaves, chopped finely
2/3 cup (160ml) lukewarm milk (dairy or almond milk would both be good)
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon (15ml) melted and lukewarm coconut oil (or butter, I should think)

// for the compote

Into a large, heavy bottomed pot, add the lemon juice and zest.

Core the apple and chop finely, leaving the peal which helps with setting. Add the Apple to the pot with the spices and the berries. Mix so the fruit is covered with the lemon and spices, then pour over the honey and stir to coat.

Place the pot on high heat and let the mix boil enthusiastically for about 10 minutes. The fruits should be looking pretty wet and bubbly, especially if you’re using frozen berries. Reduce the heat to a simmer and leave the compote to reduce, stirring occasionally so nothing sticks to the bottom.

There will be a layer of foam as it bubbles quickly, but no need to skim since the dark color it creates works here well.

After about 20 minutes of bubbly simmering, start keeping an eye for consistency. This is less precise than jam so don’t worry about freezing plates or thermometers etc. You want it to be fairly thick and not too liquid – there may be some juicy liquid pooling at the sides, but when you take some of the compote out on a spoon it should largely hold shape. It will also thicken up as it cools and goes into a cool container. Give it 5 minutes more, simmering, if it looks like it needs to be thicker, especially for frozen berries.

As soon as the compote is done, pour it into a heat safe container like a glass measuring jug. Allow to cool, then pour into a clean glass jar and refrigerate; it will set further. The lemon helps preserving so it will keep about 2 weeks in the fridge.  Reserve a bit for the buns.

// for the rolls

Start by proofing the yeast. Take a small bowl and 1/4 cup/ 60ml body warm water- if you have a kitchen thermometer it should register 42-45’C (110-115’F), if you don’t, just add 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon boiling hot water to 2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons cold water. Stir in the honey, a pinch of salt and gently stir in the yeast. Set aside for 10-15 minutes, it varies from brand to brand.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together the buckwheat and spelt flours with the salt and spices. You can also very gently heat your coconut oil and milk together (too hot or too cold and it’ll

kill the poor yeast) then stir through the honey. Set aside. Grease a large bowl with oil and set aside.

After 10-15 minutes, if the yeast has bloomed and covered the surface of the water, you’re all set (see this page for troubleshooting). Add the yeast mix and the milk mix to the dry ingredients and gently stir together with a wooden spoon to combine. It will take some time but should come together, in a soft but firm dough. If it is too dry, add a tiny teaspoon of lukewarm milk at a time, likewise with the flour if it’s too wet.

Once it’s a handleable but sticky dough, lightly flour your work surface and dump out the bowl. Knead the dough for five minutes, till it’s supple.

Fold the dough into a rough ball and place into the oiled bowl. Cover loosely with a cloth and leave somewhere warm to proof (in an oven on the lowest setting, just outside a warm oven, in a cozy laundry room or something) for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. The dough should be double in bulk, the time will vary depending on the temperature of your house so keep an eye on it (see notes here for some help)

While you wait, you can grease a pan for baking – an 8x8inch square or 9×9 inch square will work for 9 larger rolls, a 9×13 inch pan for 12 minis. Your call. Line it with parchment paper for easily removal and find your compote (or make it now!!)

After the first rise, punch down the dough (literally punch it, to knock out the air a bit) and lightly flour a work surface once more. Knead the dough till just flexible, 2 minutes. Roll the dough into an oval/rectangle about 40cm long and 30cm wide. Keep an eye it’s not sticking.

Dollop the compote into the middle of the rectangle and spread evenly towards the corners, leaving about 2cm / short of an inch at the edges. Roll the dough from the long side, so you have a long log.

You can trim the edges of your dough where there isn’t enough jam (discard or

Keep for snacking). Use a pair of kitchen scissors to cut the dough into 9 even pieces (or 12 if using a bigger pan) and place them into prepared pan, with a little gap between. Cover with the towel and leave for a shorter second rise, 30 minutes or so till they’re puffy and likely touching each other.

Bake for about 30-35 minutes. They don’t turn particularly dark or golden so just give them a squeeze; the outside should be crisp but the inside still a bit soft.

They’ll keep for about 3 days in the fridge buuut just eat one or two out of the oven because the jam is warm and the bread is soft and yum. You might like to warm them before eating if you’re keeping them for a bit.


I made a bit of a hash of the sizes of my rolls, I was planning on doing 9 in an 8×8 square pan but accidently cut 12. My dogs were lying in front of the cupboard with my baking tins so I just did the 9 in the 8 inch pan then baked a couple more in a ramekin, so feel free to do whatever you like. Jumbo rolls maaay need a few minutes more in the oven

more winter recipes

chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies


I don't love talking about politics, not here or anywhere else. I also don't love valentine's day. But I think, considering everything that's going on right now, that it's a bit hard to miss the irony. I walked into the store the other day and looked at the news stand at the front. The newspapers, headlines to the back page, filled with hate. Hate from the people for a campaign that's built on it; the words of its supporters. People killed, families torn apart. The shelf next to the papers, the valentine's cards. The pinks and reds and roses, telling husbands and wives and friends you love them.

I don't propose we all start to love everyone, because we don't all live in some fair trade commune in southern Philadelphia. Maybe we need to rethink about how we think about love. Perhaps it's been over complicated. Perhaps we should just dumb it down to acceptance and quiet respect. Not even acceptance, just tolerance. That there will be people who don't want to celebrate valentine's day. That there'll be girls who want to show off their hair and others who'd prefer to keep it covered. That there are happy families with parents who never married and content kids with parents who married in a church. That there are some guys that love toting guns and driving tractors and there are some who curate art and live in lofts with exposed brick.

chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies

Maybe it's because we're actually scared. Maybe have good reason to be. Maybe we're not as accepting as we thought we were. Maybe it's because fewer and fewer families are actually composed of a mother, a father, two kids, a dog, a suburban detached house with a double garage and a toyota. Maybe the acceptance of change is on the outside. Maybe we did it because it's the cool thing to do, to feign openness; maybe it became trendy. Maybe, deep down, we cling to tradition. The tradition that love is romance, or perhaps duty to care. For soul mates, your children, a sibling. Maybe it's what we were taught. We grew up watching TV shows were people give each other candy hearts and pink cards and wait breathlessly for the popular boy to ask them to the dance. But maybe things have changed. Maybe now there are people getting hurt, pushed aside, loosing opportunities. And there's no moral high ground. You know how you read everywhere, every day, that we can't go on eating processed wheat and sugar because it's just not modern? Not sustainable. Not healthy. People have seemed very happy to jump off the ship of what health food once was, into a very stormy sea and onto a very shaky lifeboat that is what eating well has now become. In the same way, maybe love as it once was isn't sustainable, healthy or modern. Would we abandon our ship of chocolates and slinky black dresses and acceptance being cool? Watch the sinking of the concept with which we're comfortable? People will moan that we have jumped ship and that I said it myself. That we're not all married in churches anymore, we're ok that some people don't marry at all, some of us are hipsters these days. But love was simply supposed to keep people afloat, stop them from getting hurt, stop the coldness. Whatever we've done, then, is far from love.


On the one hand we've hijacked the concept. Not just that it's cool to claim tolerance. The number of bloggers and social media people who sign off with a 'love you friends'. People ask you in class whether you know the funny guy, and you're supposed to say 'him? I love him! he's so funny'. We're supposed to love our friends, right? So is this our broader, trendy definition? If it is, why I am I so put off by saying that I 'love' the neighbours? They're fine, but to say I love them would be going a bit far. Because, like everything else, we've taken love out of context sometimes, when kicking the tradition is cool and ok, detached. On the internet, it goes out to too many people to really think about. The funny guy? He'll never find out you said that.

Your friends? Well, maybe, you love them in a way. If love can encompass actual, quiet tolerance of individual quirks, warmth and acceptance, then it's there. Acceptance of differences and that you'll never see some things the same way, that your values and priorities might even clash. Maybe it's just not been something people think about. That love could be much simpler than the marriage-or-not debate, than a cold analysis of the number of broken families, and a whole lot more simple than dinner dates and bouquets. More rational than trying to make acceptance the new in thing. Maybe it could just be letting people walk down the street without feeling unsafe; or being able to take public transport without funny stares or being asked where you're from. Maybe we do love our friends because we put up with all their eccentricities, like we do our own family. Tolerance for differences has always been there, as part of love, in our living with kids and siblings and soul mates. Maybe we can stretch that out a bit - just the tolerance, to all the people around us. The hate has evolved, maybe it's time that love does too. It's not love as we know it. But then it's not just candy hearts and popular boys and the world as they said it was, either.


But there are cookies and there will be cookies as long as I'm around :) since I posted the house loaf cake a few weeks ago, I now present the house cookie. I pretty much sum up its amazingess in the recipe header but seriously. So good. Rye flour isn't bitter as you may have thought, it's actually quite mild if used with sweet, rich goodies (cherries, hi) and the cocoa really highlights the beautiful colour. The little flecks of oatmeal add some chunky texture and the cherries are so moist and sweet. They'll be a bit more puck-like than regular cookies because of the oil but still. So good. To share, on Valentine's Day. Whether with your little loved crowd or a bigger crew. treat yourself. Big hugs and cookies for you all xx


Ps. I would've made something for any doggie loves you have but Prune is meant to be on a diet (!!!!) so you could make these if you'd like, my monkeys are crazy about them.


chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies

Little pucks of goodness - slightly malty rye, the color and richness of dark cocoa. Plump, velvety, sweet cherries. Light flecks of chewy oatmeal. Infinitely loveable. 
// makes 18-20 medium cookies // dairy free

1 cup (110g) rye flour
2/3 cup (70g) rolled oats
1/3 cup (40g) natural cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup (100g) dark muscavado sugar
1/4 cup (50g) turbinado sugar
1 free range egg
1/3cup (75g) melted coconut oil
1/2 cup (75g) unsweetened dried cherries, coarsely chopped if large
1 -2 tablespoons of any milk, as needed

Preheat the oven to 180’C, 350’F. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

In a large bowl, combine the rye flour, rolled oats, salt, baking soda. Add the cocoa powder, you may need to sift it into the bowl if it’s very clumpy. Mix together so evenly combined and set aside.

In a small bowl, add the melted coconut oil and the two sugars, stir well with a flexible spatula. Beat in the egg and vanilla extract.

Combine the wet mix with the dry oat mix and stir together well, you may need to use a stiff wooden spoon for this since the dough is quite thick. If it’s way too dry (this depends on the cut of your rye flour) slowly add a little milk, teaspoon at a time. Fold in the dried cherries.

Using a medium cookie scoop or heaped tablespoons, portion out the dough. Use the bottom of a glass/measuring cup to flatten each poof into a disk, leaving about 3cm/ an inch between.

Bake the cookies for 13-15 minutes, rotating the sheets halfway through.

Allow to cool on the sheets for about 2 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack to cool completely.

The cookies will keep for about 4 days in an airtight container, but are something else straight from the oven 


I think these could take some other goodies as add-ins too – about 1/2 cup worth. Hazelnuts might be nice. If you’re feeling decadent, half a cup (75gish) chopped dark chocolate would be amazing. Next time…

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