For security purposes, I like to keep a jar of liquorice granola in my cupboard at all times. I’m a better human being when my belly is busy.

The older I get, the more I need my food to fill an emotional crypt too. I get a better burn from lovingly crafted granola than the store-bought stuff. I get a theatrical high knowing my corner café hand-roasts their coffee beans to Shostakovich. Or that my breakfast eggs are served with a wave from the chef. It’s the love and adoration bestowed upon ingredients that really grips me, and makes me want to purr like a homeless kitten at a stranger’s leg.

Food is more than substance. It’s more than fuel. There’s no love in highly processed food – it’s just conveyor belt crap and cannot service you physically or emotionally. Not the way this granola can.

As promised to so many readers, I finally found a worthy way of re-purposing nutpulp, left over from making your very own mylk (inspired by Jodi here). Namaste.

Nut pulp Granola with Liquorice & Cinnamon

Serves 12-16

1/2 cup (125ml) virgin coconut oil

1/2 cup (125ml) good honey or rice malt

1 teaspoon flaky sea salt (sounds a lot, but it reaches 16 portions)

2 cups (300g) nut pulp, left over from making nut milk (or use ground almonds)

3 cups (270g) jumbo oats

5 teabags sweet chai or other caffeine-free tea blend, torn open

1 Fire up your oven to 160 C. Line your largest tray, or 2 smaller ones, with parchment paper.

2 In a big saucepan, gently melt your coconut oil, the honey and decent smattering of salt. You want them to smooch each other, not violently grumble. Parachute the remaining ingredients into the pan, turn off the heat, and thoroughly coat.

3 Spoon onto your prepared tray and bake for 30 minutes. This recipe requires longer cooking time than regular granola, because the wet nut pulp needs to dry in the oven. If it’s not dry, it won’t store well. Don’t be tempted to crank up the heat – this will only burn the oats.

4 Toss the granola tray twice, while baking, to prevent browning edges.

5 Remove from the oven once cooked. Clouds of warm-scented liquorice and honey will waft through your house, reminding you (and the apartment block) of your culinary wizardry.

Can be stored for up to 3 weeks in a tightly sealed jar, sprinkled over despondent salads or languorous mornings. I added some sprouted buckwheat and cacao nibs a week later, to change it up a little (see photo).

Taking the hell out of healthy.

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