First, take no jam.
Rub plain flour with fat in the ratio of 2:1 until it resembles breadcrumbs.
When you are done, regard those breadcrumbs with the skepticism they deserve. The fineness and the blandness of the flour has been destroyed by its agglutination with fat, and in turn the silkiness and sensuality of the fat has been destroyed by the accretion of flour. Though breadcrumbs purport to have been created they are clearly not what they claim to be; they are an empty cipher for the meaninglessness of life.
Add cold water sufficient to bind the breadcrumbs.
Bind them into an amorphous mass, stealing their individuality and sense of self. Let no crumb escape, but nevertheless be gentle with it lest it develop character and toughen, resisting you.
Do not use vodka in place of water: the spiritual essence should always be rejected in favour of a material one.
Roll out the dough to sufficient thinness.
There is no way of knowing what sufficient thinness is so roll until you are dissatisfied. Do not endeavour to make the dough even, recall that good and evil are both values addressed by social and emotive pressures, and that your dough should be neither.
Cut out circles and press them into a tartlet tin. Bake until golden brown in a medium-hot oven.
Though these actions are senseless and empty, perform them anyway. They will use up your wasted life and hold your ennui briefly at bay. Do not think that you are enjoying the smell that arises from the oven during the baking; there is no smell because there is no reality.
Set to cool on a wire-rack.
Jamless tarts, the embodiment of emptiness trapped in a hollow shell, a literal metaphor for the human condition, may be eaten at any time as heat is just a fiction of the imagination, the fevered, ill-mannered mind making desperate attempts to rationalise the void around it. Look deep into the pastry and remember that the pastry is looking back into you. Eat with fathers and sons.