Hello friends — today’s post is free.

Yesterday, between rounds of recipe testing, I sat out in the sun-dappled yard with the dregs of an iced coffee and a bowl of sugar snap peas that tasted like candy. Spring is finally here!

There is a particular discipline to spring cooking that winter never asks of you. During the long, cold months you coax, you braise, you build — layering spice and fat until something magnificent emerges. In spring, the ingredients arrive already perfect, fleetingly so — and the skill is in knowing when to stop meddling.

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Today’s recipe - parsley garlic noodles with asparagus - is a favorite from last week’s April Edition of the newsletter and, I think, very nearly the perfect simple spring supper.

This is a dish I grew up with. I remember coming home during those first bright weeks of the spring term after the Easter holidays, to the aroma of garlic, herbs and butter, and the promise of pasta. Little patience was required because the dish came together in fifteen minutes and landed on the table before I’d even removed my coat. Sometimes Mum would serve it with leftover roast chicken or a few sausages, but I loved it — best of all — with no competing additions.

The parsley in April is vivid and almost peppery in a way it simply isn’t the rest of the year. Asparagus is the same — perfectly sweet, if only briefly. These two ingredients require no enhancement, and yet add a fresh, earthy zing to this pasta dish.

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• Swap the pasta: Try tagliatelle, fettuccine, or even penne in place of linguine.

• Add protein: Toss through grilled chicken, prawns, or crispy pancetta for a heartier dish.

• Bulk it up: Protein may be having a moment, but fibre deserves just as much attention. Stir in chickpeas, peas, spinach, or pan-fried mushrooms to make the dish more substantial while adding texture, flavor, and a nourishing boost.

• Add cheese: Finish with a generous grating of Parmesan or Pecorino. For something more indulgent, break open a burrata and dot it over just before serving. Yum.

• Add heat: Add a pinch of chili flakes with the garlic for a gentle kick.

• Make it vegan: Swap the butter for a plant-based alternative or simply use extra olive oil.

• Add crunch: Sprinkle over toasted breadcrumbs or pine nuts, or try toasted hazelnuts, which are especially delicious.

• Leftovers: Double the recipe and turn the leftovers into a pasta salad the next day. Add chicken, toss with a simple vinaigrette of olive oil, lemon juice, and black pepper, and add a handful of salad leaves such as arugula to stretch it into a fresh, new dish. I do this often.

Garlic Butter Linguine With Parsley & Spring Asparagus

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If you’re a paid subscriber, thank you! If you’ve not yet subscribed — we are about to enter into a really exciting season, so this is the moment to join.

Paid subscribers receive brand new recipes weekly, full menus complete with considered grocery list, prep videos, thoughtful alternatives, and access to the entire archive of recipes and newsletters.

And wherever you’re reading from, I’d like to know — where are you, and what are you cooking this week? Leave a note in the comments, I really love hearing from you all.

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An early morning walk on a blustery Sunday. We slurp steaming sweet milky coffee, straight from a flask. Alongside the winding country path, daffodils politely bob their heads as we pass. As we meander through woodland scattered with swathes of wild garlic, a sweet aroma fills the air. Just a month ago, tree branches were covered in frost, and the landscape was all silver, slate and ash, silent and still, as if the land was sleeping. Now, cheery birdsong echoes, as the pale morning sunlight streams through tree branches newly decorated with buds. I dig into my pocket searching for our snack - today I packed homemade rose scented cardamom sables covered in pink sugar. We nibble on them, crumbs gathering at the corners of our mouths. We find our way back home. Time for another pot of coffee.

Today’s newsletter is all about my Easter cookie box: six cookie recipes with creative variations, plus master recipes so you can either mix and match or simply pick your favorite. Some of the recipes might stretch the definition of a cookie (like the coconut ice offering), but they belong here all the same.

Right now, I’m making some exciting changes and updates to the newsletter schedule and format, so I wasn’t planning to share cookie box recipes this season. After some deliberation, however, it seemed a little Scrooge-like to allow Easter to pass without a few sweet treats.

You all seem to love the cookie box newsletters, and I think that’s because they speak to something deeper: a need to slow down. In a culture calibrated for speed and efficiency, there’s something almost radical, rebellious even, about taking the time to make something and give it away.

There’s always someone to consider: a neighbor, a friend, your family. Bake them, share them, leave them on a doorstep for someone to find. It’s a small act, but one that feels unexpectedly generous — for them, and for you.

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If you’re a paid subscriber, thank you! If you’ve not yet subscribed — this is the moment to join. Paid subscribers receive brand new recipes weekly, full menus complete with considered grocery list, prep videos, thoughtful alternatives, and access to the entire archive of recipes and newsletters.

Subscribe now

Three of this year’s Easter cookies are built around two simple master recipes: a soft, chewy meringue and a buttery shortbread.

The Matcha Kisses use the meringue, the rose, cardamom, and strawberry sablés are variations on the shortbread, and the French 75 kisses combine both— a base of shortbread , topped with meringue.

Once you have those foundations, it’s just a matter of small shifts—adding citrus, rose, or fruit — to create something new.

Alongside these, there are a few stand-alone sweets to round out the box: the jeweled matcha white chocolate salami - a playful take on rocky road - filled with biscuits, nuts, gummy sweets, marshmallows, and freeze-dried fruit; the fruity almond cookies, inspired by traditional Italian amaretti (without the alcohol); and the four-layer rose-scented coconut ice, a childhood favorite. Each brings a different texture and flavor.

The cookie box is designed so you can mix and match — make the full box, or simply choose a few favorites.

Full recipes, PDFs, and simple step-by-step guidance below. Feel free to get creative with flavors and combinations.

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Happy Thursday everyone. This is the fifth recipe in the cooking with cabbage series. So far, we’ve had Charred cabbage with Café de Paris butter; Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, crisp shallots, and chilli-date oil; a cabbage cake of surprising elegance; and cabbage-wrapped meatballs baked in a rich vodka sauce (my fav)!

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Spring in England arrives less like a season than a rumor. One week, the light turns a persuasive pale gold — the sort that makes you want to eat outside and dig out your sunnies — and the next, you are back in your winter coat and thick scarf, watching the magnolias take a blustery battering. We Brits remain, as ever, at the mercy of a sky with commitment issues.

Still, there is something to be said for unreliable weather. It is an excellent justification for a film (usually a 90’s rom-com), a cozy blanket, and something warm from the oven, which brings us, rather conveniently, to today’s spinach and caramelized cabbage dip.

Admittedly, spinach and cabbage might seem like a combination prescribed rather than craved — until the garlic and cheese get involved, at which point the whole premise shifts.

As for the method, the cabbage is caramelized low and slow until sweet and golden. Once the wilted spinach has been drained it is more assembly than cooking. Everything — cabbage, spinach, garlic, cream cheese, a generous handful or three of cheese — goes into a cast-iron pan, and then into the oven, while you sort out the wine. A little later, bubbling and bronzed and smelling extraordinarily good, this deeply savory, gooey dip can be brought to the table with the sort of celebratory flourish that belies the minimal effort involved in its creation.

Serve with a sourdough baguette that means business — something with a proper mouth-grazing crust, built for scooping. Pour a glass of cold white wine, something crisp and unfussy, and settle in. The weather will do whatever it pleases — and tonight, so will you.

1. The 3-Night, Build-Your-Own-Bowl Menu. Like Erewhon, but cheaper!

2. Pistachio chocolate torte with mocha ganache - no notes.

3. Hot honey yogurt dip with crispy chickpeas & chorizo + quick bagels - a good pick if you’re entertaining this weekend.

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Happy Thursday everyone. Today is a free post, and on the menu is cabbage, quartered and charred, then finished with Café de Paris butter — a compound butter consisting of mustard, anchovies, herbs, and spice. Café de Paris butter has long kept company with steak; here, it finds a more interesting assignment.

This is the fourth recipe in the cooking with cabbage series. So far, we’ve had Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, crisp shallots, and chilli-date oil; a cabbage cake of surprising elegance; and cabbage-wrapped meatballs baked in a rich vodka sauce.

In today’s recipe, the cabbage is placed in a pan and subjected to fierce heat until it chars and smokes, filling the kitchen with a scent somewhere between a campfire and a very good barbecue restaurant. Every instinct will tell you to intervene — to turn it early or lower the heat. Don’t. The golden char is the whole point. It gives the cabbage a deep sweetness and a smoky complexity that transforms this humble Brassica oleracea into something very special.

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Compound butter: I always make more than I need and use it in everything! The butter will rescue grilled meat, enrich vegetables, and turn a simple plate of pasta into something indulgent.

The cabbage: hispi (pointed/sweetheart) cabbage is ideal. Its compact structure and natural sweetness allow it to withstand high heat without collapsing too quickly. If unavailable, a small Savoy or green cabbage will suffice.

Acid: A final squeeze of lemon sharpens the butter and balances the richness.

I always think of acidity as the element that brings a dish to life. That’s why a squeeze of lemon right at the end makes such a difference — not cooked in, but added just before serving.

Try it yourself: taste the dish before and after the lemon. It’s one of those small shifts that changes everything.

1. The 3-night 15 minute menu. Fast and delicious for midweek cooking.

2. Malted white chocolate banana bread with matcha spread. The perfect weekend treat/baking project.

3. Hot honey yogurt dip with crispy chickpeas & chorizo + quick bagels - a good pick if you’re entertaining this weekend.

Café de Paris Butter

A classic French-style compound butter with herbs, mustard, and umami elements. Ideal for melting over grilled or roasted veg.

Ingredients

• 250 g unsalted butter, softened

• 1 garlic clove, finely grated

• 1 small shallot, finely chopped

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tsp lemon juice (plus zest)

• 1 tbsp parsley, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp chives or tarragon, finely chopped

• Salt and black pepper, to taste

• 1 anchovy fillet, mashed to a paste

• ½ tsp curry powder or paprika

• ½ tsp capers, very finely chopped

Method

1. Place all the ingredients in a bowl and mix together until smooth and evenly combined.

2. Taste, then adjust salt, acidity, and herb content, as required.

3. Spoon onto parchment paper, roll into a log, and chill until firm.

4. Slice into rounds as needed.

Charred Cabbage

Serves 4 as a starter

• 1 large hispi (pointed) cabbage

• Olive oil

• Flaky salt and freshly cracked black pepper

• ½ lemon, for squeezing

• Café de Paris butter ( above)

Method

1. Quarter the cabbage through the core, keeping each wedge intact. Pat dry, brush with olive oil, and season generously.

2. Set a heavy cast-iron skillet, pan, or BBQ over high heat. Place the wedges cut-side down and allow them to blacken for approx. 2-4 minutes each side until charred.

3. Turn and fry the other cut side for another 2-4 minutes. If the inner leaves still feel firm, lower the heat, cover loosely, and steam-finish for approx. 2 minutes.

Assemble

While still hot, lay generous slices of Café de Paris butter over the cabbage wedges, allowing it to melt into every charred layer. If you prefer, you can melt the butter first and spoon it over so it runs into all the crevices. Finish with a good squeeze of lemon just before serving.

Serve warm with crusty bread, grilled meat, or lentils. Also magnificent on its own.

Paid subscribers are also invited to the subscriber chat, a space to share what you’re cooking, exchange stories and photos, or simply ask for advice when you need it.

And wherever you’re reading from, I’d like to know — where are you, and what are you cooking this week? Leave a note in the comments, I love hearing from you all.

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Happy Thursday everyone. A year ago, I gave you the Chunky Monkey banana bread, and it promptly became one of those recipes that becomes indispensable — the all-occasion highly customizable cake you make for a sweet treat, family get-togethers and picnics, or simply when the bananas on the counter have reached the point of no return. I’ve made it more times than I can count — and, judging by the messages, so have many of you.

This makes what I’m about to say seem either brave or foolish: I think I’ve done something better. Consider this the upgrade. Same spirit, entirely different animal.

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Brown butter

The brown butter is non-negotiable. It takes barely four minutes to make on the stove, yet it marks the difference between a perfectly good banana loaf and a creation that people not only remember, but ask you about later. As the butter foams and turns the color of toasted hazelnuts, the flavor develops a rich, nutty, caramelized profile that plain melted butter simply cannot supply.

Malted milk

The addition of malted milk has a subtle but unmistakable effect, producing a round, nostalgic sweetness, reminiscent of an old-fashioned diner milkshake, that hums beneath the bananas rather than competing with them.

Chocolate

And then there is the white chocolate. One might assume it would tip the balance towards cloying, but improbably, the opposite is true. The chocolate melts into the batter and seeps towards the crust as the loaf bakes, caramelizing the edges whilst producing aromas reminiscent of toffee cookies. Warm from the oven, the loaf is — without exaggeration — heavenly.

Matcha spread aka ganache

If you have the self-control to resist eating this cake straight from the oven and choose to make the matcha ganache, the overall effect is rather more glamorous - suddenly less homely banana bread, more the sort of slice you might spy behind the glass of a very good bakery. Matcha brings its curious, verdant bitterness — grassy and faintly tannic — which reins in the sweetness of the bananas. The flakes of sea salt bring each flavor into bright relief, while the vanilla softens the edges, enhancing the luxuriant texture of the ganache.

You can also use this matcha spread on toast, in porridge or rice pudding, or melt a few tablespoons of it with milk for a delicious matcha drink. Just make it, you’ll see!

1. Toasted lemon meringue loaf cake. A lovely bake for Spring and Easter. Not too sweet and utterly luxurious.

2. Hot honey halloumi bowl from the build-your-own-bowl menu last week. SO good and very easy to assemble.

3. Smoky-Sweet Chicken Wraps with Quick, Pillowy Flatbreads from the 30-minute menu a few weeks ago. I have been making this supper on repeat.

Below you’ll find the recipe complete with downloadable PDF to make everything easy. There is also a prep video to guide you through.

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Happy Thursday everyone. I’ve made a thousand versions of lemon meringue cake, but never using the slightly eccentric technique featured today.

Instead of finishing with a snowy meringue frosting after the cake is baked, the meringue is partially folded into the first inch of the batter before baking — not fully incorporated, but rather, casually swirled through to form thick, glossy waves of sweetness.

As the cake bakes, the batter rises up to meet the meringue, the two collapsing gently into each other, leaving chewy, marshmallowy seams threaded through the tender crumb. Where the cake batter meets the meringue at the edges of the tin, a sugary crust forms — I challenge you to resist pulling at the little shards as the cake cools. The texture hovers somewhere between cake and pavlova, undecided in the most charming way.

Inspired by Nigella Lawson’s magnificent lemon meringue round layer cake recipe, I’ve taken that same jubilant pairing and recast it as a loaf — because a loaf cake feels somehow more doable midweek. And you’ll be glad to know that no further decoration is required, although you won’t be surprised, given my penchant for wielding a piping bag, that I’ve included an optional flourish: mascarpone vanilla cream and lemon curd.

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• As you may know, I love a wild and unruly-looking cake. Neatness has never particularly appealed to me; I prefer abundance. So be warned: the meringue refuses to perch politely on top — instead, it resembles a storm.

• In a technique that could feel a little anxiety-inducing you swirl it partway through the batter in thick, luminous ribbons. The meringue and batter mingle and marble, mixing and resisting all at once. In the oven, those glossy trails bake into marshmallow-soft seams that feather through the citrus-scented crumb.

• Once cooled, the loaf can be split and lavishly filled with lemon curd, and cream whipped to soft, voluptuous peaks. Alternatively, each slice can be decorated individually, crowned with delicately piped rosettes or flower shapes featuring a lemon curd centre. The result is gloriously untidy: sweet snowdrifts against golden crumb, tang cutting through richness, each slice unique. If you’re looking for a midweek bake — or planning something beautiful yet achievable for Easter — this is the one.

Many recipe writers and cooks will tell you to stick rigidly to the recipe, and certainly in baking there’s some truth in that — veer too far off course and the results can be, well, bad. But with this loaf cake, there are still a few easy swaps and opportunities to get creative.

The meringue

You don’t have to include meringue at all! Leave it out and you have a perfectly delicious lemon loaf, just reduce baking time by about 10-15-ish minutes. If you go down this route, a simple lemon icing is a very good idea. Just mix icing/powdered sugar with enough freshly squeezed lemon juice to make a thick but pourable glaze, then let it cascade over the cooled cake, settling into glossy drips along the sides. It will set to a softly crackled finish.

The cake

• The sponge is excellent all on its own, but there’s room here for a little tinkering. Perhaps surprisingly, this bake is not overly sweet. You might presume with all that meringue it would tip into sugary excess, but fear not, it remains balanced. The lemon is subtle but present, but you could always swap for orange or even lime. Or for something different, why not simply snip open an earl grey teabag and add the dry tea leaves directly to the batter — they fleck the crumb beautifully and lend a subtle bergamot warmth without overwhelming the lemon.

• A tablespoon or two of poppy seeds folded through the batter will give a delicate crunch and that pleasing bakery-style speckle.

• I use vanilla paste in the batter for depth, but ½ teaspoon of almond extract would offer a lovely, fragrant contrast — soft and nutty against the brightness of the citrus.

.All the trimmings

I like to serve this with lemon curd and mascarpone whipped with a little vanilla and sugar until soft and billowy. The sharp meringue, tender crumb, soft cream and bright curd make for a perfect tangle of flavor and texture.

1. Spring chicken Milanese wraps - a lovely March dinner!

2. Coconut cake with white chocolate coconut matcha frosting and lemon curd. A lovely spring bake!

3. 30 minute salmon skewers with lime, herb and coconut rice. The rice is my current obsession - sweet, zesty and lovely for spring.

Below you’ll find the recipe complete with downloadable PDF to make everything easy. There is also a prep video to guide you through.

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Happy Thursday everyone. Do you ever wake up inspired at 4 am, and think: four-tier coconut cake, white chocolate cream cheese frosting, matcha buttercream, lemon curd? No? Just me then.

Cooking for work means every recipe is a project — idea, draft, testing, more testing, foisting it on everyone you know, then revisions, yield calculations and finally, the constant question of whether a busy home cook could realistically pull this off on a weeknight. Mostly, I find the process genuinely satisfying — creative frustration notwithstanding. But after all the planning and practicality, sometimes one must throw caution aside and cook for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it. This cake is exactly that.

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The internet does not need another sensible coconut cake. This one is deliberately wild — more Jackson Pollock than perfect pâtisserie.

So much of adult life is lived within margins: tidy inboxes, measured responses, appetites carefully managed. Consider this your invitation to let go.

The sponge

Desiccated coconut goes straight into the batter, toasting as it bakes, turning buttery and deeply fragrant. The flavor doesn’t perch politely on top; it runs through the crumb, steady and generous.

Frankly, it barely needs frosting. Warm from the oven, torn open and lowered into a bowl of cream (or, better still, custard) it becomes the sort of pudding I find impossible to resist (my Englishness is showing, I know). I’ve tested this theory with great dedication.

The frosting

I make one large batch of coconut white chocolate cream cheese frosting and halve it. Matcha goes into one half; the other stays pale and sweet. Together, they’re balanced: the matcha’s pleasant subtle grassy bitterness keeps the sugar in check; the white chocolate softens any severity. Swirl them together, and you get drama without too much faff.

The lemon curd

Sharp and bright — essential, not optional. It threads through the layers, bringing a clean citrus edge that lifts everything, plus it’s citrus season so now is the time to utilize all those gorgeous lemons.

The tray-bake option

Because I know you’re a busy bunch, there’s a pared-back tray-bake version too. Same flavors, quicker process — all the pleasure, half the effort.

1. 30 minute chicken wraps from the recent Sunday Menu, with homemade flatbreads and all sorts of delicious condiments.

2. Banana basque cheesecake with banana skin syrup. You need this in your life, trust me.

3. 30 minute salmon skewers with lime, herb and coconut rice. The rice is my current obsession - sweet, zesty and lovely for Spring.

Below you’ll find both the fancy layer cake and the tray-bake version, each with its own downloadable PDF to make everything easy. There are also prep videos to guide you through.

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Happy Thursday - today’s recipe is not only delicious, but free! Banana Basque cheesecake with banana-skin salted caramel. A zero-waste recipe that nods to comforting American banana pudding and the San Sebastián basque country-classic. The result is a cheesecake that slumps and sighs, burnt at the edges and custardy at the core. The flavor is unmistakably banana pudding, deepened and matured into something far more complex.

Basque cheesecake is a glorious contradiction. Burnt on top, pale beneath. Baked brutally hot, yet barely set at the centre. It arrives bronzed and blistered, slumps when sliced, oozes rather than cuts. Crustless, fast-baked, and proudly unruly, the pleasure is in the wobble.

In the name of research (grueling work, I assure you), I’ve been ordering Basque cheesecake wherever I can find it. Some restaurants stick to the script: no vanilla, just soft cheese, sugar, eggs, flour, and cream. Others can’t resist taking liberties.

In San Diego last November, I ordered a goat’s cheese version with berry jam at a local restaurant: sweet, salty, faintly funky. More recently, at Oma in Borough Market, I tried a Greek-style sheep’s milk Basque with cherry compote: rich, sharp, moreish.

After much research and recipe testing, I think I’ve struck the balance: classic foundation, with a creative twist. Read on.

The hero ingredient

Here in England, there’s that awkward stretch between seasons when the markets offer little beyond forced rhubarb and the last of winter’s citrus. This is when I look elsewhere: towards the tropical aisle. Bananas, in particular.

To introduce banana without creating a cheesecake that is cloying, I blend two very ripe bananas to a smooth pulp, strain them, and fold the liquid into the batter. In the oven, the sugars deepen and caramelize, whilst the fruit retreats into something rounder, warmer. Left overnight in the fridge, the flavor settles properly, braided with vanilla, recalling custard or banana pudding rather than the fruit itself.

The banana skin syrup

Being greedy and thrifty in equal measure, I don’t waste the skins. Simmered gently with sugar and butter, they become a simple caramelized syrup - excellent over the cheesecake and unexpectedly good stirred into coffee the next morning, where it adds a soft, toffee-like murmur.

The technique

When a recipe is built on very few ingredients, technique carries the weight. Blending the batter with an immersion blender and straining through a sieve is one of the simplest ways to guarantee smoothness and proper emulsification — it transforms mixtures from merely combined to truly cohesive.

If you don’t yet own an immersion blender, it is one of the most useful tools in a cook’s kitchen.

1. A restaurant-inspired hot honey yogurt dip with crispy chickpeas and chorizo, served with two-ingredient, no-yeast quick bagels, brushed with butter and crowned with flaky salt. If perfect food exists, this might just be it.

2. Pistachio chocolate torte, let me tempt you: a crunchy pistachio biscuit base supports a flourless dark chocolate cake that barely holds itself together. The cake is so indecently gooey it is almost indistinguishable from the salted mocha ganache pooled on top, each layer surrendering to the next in a synthesis of chocolatey deliciousness.

3. Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, crispy shallots & chili-date oil - my current dinner party favorite.

Banana Basque Cheesecake

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Banana Basque Cheesecake

Ingredients

• Butter, for the tin

• 820g full-fat soft cream cheese (room temperature)

• 230g caster sugar

• 25g all-purpose/ plain flour

• 2 ripe bananas

• 280g double (heavy) cream

• 4 large eggs

• 1-2 tsp vanilla paste (optional)

• ¼ tsp fine sea salt

Method

1. Heat the oven to 250°C (230°C fan) / 450°F.

2. Butter a deep 9-inch (23cm) loose-bottom or springform tin.

3. Crumple two generous sheets of baking parchment in your hands, then layer them into the tin, turning one slightly so the corners don’t quite meet. Press them into the base and up the sides.

4. Peel the bananas and blend until they collapse into a smooth-ish purée. Keep the skins — we’ll use them later.

5. In a small bowl, lightly beat the eggs.

6. In a large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), beat the soft cream cheese and sugar together for a minute or two, until satin-smooth and free of graininess. Pour in the cream and mix until just combined.

7. Add the beaten eggs, vanilla, salt and the banana purée, then mix briefly until combined.

8. Now, give the batter a quick blitz with an immersion blender until it is entirely smooth. This is the small, technical flourish that’s easy to overlook, but it guarantees silkiness.

9. Sift in the flour and fold in gently. Then give the batter one final, brief whizz with the immersion blender. Work swiftly here — you’re simply incorporating the flour, not encouraging the gluten to develop.

10. Pour batter through a sieve into the prepared tin to remove any lumps. Tap the tin firmly on the worktop to release air bubbles.

11. Bake for 22–28 minutes, turning halfway for an even bronzing. The timing really does depend on your oven. If you underbake it, the centre will slump and ooze when sliced; over bake it and you’ll lose that tender, custard-soft heart in favor of something a touch firmer. What you’re after is a top that’s gloriously dark and a centre that quivers with promise. It’s one of those recipes that rewards a little practice. TIP: If the cake hasn’t bronzed quite to your liking and you have one to hand, you can briefly pass a blowtorch over the surface to deepen the color.

Serve

You may cut into the cheesecake while it is still faintly warm, when the centre is soft and custard-like and barely holding itself together. Yet — and this is important — the basque cheesecake comes fully into its own after a night in the fridge. Let it reach room temperature before chilling overnight, then take it out about 45 minutes before serving so the cold can soften its grip. The centre turns supple and silky, and the flavor settles into something deeper, richer, and more composed. Cut the slices with a hot clean knife and serve with my banana skin caramel (below).

Easy Banana Skin Caramel Sauce

Great for cheesecake, and a syrup for coffee!

Makes approx. 250ml

Keeps in the fridge for 3-4 days. Can be reheated in the microwave or on the stove.

Ingredients

• Skins from 2 ripe bananas, well-washed

• 150ml water

• 100g light brown sugar

• 50g butter

• 100ml double (heavy) cream

• Pinch of flaky sea salt

• ½ tsp vanilla (optional)

Method

1. Wash and scrub the banana skins thoroughly, then cut them into strips. Place the skins and water in a small saucepan and let them simmer for 5–8 minutes, until the liquid is fragrant.

2. Strain the banana-infused liquid through a sieve into a clean saucepan, pressing gently on the skins to coax out every last drop. You should have about 100ml. Discard the skins.

3. Add the brown sugar and warm gently until dissolved, then increase the heat and let it bubble for 3–4 minutes, until lightly syrupy. Lower the heat and stir in the butter.

4. Slowly pour in the cream — it will bubble slightly— stirring steadily. Allow to simmer for another 3–4 minutes, until smooth.

5. Remove from the heat and stir in the salt and vanilla, if using.

6. Leave to cool slightly before serving; it will continue to thicken into a spoon-coating sauce as it rests.

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This Sunday, I’m introducing something new - a weekly three-day menu designed to answer that ever-present question: What’s for dinner? This week’s theme is 30-minute meals — food that feels restaurant-worthy, yet entirely manageable at home. Expect thoughtful, seasonal dishes with clear grocery lists and practical prep guidance — just enough structure to steady the beginning of the week.

Paid subscribers are also invited to the subscriber chat, a space to share what you’re cooking, exchange stories and photos, or simply ask for advice when you need it.

And wherever you’re reading from, I’d love to know — where are you, and what are you cooking this week? Leave a note in the comments. It’s always a pleasure to see this table stretch across cities and time zones.

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Happy Sunday, everyone — today we have a winner. A restaurant-inspired hot honey yogurt dip with crispy chickpeas and chorizo, served with two-ingredient, no-yeast quick bagels, brushed with butter and crowned with flaky salt. If perfect food exists, this might just be it.

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If you step into a typical London restaurant today, expect intimacy by force: tables pressed together, elbow room negotiated like treaties, and warm candlelight (a curse for any restaurateur who chooses harsh, hospital-like overheads instead). Expect, too, lots of small plates at sky-high prices, accompanied by waiters who crouch beside your table like concerned therapists to explain, at length, what you’re about to eat.

I recently ate at Oma, the Greek restaurant above Borough Market in London. I prickle when I hear the phrase “sharing plate menu,” but Oma won me over with its no-nonsense approach. Meanwhile, downstairs at Agora, their counterpart, a wood-fired oven was turning out delicious bread — the scent of yeast and char snaking up the stairs making it impossible to resist ordering the whole darn menu. A clever tactic indeed.

My husband and I were greedy and ordered a number of dishes, but the standout was the tahini, hot honey, and chickpea dip, served with pillow-soft açma verde — a sort of Turkish bagel, just lighter and airier. I simply had to recreate the whole concoction at home.

The curse of falling in love with a restaurant dish is that eventually you’ll crave it at home, miles away, with no choice but to figure it out yourself.

A dip I could handle, but I knew I didn’t have the patience this week for proper yeasted bread. Which is where my two-ingredient bagels come in: yogurt and flour. That’s it.

I’ve been making my cheat-bagel recipe forever. I’m not sure why I haven’t shared it yet. The process takes about ten minutes, and there’s no resting time involved - great for impatient cooks like me.

You make the shaggy dough, shape the bagels, boil them (an optional but worthwhile step), then plonk them in the oven for eighteen minutes or so. The result is cloud-like, bouncy, gorgeous bread. I make this recipe so often, I even use it for instant pizzas. I just shape the dough into a pizza round, then pile on the toppings. Very convenient.

• Oma’s original spread uses tahini. I went rogue and used warm, strained Greek yogurt instead. Have you ever eaten warm yogurt? It’s glorious. If the idea alarms you, serve the yogurt cold, and maybe even stir through a few spoonfuls of tahini for that nutty depth. The crucial thing, though, is the salt: be generous, season the spread, until each spoonful makes you reach for another.

• I’ve used chickpeas because they crisp so beautifully in the oven, turning nutty and bronzed. I often make a double batch and snack on them mid-afternoon when I’m peckish - they’re dangerously moreish.

• Chorizo is the meat of choice here, bleeding spice and oil into everything it touches. Omit if you’re vegetarian, or swap in bacon lardons - just as good.

• And the bread - there is no substitute for my easy two ingredient baked bagels. Truly. It would take you longer to go out and buy them than to make them yourself.

Recipes, downloadable PDF, and prep video below to help you make these recipes. Happy Cooking!

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Welcome to a rare Friday letter. This momentous occasion is happening because I simply couldn't let Valentine's Day slip by without sending you a chocolate cake recipe. This one is rather special, and surprisingly easy to make, I promise.

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By now, you know my thoughts on chocolate cake: where there’s chocolate cake, there needs to be goo. But I’m also greedy and indecisive and crave texture to offset all that luscious, molten fudge which is precisely where the idea for this cake was born.

This is the part where I describe the recipe, and you experience what psychologists call “involuntary motor response,” which is to say, you’ll find yourself in the kitchen, chocolate in one hand, eggs in the other, with no clear memory of the intervening journey.

Let me tempt you: a crunchy pistachio biscuit base supports a flourless dark chocolate cake that barely holds itself together. The cake is so indecently gooey it is almost indistinguishable from the salted mocha ganache pooled on top, each layer surrendering to the next in a synthesis of chocolatey deliciousness. This is unrepentantly, gloriously, rich. Make it for someone special - they'll be yours forever. Or at least until the last crumb disappears.

The Elements

In its full form, this cake has three layers: a pistachio biscuit base, a flourless chocolate cake, and a mocha ganache. If you decide to complete the entire recipe you may well feel compelled to write me a letter of appreciation, complete with a red wax seal. But this is not a compulsory trilogy. You can bake the chocolate cake on its own, pair it simply with the base, or strip it back entirely and leave off both the base and the ganache. What you’ll have is a classic flourless chocolate cake — lightly crusted at the edges, deeply fudgy, and molten at the centre.

Ingredients

This recipe uses only a few ingredients (chocolate, eggs, butter, pistachios etc) which means there’s nowhere to hide. Buy the best you can find: a 70% dark chocolate with proper depth; pistachios that taste buttery and slightly sweet; unsalted butter as well as sea salt. My rule for cooking is this: if I love the taste of the ingredients alone, I don’t need to work as hard to make the dish taste good. It’s a reliable principle.

Technique

I’ve kept this straightforward. Whizz all the ingredients of the base together. Use one bowl for the cake batter, give it a quick wipe out and use the same bowl for the ganache.

How to serve

You have four options as to how you enjoy this dessert:

1. For the ultimate gooey texture, enjoy the torte the same day.

2. For a firmer truffle-like texture, chill overnight and remove from the fridge 15 minutes before serving. I lack the patience for this, but I admire those who don’t.

3. Enjoy as a warm pudding - you can bake the dessert without the pistachio base and ganache. Once removed from the oven, allow to rest for 8-10 minutes, before scooping generous portions into bowls, together with ice cream, or better yet, custard! Yum.

4. For a more traditional simple flourless chocolate cake, omit the ganache and/or the base. Allow to cool in the tin until it reaches room temperature. The torte will then be firm enough to slice.

Recipe, downloadable PDF, and prep video below to help you make this delicious dessert!

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Soon you’re going to see this old-world style of recipe everywhere — on your feed, at dinner parties, in the group chat. Not because it’s anything new (that’s the point), but because it answers something many of us are quietly craving right now: good, honest home cooking.

The beauty you see before you is cabbage cake — also known as stuffed cabbage. Versions have existed for millennia across Eastern Europe, the Middle East, the Balkans, Italy, and France.

I make mine with pan-fried sausage meat, butter beans, herbs, and cheese. Lots of cheese. It’s the sort of dish that stretches what you have, forgives what you don’t, and comes out of the oven looking absolutely glorious and perhaps a little whimsical. We could all do with a bit of whimsy right now.

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You may have noticed: cabbage is suddenly everywhere. Vogue has declared 2026 as the year of the cabbage, as if this Brassica oleracea has been waiting in the wings. It hasn’t. It has always been there - cheap, stalwart, and dependable.

The timing makes sense. We’re living faster and more fractured lives than ever before, constantly overstimulated and undernourished. We talk about logging off and buy gadgets such as the Brick to curb our endless scrolling, yet remain stubbornly, relentlessly online. Certainly in my own life, there’s a quiet call for something more tangible, more rooted.

Like many cooks, I cook what I long for. That is why I love working with cabbage. For centuries, it has been the backbone of winter kitchens: fermented, stuffed, braised, baked - the possibilities are endless. There is something deeply steadying about working with this leafy vegetable: the solid weight of the brassica on the cutting board, the clean slice through its heart, the pale green, tender layers falling away. The process feels grounding.

Making a recipe such as cabbage cake returns you to the real world, to the authority of your hands. Against a backdrop of endless choice and relentless performance, simplicity itself becomes relief.

And yes, you’re reading this online. The irony isn’t lost on me. Still, my hope is that you take the idea, close the tab, and make it your own.

• The meat: I tend to use pork sausage for its richness and flavor, but beef mince works well, as does a mix of beef and pork. Lamb mince, if you have it, is especially good here — particularly with spring on the horizon.

• Customize: I’ve kept the recipe deliberately simple, leaving room for you to play with flavor. If you choose lamb, slivered almonds and dried apricots introduce a Moroccan note. Beef works well with the addition of chorizo and Mexican spices. You can also change the beans: butter beans are lovely with pork, but chickpeas, warmed through with a little paprika, would be a wonderful alternative.

• The cheese: Mozzarella is my usual choice, although a mix of mozzarella and cheddar works well. Gruyère or Comté would melt obligingly.

• The technique: Blanching the cabbage leaves and layering them may sound a little fussy, but it’s rather soothing. The blanching takes no more than a minute or two, but if the leaves feel resistant at the stalk, a quick trim at the base will make them malleable.

• How to serve: I like to keep things simple and serve this with a big bowl of salted, lemony Greek yoghurt. Hummus, generously drizzled with good olive oil, works nicely too, as does a spoonful of crème fraîche. Really, any concoction that you are partial to will do. You could even go Italian, with a bowl of marinara sauce on the side.

• Pomegranate, rose & pistachio lemon drizzle loaf cake- a perfect Valentine’s bake.

• Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, crispy shallots & chili-date oil - So incredibly addictive!

• Kale and chickpea stew - truly comforting February food.

Recipe, downloadable PDF, and prep video below to help you make this dish. Substack saw it first!

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Rose, pomegranate, pistachio - the trinity tastes like longing. I learned this in Morocco, standing in a spice market so thick with scent I thought I might faint. Dried roses, saffron threads, honey darkening in the heat. My friend found me there, dazed. “Too much?” she asked. I nodded. She laughed and took my hand, “This is the scent of abundance.’’

Pomegranate, rose and pistachio lemon drizzle loaf has a wonderfully complex flavor profile, yet is reassuringly simple to make. While it’s still warm from the oven, you drench the loaf (and by that, I mean positively drown it) in citrus syrup, pouring until the cake can barely take another drop. If you have the patience to let it cool (and I salute you if you do), then comes the final flourish: pomegranate and rose icing, luscious and pink, pooling on top before spilling down the sides in glossy rivulets. But if you can’t wait, just eat it warm, sticky, syrup-soaked, straight from the tin. Both paths lead to bliss.

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If you’re in the UK or have visited, you’ll know Gail’s Bakery. I used to be completely devoted to their little pistachio, lemon and raspberry cakes. This is my home version, with a few gentle tweaks: for a deeper, tangier sweetness use pomegranate, instead of raspberry frosting; to add sharpness and fragrance to the sponge add a mix of bergamot and lemon. If you can’t find bergamot, equal parts lime and lemon will do.

You could bake the batter in individual heart-shaped tins, if you’re the sort of person who has both the tins and the temperament. I have neither the moulds nor the patience. Give me a loaf cake any day — one tin, one glorious slab, job done.

A little housekeeping before we get baking: A Good Table launched in autumn 2023. What began as a fun way to share recipes has grown into a bestseller — and a forever project.

This year, we’re expanding. Expect more of everything including guest recipes from cooks, chefs, and recipe developers, plus a shift in rhythm. Where posts once went out more instinctively (though I rarely missed a Sunday), newsletters will now land in your inbox every Thursday and Sunday. That’s the official schedule — though in practice, there’ll be more.

The aim is to give you something genuinely useful — every day. More menus and meal plans, more easy seasonal midweek dinners, and more practical tools to get you back in the kitchen and cooking some of the best food of your life. I’m excited to see where this takes us.

If you’re not in a financial position to subscribe but want to cook more and reclaim a bit of creative autonomy in the kitchen, fill out this form — I’ll gift you a free one-month subscription.

1. Rhubarb and citrus meringue tumbles in The February Edition (great for dinner parties!)

2. Fruit cups - the easiest desserts to make, also perfect for dinner parties!

3. Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, crispy shallots & chili-date oil - a delicious last-minute Super bowl snack.

Recipe, downloadable PDF, and prep video below to help you make this bake. Substack saw it first!

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Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing a mini-series on cooking with cabbages to show just how versatile these brassicas can be. We begin today with a real showstopper: charred Brussels sprouts with horseradish cream, topped with a chili, Medjool date, and fennel oil trickled over the top, then finished with a tangle of crispy shallots. Serve this as a light lunch, an appetizer, or something to graze on while you sip your dirty martini and pretend to watch the Super Bowl.

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“Recession indicator,” someone sniffed under a video of my cabbage-wrapped meatballs, which I’d captioned: “FYI: cabbage is sexy again.”

Was it critique or solidarity? Hard to say. Either way, they were right. And so was I.

You don’t need to watch the news to know the economy is a mess; grocery store prices make that perfectly clear. Prices climb, portions shrink, and meat has become a luxury. Still, dinner must be made — and it must be delicious. No one wants to taste frugality.

Good news, then, that cabbage is having a moment. The once-limp, sulphurous staple of postwar thrift, often boiled to submission and served without ceremony, is this year’s vegetable du jour. I’m thrilled. I love an underdog.

Cabbage has always been the vegetable equivalent of the unpopular girl at school: thick glasses, scuffed shoes, easy to overlook. But with a little love and attention, this humble brassica transforms into something quite special. Braised, charred, butter-basted, or wrapped around a meatball, with the right approach, cabbage becomes silky, fragrant, and full of flavor.

As I said in The February Edition, if I have to eat another boiled Brussels sprout, I might scream. English school dinners ruined them for a generation. These days, I almost never boil sprouts, unless a recipe insists on blanching — and even then, they usually end up in a hot pan filled with butter.

Pan-frying or charring is infinitely better. The heat draws out their natural sugars, crisps the edges, and leaves the centers tender. Besides, almost everything tastes better charred.

This is the kind of recipe that quietly earns its place in your recipe repertoire. You don’t have to be fanatical and embark on every element — though none of it is difficult. Technically, there are three (highly achievable) recipes in one, and you can pick and choose whichever combination suits the occasion.

On a weeknight, you might stop at the sprouts, blistered in a hot pan and scattered with salt and lemon. But at the weekend, with friends due and a drink in hand, you can go the whole hog - charred Brussels, horseradish cream, chili-date oil (the flavors of this oil are inspired by the brilliant Allegra D’Agostini) trickling over the top, and a tangle of crispy shallots. Serve as an appetizer, a side, or something to nibble on with cocktails.

A note on sprouts: Brussels sprouts are cabbages in miniature. They belong to the same family — Brassica oleracea — alongside kale, cauliflower and broccoli. So yes, this is still cabbage cookery, just in a smaller format.

• Serve the sprouts as a side paired with horseradish cream in a bowl for dipping.

• Cook the sprouts ahead, allow them to cool, then chop roughly before folding into a salad together with chickpeas and fried halloumi, dressed with the crispy shallot date-chili oil.

• Layer the whole concoction onto slices of crusty sourdough — a swipe of horseradish cream, a few warm sprouts, a spoonful of oil, and a scatter of crisp shallots. It makes a fine open sandwich.

1. Cabbage-wrapped meatballs - There’s something deeply old-world about this dish: meatballs perfumed with spices and garlic, wrapped in tender cabbage leaves, nestled in vodka sauce, and finished with an indulgent layer of molten cheese. Your Grandma would approve.

2. Chocolate-custard-goo-pudding is a dessert that looks as though it has lost a fight. Though eccentric in appearance, it is, incredibly comforting — a school pudding, all grown up and decidedly sophisticated (you’ll have to read the recipe to see why).

3. Caramelized Onion Croque Monsieur - A Croque Monsieur, already near-perfect in its balance of bread, ham, cheese, and béchamel, is gently elevated by a spoonful of homemade caramelized onion jam. It adds just the faintest, essential whisper of sweetness. Make this for Saturday breakfast.

4. The February Edition is packed full of seasonal flavor pairings and brand new recipes including a kale, chickpea and pasta stew, plus rhubarb and citrus meringue tumbles.

Recipe, downloadable PDF, and prep video below to help you make this dish. Substack saw it first!

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Returning to England during winter has brought on a powerful bout of nostalgia — specifically, for school food. To be honest, most of the offerings were dire: routinely overcooked and severely under seasoned. I still remember the head dinner lady’s infamous chicken curry — it looked like the aftermath of a clogged sink and didn’t taste much better. However, every so often, when this doughty character was feeling unusually benevolent, she’d make chocolate cake and custard. And on cruel, freezing January days, when the wind stung your legs and cross-country was looming, (iykyk) that soft square of warm cake, slicked in sweet chocolate custard, did the trick (especially when chased with a cup of scalding, overly sugared tea).

A little side note for my American readers: school in England in the ’90s had its own peculiar charms. Highlights included: trading Pokémon cards in the playground, only to have them confiscated minutes later; playing the recorder and learning Hot Cross Buns, convinced you were a young Mozart; as well as the pure ecstasy of opening a fresh pack of smelly gel pens. And, of course, the thrill of the TV trolley being wheeled into class — a silent agreement between teacher and students that no real learning would happen that afternoon.

But more than anything, for me it’s the memory of the food that stirs a particular fondness — stodgy, eccentric, and strange, yet oddly comforting. Especially the puddings.

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The other evening, I was mindlessly scrolling through a blur of high-octane, internet-y videos - the kind that give me a headache and make me feel mildly dead inside - it’s a habit I’m trying to break. But one in particular* caught my eye: a tray of chocolate cake, cut into squares, half-floating, half-sinking in a bath of glossy sauce. A food reviewer popped up, barking at the camera. I scrolled on, but the image stuck. I couldn’t stop thinking about that dessert, so I started tinkering in the kitchen — and the result is, I think, something rather special.

Today’s recipe is a dessert that looks as though it has lost a fight. Though eccentric in appearance, it is, incredibly comforting —a school pudding, all grown up and decidedly sophisticated (you’ll have to read the recipe to see why).

*Credit where it’s due: after a bit of digging, I discovered the video was about The Dough Story in Toronto — and they’d named the pudding Muddy Puddle. Jealous of that one.

For me, the problem with cake is that there’s rarely enough goo. In layer cakes, the buttercream sits primly between the sponges. Wintry desserts usually come with a custard or sauce which is often no more than a polite puddle on the side.

What I want is balance — equal ratios of cake to cream, crumble to custard. In the dead of winter, I don’t want demure. I want bone-clinging goo!

Speaking of gloop: this custard is deeply chocolatey, silky, and if you’re not restrained, wonderfully drinkable (tried and tested!). The sponge is light, with a shot of espresso folded into the batter — a quiet nudge into mocha territory, though really, its purpose is to make the chocolate taste more of itself. Then comes the fun bit: having already placed a wide dish piled high with mini cake squares on the table, I put my drama GCSE to good use and pour the warm custard over the top in a slow, theatrical sweep.

You could, I suppose, bake the whole thing with the custard for a more set, spoonable pudding. But why would you? There’s something naughty about a cake floating in a hot bath of chocolate custard.

How to make great custard every time

Let’s be clear: proper custard is not the stuff that comes from a tin or a packet. Real custard, homemade custard, is a simple, golden, spoon-coating luxury made from just eggs, milk (or cream), sugar and a little time. It’s not difficult, but it does ask for your attention. In return, it gives you something silky, warm and infinitely more satisfying than anything that comes from a sachet.

At its heart, custard is what happens when egg yolks are gently cooked with milk and sugar until they thicken into something soft and spoonable. That’s it. A little cornflour is perfectly acceptable if you like your custard a bit more foolproof.

Whether poured over a pudding, turned into ice cream, tucked beneath a brûlée crust, or eaten straight from the pan when no one’s looking, a well-made custard is one of the quiet pleasures of the kitchen, and something you can commit to memory, ready to turn into a dessert at a moment’s notice.

Eggs

• Use the best eggs you can find. With so few ingredients, the flavor and color of the yolks really do matter.

• Only the yolks are used here. They’re what give custard its richness and that soft, trembling set.

• Whisk them with sugar until pale and creamy. This is where the magic begins — the mixture should look light, almost mousse-like.

Milk &/or Cream

• Whole milk offers lightness, while double cream adds body and indulgence. A mix of both gives balance – mellow but luxurious.

• Cream brings a fuller mouthfeel and a little more staying power, especially good when the custard is served warm and poured.

• That said, using only whole milk is perfectly fine – the result will be a little lighter, but still smooth.

Sugar

• Use with restraint. Custard should suggest sweetness, not insist on it – especially when paired with strong flavours like chocolate or fruit.

Flavorings

• Vanilla is the classic – a split pod slowly steeped in warm milk brings quiet depth and perfume.

• You can also explore subtler infusions: bay leaf, citrus zest, or a touch of nutmeg.

• Chocolate or cocoa can be stirred in at the very end. A dark chocolate, around 70%, gives richness without tipping into excess.

Cornflour (Optional)

• A small amount can help stabilize and thicken, especially if you’re new to custards or want extra insurance against curdling. Traditional custards rely on eggs alone, which gives a silkier texture, but starch makes the mixture a little more forgiving — rather useful if you’re planning to serve it hot or need it to hold its shape.

The Method

• Warm the milk or cream with your chosen flavorings until just steaming, then slowly whisk it into the yolks and sugar — a little at a time — to avoid curdling.

• Return the mixture to the pan and stir gently over low heat until it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon. Take it off the heat just before it’s ready; custard continues to thicken as it cools. Patience is everything, custard prefers a gentle hand.

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There’s something deeply old-world about this dish: meatballs perfumed with spices and garlic, wrapped in tender cabbage leaves, nestled in vodka sauce, and finished with an indulgent layer of molten cheese. Your Grandma would approve.

I often make this dish , usually on dark, blustery winter days when the weather presses close and I don’t have much to give. No two versions are ever quite the same. Happily, that leaves plenty of room for you, the cook, to veer off course and trust your instincts.

I’ve found that the true pleasure of cooking and eating isn’t only in good ingredients or practiced technique. Sometimes, the joy of a meal depends entirely on time and place. In other words, some dishes simply taste better when certain conditions are met. This dish will taste fantastic whenever you make it. But for me, it’s at its best when the world outside is grey and cold, a candle burns low on the counter, and there’s a glass of wine within reach.

All of that adds to the pleasure. But so does having someone nearby; a loved one standing beside to help, hands moving in time with yours. Not because the work is hard, but for the gentle rhythm, the unspoken intimacy, the quiet joy of making something together.

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Practicality and resourcefulness are the point here, but so is pleasure. Blame the grey drag of an English January and the post-Christmas slump that makes even boiling an egg feel like an ask, but during the last week, I haven’t felt inspired in the kitchen. Trust me, this recipe will get you back on track.

One recipe, two meals - Cook once, eat twice is one of my favorite kitchen practices. This recipe makes enough meatballs for two meals: half the quantity for the cabbage dish, the other half for the freezer. If you’re organized, you’ll double the vodka sauce, freeze it, and smugly enjoy spaghetti and meatballs later in the week. If not, that’s between you and your future self.

Type of cabbage - Savoy cabbage is prized for its tender, crinkled leaves and gentle sweetness. It softens beautifully when cooked without becoming watery, making it perfect for this dish where texture and balance matter.

If you can’t find Savoy cabbage, a green cabbage works well, just cook it a touch longer. Napa cabbage will also work for a softer, more delicate result.

Building the dish - If you’re pressed for time and must forgo the cabbage, what remains is still a perfectly respectable meatball-in-sauce affair. But let it be said: the cabbage, improbably, steals the show. Blanched just enough to limber up, the leaves become silkily pliant, swaddling the meatballs in a sort of vegetal pashmina. As the meatballs burble away in the vodka-laced tomato sauce, the cabbage softens further, greedily drinking in the liquor. Then comes the gratin flourish: a generous grating of Parmesan and a scatter of mozzarella, bronzed and blistered to perfection.

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Culinary purists will insist that a classic is inviolate — its perfection earned through repetition, ritual, and time, and therefore resistant, even immune, to improvement. It’s a compelling argument. After all, certain dishes achieve their status precisely because they have endured the scrutiny of generations and emerged intact. The evangelists of French cuisine are, it must be said, among the most ardent defenders of this belief. There is something admirable — noble, even — in the impulse to protect what has already proved itself through rigor, restraint, and technique.

And yet, reverence aside, the kitchen has never struck me as a place for preservation alone. It is a living space — one where tradition and curiosity are not adversaries but collaborators. The best cooking, after all, is rarely static. It evolves not out of irreverence, but out of intimacy — the kind of familiarity that invites gentle reinterpretation rather than reinvention for its own sake.

A note to subscribers! Over the past few years, A Good Table has grown from zero subscribers to a bestselling Substack - and that’s all thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful.

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For me, the Croque monsieur comes remarkably close to perfection — a near-Platonic harmony of bread, butter, cheese, and ham, each element doing exactly what it ought to. It is, in many ways, complete. And still, each time I indulge, I find myself longing for the faintest suggestion of sweetness, not a cloying note, merely a gentle lift. Of course, when the ingredients are properly sourced — a beautifully nutty Gruyère, a fine smoked ham, a homemade béchamel parfumée à la muscade, and bread with both chew and crackle — there should already be a natural sweetness. Perhaps it’s greed, or perhaps it’s the residue of years in America, where sweet and savory don’t flirt — they marry. Either way, I always seem to crave just a little more.

So, for today’s recipe, I have done the unthinkable. I have introduced a homemade caramelized onion jam. In my defense, if there is one addition capable of heightening that heavenly concord of bread, butter, cheese, and ham, it is onions — slow-cooked, golden, and sweetened by their own alchemy enhanced by a touch of sugar, a splash of white wine vinegar, freshly cracked black pepper, and a lone bay leaf.

I suppose I ought to be ashamed — it’s a bold addition: fruity, faintly acidic, making the whole composition taste vaguely, almost wistfully, like a deconstructed French onion soup, with its voluptuous, cheese-laden croutons — but I’m afraid I lack the modesty to pretend I regret it.

If you take issue with this addition and feel moved to argue, I suggest — with all due civility — that you first follow the recipe exactly as written. Save your objections for later. Though I rather suspect that by then, you’ll be too blissfully silenced by the sheer pleasure of the offering to muster much protest. And if you do find yourself scandalized by how much you prefer it to the original, I recommend making another immediately if only to soothe your nerves.

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I remember Fridays at school in the depths of winter when - breath turning white in the air; coats fastened to the chin; and our fingers stinging as they thawed - we would crowd into the lunch hall. It was always overheated, those old cast-iron Victorian radiators hissing like beasts, utterly indifferent to the concept of temperature control.

Lunch itself was usually forgettable. But there was always pudding. Spotted dick, jam sponge or treacle tart would be baked in huge catering pans and then served steaming hot and slathered in lumpy custard. Sometimes, when the dinner ladies had clearly had enough of making stodgey delights for a swarm of snot-nosed ingrates, out came the oversized cellophane-wrapped, American-style cookies. These were catering company specials, and, to my mind, absolutely glorious.

For the uninitiated (and possibly rather amused) American reader, the jam roly poly is a suet pudding rolled up with jam, then steamed/baked until thick, sticky, and unapologetically heavy. First recorded in the early 19th century, it was often boiled in a cloth sleeve and charmingly nicknamed “dead man’s arm,” which tells you most of what you need to know. Not elegant. Not refined. Just properly, wintrily good. Every British kid has eaten this at school or home, and for many, it remains the last word in comfort.

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I didn’t grow up with this version of jam roly poly — I’ve given it a little makeover. Instead of really sweet traditional raspberry or plum jam, I’m using a quick homemade cranberry-orange jam: ruby-red, tart, and just festive enough. It takes ten minutes to make and adds a brightness that counterbalances any suggestion of heaviness. As a child, I only encountered cranberries in Christmas sauce. But here in America, they’re everywhere at this time of year — tart little jewels in bakes, pies, and sauces, I’ve come to love them. There’s vanilla and cinnamon in the dough, too, to add a specific, yet subtle depth of flavor.

American readers — it’s well worth considering this dessert for your Thanksgiving table. Ideal on a cold afternoon, when the air smells faintly of frost and you want something warm to slice into.

A Note on Suet and fat

Traditional roly-poly is made with suet — the fat from around a cow’s or lamb’s kidneys, which I’ll admit doesn’t exactly sound appealing, but suet is particularly good for its high melting point, which gives the dough that distinctive lightness and shortness. It makes for a rich pudding that, whilst light in texture, can hold its pleasing structure: something to slice into.

In the UK, shredded suet is easy to find (Atora is the best-known brand), and is sold in both beef and vegetarian versions. You’ll find it in most supermarkets, usually near the flour or baking aisle.

In the US, it’s a little trickier. You can find suet in some specialty delis or stores. If you’re not up for a sourcing mission, you can always substitute:

• Cold grated butter (the closest in behavior, though slightly richer)

• Vegetable shortening, frozen and grated

In my version, I use 70% suet to 30% butter. I like what butter brings — the richness, the way it softens the texture without weighing it down. The testing process required repeated helpings of warm pudding with custard — a responsibility I bore with admirable grace. I can now say with confidence: my ratio delivers just the right balance of richness, crumb and yielding softness, while keeping the sturdy heft a roly-poly demands.

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The salted vanilla custard

A roly poly pudding without custard is inconceivable. Mine is a salted vanilla version — thick, glossy and lump-free, with just enough salinity to rein in the sweetness. It slips around the pudding like satin. The two are co-dependent in the best possible way. Fortunately, the custard can be made a day or two ahead and kept in the refrigerator, quietly waiting for its moment. To serve warm, simply place the bowl over a pan of barely simmering water and let the heat coax it back to life. After a few minutes of gentle warming, the custard will regain its satin sheen and soft, spoon-coating richness.

Very important to note: when left in the refrigerator for a couple of hours, this custard transforms into something quite glorious — a cool, unctuous delight with the confident wobble of a particularly self-assured panna cotta.

Also, if you’re after a very low-effort dessert, I’m fairly certain that a scattering of sugar and a quick flick of the blowtorch would yield a wonderfully impromptu crème brûlée. Either way, this custard is a dessert in its own right — and I honestly can’t decide whether it’s best served warm, cold, or eaten softly set, straight from the fridge, with a spoon and no witnesses.

Before we start cooking, here’s a question to paid subscribers. What is your favorite dessert for this time of year and why?

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Good morning/afternoon, folks — and happy Friday! To celebrate, today’s letter is free.

November is the month when the world begins to contract: evenings gather sooner, the light fades at a slant, and there’s a coldness to the air that settles on the skin with quiet insistence. It’s the season for staying in and conserving energy. It is, in other words, soup season: the edible equivalent of drawing the curtains and putting on thick socks.

This soup is autumn at its most golden — deep orange and rust, sweet and smoky, with enough warmth to take the edge off a leaden-skied afternoon. Homemade pumpkin purée, already soft and naturally sweet, is folded into softened shallots with a generous spoonful of harissa and a glug of cloudy apple cider. The sweetness is tempered — not tamed — by smoke, heat, and spice.

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There’s also rosemary, a thread of maple syrup, and a little cream to round it all out. Immediately before serving, a splash of vinegar provides that final, bright note that brings the whole thing into focus. And just when the soup is thick and velvety, you add a scattering of granola brittle — sweet, salty, and crisp — that cracks, satisfyingly, like frost underfoot. It breaks up the softness, adds texture, and keeps things groovy.

This is the kind of soup that makes sense of a grey day — the sort you eat whilst cocooned in mismatched layers of clothing, as you peer out from steamed up windows. The only required accompaniment will be a heel of bread - heavy with salted butter - that’s all crust and chew.

This newsletter is sponsored by Grandy Organics, whose granola I’ve transformed into a brittle that brings the perfect crunch and contrast to this silky soup. Slightly sweet, slightly salty, and completely addictive, I used their gluten-free Honey nut Granola — made with great ingredients and delicious for breakfast (I often have it with strained yoghurt, a little pumpkin butter, and pecans), or simply straight from the bag for a moreish mid-afternoon snack.

Grandy’s support helps keep this recipe free and available to all.

Harissa Maple Spice Pumpkin Soup With Granola Brittle By A Good Table

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Harissa maple spice pumpkin soup with granola brittle

Ingredients

• 800 g pumpkin purée (homemade or store-bought) - see homemade method below

• 50 g unsalted butter

• 3 shallots, halved and thinly sliced

• 2 tbsp fresh rosemary, finely chopped

• 2 tbsp maple syrup

• 4 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 100 ml fresh apple cider (or cloudy apple juice)

• 950 ml vegetable broth, plus more as needed

• 1 tsp harissa spice

• ¼-½ tsp ground nutmeg

• ½ tsp ground cinnamon

• 1½ tsp kosher salt (more to taste)

• ½ tsp black pepper

• 90 ml heavy cream

• A splash of apple cider vinegar, to finish

Optional Fried Sage Topping

• 30 g unsalted butter

• 1 tbsp oil

• 10-12 fresh sage leaves
  

Method

1. Melt the butter or oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the shallots and cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they’re soft and just starting to caramelize — the kind of aroma that lets you know something delicious is on its way. If they start to brown too quickly, reduce the heat.

2. Stir in the garlic, maple syrup, and rosemary. Cook for 3–5 minutes, until the garlic has softened and the mixture is fragrant (but not browned).

3. Add the harissa spice, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Stir well to coat the shallots and garlic.

4. Pour in the apple cider, scraping the bottom of the pot to deglaze. Simmer for 4-5 minutes, until slightly reduced.

5. Add the vegetable broth and pumpkin purée. Reduce the heat and simmer gently for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

6. Blend the soup using an immersion blender (or transfer to a regular blender in batches) until completely smooth. Return to the pot and bring to a gentle simmer, then turn off the heat.

7. Stir in the cream and adjust seasoning, according to taste. Finish with a splash of vinegar.

8. For the fried sage topping, melt the butter and oil in a small skillet over medium-high heat. Add the sage leaves and fry for 1 minute, until crisp. Transfer to a paper towel to drain and reserve the butter for drizzling.

9. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls. Top with fried sage , granola brittle ( see below) and a drizzle of the reserved sage butter or a swirl of cream. Finish with cracked black pepper.

Homemade Pumpkin Purée

Ingredients

• 1 small pumpkin or one large squash

• Olive oil

• Salt
  

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Cut the pumpkin in half and scoop out the seeds. Rub with a little oil and salt. Place cut side down on a parchment-lined baking sheet and roast for 40–50 minutes, until soft.

2. Allow to cool slightly, then scoop out the flesh and blend until smooth.

3. Store in an airtight container for up to 5 days in the fridge, or freeze for up to 3 months.

Granola Brittle Topping

A sweet-salty crunch.

Ingredients (makes enough for 4–6 bowls)

• 1 cup (150 g) granola

• ¼ cup (60 g) sugar (white or light brown)

• 3 tbsp (20 g) unsalted butter

• 1 tbsp honey or maple syrup (optional, for extra caramel flavor)

• Pinch of salt

• ½ tsp cinnamon (or a pinch of nutmeg or ginger)
  

Method

1. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone mat.

2. In a small saucepan, melt the butter and sugar over medium heat, stirring constantly. Cook until the mixture turns golden and bubbly (about 3–4 minutes). If using honey or maple syrup, stir it in now together with the salt and cinnamon.

3. Remove from heat and quickly stir in the granola — the mixture sets fast.

4. Spread into a thin, even layer on the tray. Allow to cool completely for 15–20 minutes, until crisp.

5. Once set, break into small shards or clusters. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 1 week.

Optional Extras

• Crumbled bacon lardons

• Swirl of cream or crème fraîche

I’d love to invite you to the paid subscriber chat — it’s a friendly space to share recipes, talk about what you’re cooking, or swap little moments from your week. I’m there too if you ever need cooking advice or want to talk through an idea. Plus it’s a perfect time to join as I’m running a 35% off sale until Sunday!

For us Brits, the idea of Thanksgiving may appear a tad extravagant - too much feasting, and merely a month before Christmas! Yet, therein lies one of the charms of the American way of life; Americans possess a remarkable flair for holiday celebrations. Having married an American and now with my own American passport, Thanksgiving has become one of my favorite holidays. After all, any occasion that revolves around food and family — count me in.

True to my roots, this year’s Thanksgiving menu nods to old-fashioned English fare with a few international twists — call it English-American holiday cooking. Think pies, puddings, and the kind of dishes you might find in a really cozy country pub. But also plenty of refined, moreish, really achievable treats like today’s rather addictive dip. Fair warning: making this dip may secure your title as the family holiday hero — but it also means you’ll be asked to bring it to every gathering forever.

Oh, and good news — to mark the start of festive recipe season, subscriptions are 35% off for the rest of the week. So, whether you’re celebrating Thanksgiving or easing into the festive season, be prepared for the deluge of recipes that will be arriving in your inbox during the next few weeks.

A note to readers! Over the past few years, A Good Table has grown from zero subscribers to a bestselling Substack - and that’s all thanks to you. I am currently offering 35% off all subscriptions to celebrate the season and I’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber - every cent goes back into the cooking, writing, and ideas that make this space possible.

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Everyone seems to be moaning about the clocks going back, but I relish the return of the dark evenings. They mark, for me, the quiet beginning of the festive season. From now until early January, there’s a gentle gathering of light and comfort. Wherever family and friends come together, the air thickens with the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, spices that speak of memory as much as anticipation. Outside, burnished leaves make their way into flower arrangements, and shop windows shimmer just as dusk begins to settle, like a promise of something joyful on the way. Can you tell i’m a romantic?

Speaking of romance, this dip flirts shamelessly. A whipped cloud of goat’s and cream cheese, lightly sweetened with honey and perfumed with Christmassy/wintery spices. This ‘cloud’ is spooned onto a plate, and crowned with crispy bacon (or preferably prosciutto), syrupy olive oil-fried dates (these are the dates I use and they are the best I’ve ever had - worth every penny), and a warm drizzle of spiced honey with the tiniest kick of heat.

It’s part snack, part sweet/salty showstopper — the sort of dish you bring to the table with a bottle in hand, whilst the roast chicken or turkey finishes in the oven. Serve with torn bread, crackers, or just a spoon, if no one’s looking.

I’ve made and offered many versions of this dip over the years, but this is version 2.0 — tested, re-tested, and completely perfect.

Before we start cooking, here’s a question to paid subscribers. What is your favorite holiday recipe and why?

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Today’s (free!) recipe is a small marvel: crab and butternut squash arancini with curried mayo. Originally developed for a brand last year, they’ve never made it to this newsletter until now. I’ve served them at festive dinners, family weekends, Thanksgiving tables, and cocktail parties that turn the kitchen into a dance floor — and they always do the same thing: arrive quietly, then steal the whole show.

In fact, you know what? Consider this the unofficial kickoff to Thanksgiving and festive recipe season!

A note to subscribers! Over the past few years, A Good Table has grown from zero subscribers to a bestselling Substack - and that’s all thanks to you. I’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber - every cent goes back into the cooking, writing, and ideas that make this space possible.

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Last week I found myself in Las Vegas, of all places. The location was convenient for a meeting, though the details already feel hazy. Not a result of alcohol consumption, I should say, but rather, from a general state of overstimulation that is particular to Vegas. In a brief, unrepentant moment of tourist abandon, and ravenous after the 5-hour drive, I wandered into the buffet restaurant at Wynn Las Vegas. Sixteen or more kitchens were each hawking something completely different: dim sum, tacos, prime rib, sushi, miniature short rib with mash, crème brûlées the size of a tablespoon, s’mores scaled for fairies. An entire universe of food.

The food was… fine. The experience? Glorious. It was all so extravagantly, unapologetically American — that is to say, abundant, theatrical, and just the right side of absurd. I loved every mad minute.

What stayed with me — somewhere between the mountain of crab legs, made-to-order crêpes, the petite gateaux, and baby poke bowls— was a renewed affection for food in miniature. Not just canapés in the strict, sculptural sense, but what the English, with endearing vagueness, call “picky bits”: nibbles, snacks, bits and bobs. The kind of food that allows you to be curious without committing.

I grew up in the ’90s, when dinner parties still featured trays of canapés. My mother had a fondness for assembling offerings that would now be called retro: mushroom crostinis; cherry tomatoes skewered with mozzarella and basil; and tiny parcels of delicious things tucked into puff pastry. I thought it was all impossibly sophisticated.

But what about now? I realize it’s only the beginning of November, and perhaps a touch premature to be talking about party food, but in my defense, it’s never too early to start plotting holiday menus. Which brings me to this week’s crab and butternut squash arancini — perfect for Thanksgiving cocktail hour! Crisp, faintly spiced, and small enough to eat in one enthusiastic bite (depending on the company), these canapés taste like a celebration - golden, comforting, a little nostalgic.

The recipe may, at first glance, appear fiddly, but it is simple to follow. And, given that these arancini are always the first morsels to disappear - just listen out for the appreciative murmurs of “Oooh, alright, just one more!” - they are deeply satisfying to make.

What recipes are you looking forward to cooking this season? Comment below!

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Crab And Butternut Squash Arancini With Curried Mayo

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Crab and butternut squash arancini with curried mayo

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Makes approx. 10-12 crab arancini balls

Ingredients

• 30g butter + 1 tbsp olive oil

• 1–2 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 100g butternut squash, diced small

• 100g arborio rice

• 150ml white wine

• 200ml vegetable stock

• 100g white crab meat — available pre-cooked from most fishmongers/grocery stores

• 150g grated cheddar & mozzarella (any soft mix of melty cheese)

• Pinch of cayenne

• Pinch of paprika

• Salt, to taste

For coating & frying

• Neutral oil

• 1 egg, beaten

• 60g flour, seasoned with salt, pepper and your choice of spice

• Panko breadcrumbs

Curried Mayo

• ½ cup mayonnaise

• 2 tsp curry powder

• 2 tsp lemon juice

• Salt, to taste

Method

First, make the mayo — mix everything together, cover, and chill.

Now for the arancini. Melt butter and oil in a pan, add the butternut squash and cook until softened and slightly golden at the edges. Stir in the rice. Add the wine and let it bubble away for a few minutes until slightly reduced, stirring all the while. Gradually ladle in the stock, risotto-style, until the rice is just tender and most of the liquid has disappeared.

Season the crabmeat with paprika, cayenne, and a little salt, then fold into the rice. Spread everything out on a tray and allow to cool slightly for a few minutes before mixing in the cheese.

Shape into balls — an ice cream scoop helps, but fingers work just as well. Chill the prepared balls for 20-30 minutes (or up to 2 days). Once chilled, dip each ball in flour, then egg, and then breadcrumbs.

Prepare ahead tip: Rest the naked risotto balls on a tray and let them freeze until hard to the touch. Slip them into an airtight bag or container and they’ll keep happily in the freezer for a month. Let the arancini thaw slowly in the fridge overnight. When you’re ready to cook, roll them through flour, beaten egg, then breadcrumbs, and fry until golden.

Pour enough neutral oil into a deep pan or Dutch oven to come a quarter of the way up the sides. Fry the arancini in small batches until they turn a deep, golden brown.

Oil temp tip: drop a crumb of bread into the oil. If it fizzes gently and turns gold within a moment or two, you’re ready to fry. If it just sits there, looking sorry for itself, give the pan another minute’s heat.

Keep each batch warm in a low temp oven until you have cooked all the arancini.

Serve hot with the curried mayo and something cold and sparkling to drink. Compliments will follow — just smile and take the credit.

I’d love to invite you to the paid subscriber chat — it’s a friendly space to share recipes, talk about what you’re cooking, or swap little moments from your week. I’m there too if you ever need cooking advice or want to talk through an idea.