Happy Easter! Welcome to the April edition of Seasonal, our year-long celebration of cooking with the seasons. Everything is feeling so wonderfully vibrant and new again, and with spring underway, today’s newsletter is all about in-season produce recommendations, April flavor pairings, and a selection of three brand new not-so-demanding recipes: Garlic butter linguine with parsley & spring asparagus, crisp chickpea & herb dumplings with sesame & pillowy flatbreads & brown butter lemon cupcakes.

If you want to know what to buy at the market this month — and how to use it — you’re in the right place!

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I feel like I’m defrosting. If you’ve ever spent a winter in the UK (I know my friends on the East coast and in any cold/grey European locations will relate), you’ll know that for all the coziness — hunkering down, endless cups of tea, bowls of soup — after a while it becomes, frankly, a bit depressing.

So, although the clocks going forward killed my 6 am morning routine streak, I’m relieved that the days are beginning to stretch luxuriously at both ends — birdsong drifting in around 6:30 am, and dusk lingering well past 7 pm.

With the return of light comes a quiet, but persistent desire to make something, to feed someone, to fling open the doors and ransack the kitchen. I’m starting to cook differently too — less by plan, more by instinct — drawn to what looks freshest at the market.

And speaking of markets, yesterday I paid a visit to Heckfield’s produce sale. Naturally, last weekend’s frenzied fridge spring clean was immediately replaced. My self-control, when faced with the finest, freshest produce is entirely nonexistent.

Herbs, in particular, have staged a takeover of my refrigerator, which now resembles a less chic version of one of those designer living walls, you know the kind, all clean lines and cleverly concealed irrigation. Mine, however, is more akin to horticultural mutiny. Herbs spill from every shelf with parsley entwined with mint in what appears to be a bid for freedom.

Right, enough yapping, time to shop and cook.

This section is designed to help you cook more instinctively using flavor pairings as a starting point, and simple ideas to turn seasonal ingredients into meals. Make yourself a coffee and get inspired for April cooking and eating.

Chickpeas & Mint

I have been making falafel at home for a while now and it isn’t too much of a faff. That said, I couldn’t resist a little meddling, so I took the shape and flavor of a traditional falafel as a starting point, then developed a bite that had a softer herby centre — more yielding, more dumpling-like.

So, today for one of our brand new recipes, we have crispy green dumplings, leaning heavily into spring herbs — particularly mint and parsley. Chickpeas, with their gentle, nutty depth, take well to this combo; the mint lifts and sharpens, bringing a freshness that keeps everything from tipping into heaviness.

My chickpea and herb dumplings come together simply and quickly: fry a combination of herbs, chickpeas, garlic and chili until crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. It’s the sort of supper I keep returning to — warm dumplings (though just as good cold), tucked into homemade yogurt flatbreads (so easy) , something creamy alongside, and a sharp salad or pickled onion for contrast.

Full recipe below!

Lemon & Browned Butter

Citrus season is beginning its slow retreat across Europe, and I find myself feeling almost bereft. The last of the lemons are still there if you look for them — softer now, their skins giving a little under your thumb. Meyer lemons, those gloriously fragrant hybrids of lemon and mandarin, are rarer still on this side of the Atlantic; back in my second home, California, they’ve been peaking all winter long and are only now starting to fade. So do, please, get hold of them while you can.

Onto one of my favorite flavor pairings: browned butter and lemon. Together, they feel like a kind of alchemy — or perhaps more accurately, like two people who bring out the very best in each other.

You’ll understand exactly what I mean the moment you make my brown butter lemon cupcakes. The browned butter permeates the lemon sponge, giving it nutty depth; once baked, they’re filled with lemon curd (best, always, when homemade), then topped with an almost illegal amount of lemon buttercream — and, for good measure, more curd. Glorious!

Full recipe below!

Parsley & Asparagus

Parsley garlic noodles were one of those gloriously easy after-school suppers — the kind that came together in ten minutes and landed on the table before you’d even taken your coat off. Good with a roast chicken leg, a few sausages, or nothing at all.

I regularly make this dish, and at this time of year the parsley is vivid and peppery, and asparagus is wonderfully sweet. Funny thing is, I’ve never really written this recipe down before, always made it by instinct and appetite. But after some proper testing and a little tweaking, I’ve arrived at a perfect version that works every time.

Full recipe below!

Asparagus & Miso

Asparagus has a natural savoriness that borders on the meaty (especially the gorgeous Wye Valley Farm King asparagus variety here in the UK) whilst miso really turns up the volume. The pairing works because both sit comfortably in that umami space, though asparagus keeps things fresh while miso deepens and anchors. Here’s an idea for a gorgeous lunch: toss asparagus in a little oil and roast until just tender, then whisk miso with butter and a squeeze of lemon (with perhaps a little honey or agave), and allow to melt over the warm spears. Top with a shaving of Parmesan. This combination is heavenly on chunky, slightly burnt, overly buttered sourdough toast, though to be honest, most things are.

Rhubarb & Sumac

A very spring-y bake! Sumac is a deep red, tangy spice made from dried, ground sumac berries. Sometimes when I don’t have fresh lemon, I will add a pinch to liven up a stew or soup. Sumac introduces acidity without moisture - a particular tartness that’s dry rather than juicy (great for adding flavor to baked goods). Think of it as citrus in powdered form, but with a lovely, rounded floral edge. With strawberries, it deepens their perfumed sweetness; with rhubarb, it amplifies the sourness, sharpening it into something cleaner, brighter.

A good example of this pairing is my rhubarb, strawberry and sumac upside-down loaf cake. Make it here.

Radish & Hazelnut

A surprising, almost flirtatious pairing - the radish, all crisp bite and peppery cool, plays against the toasty richness of hazelnut. Try shaved radishes with crushed, lightly toasted hazelnuts, a drizzle of hazelnut oil, and a scattering of chervil or tarragon. Or see here for chunky radish salsa recipe.

Leeks & Blue Cheese

This is a brilliant pairing. Leeks are mild and yielding; blue cheese is anything but. The tension is the point — soft, sweet allium against sharp, salty, funky cheese. Each reins in the other.

Braise the leeks in cream and/or butter, until completely soft, almost collapsing, then spoon over blue cheese, letting it melt gently. Pile onto toasted sourdough and finish with a handful of toasted hazelnuts or pistachios for crunch.

This flavor pairing would also work well in quiche form.

Peas & Feta

This combination makes for an easy April supper suggestion. Peas are wonderfully sweet — you might find yourself eating them by the handful, like candy. Feta introduces salt and tang, cutting through the sweetness and bringing everything into balance. I like to start with rice, cooked in a light vegetable broth, then fold through a generous handful of chopped herbs — parsley, dill, whatever is around. The peas are added at the end and stirred through the rice.

Add a little more broth so it loosens into something halfway between a risotto and a soup, then finish with chunks of feta and plenty of freshly cracked black pepper. Mint works nicely here, though it’s not essential.

Carrots & Cumin

I’ve had this carrot salad on repeat lately — apparently I’m “eating my skincare” (TikTok’s words, not mine), but really, natural retinol aside, this salad just tastes wonderful and makes me feel great.

Use a vegetable peeler to shave the carrots into long ribbons, then dress with lemon juice, good olive oil, and a little honey. Add sesame seeds, finely chopped parsley, and a pinch or two of cumin and sumac.

Toss everything together and leave to soften slightly — it’s the sort of side salad that goes with just about anything. Full recipe here .

Purple Sprouting Broccoli & Anchovies

At its English best - particularly from Norfolk, a county of wide skies and good soil - purple sprouting broccoli is nearly over. Why anchovies? Because brassicas need something to play against, something deep, salty, and rich. Blanch purple sprouting broccoli until just tender, then toss in a pan with olive oil, garlic, and a few anchovies until the fish melts into a silky salty sauce. Finish with lemon zest and a crack of black pepper. Great in pasta or as a side to roasted chicken.

The full detailed recipes for the Garlic butter linguine with parsley & spring asparagus, crisp chickpea & herb dumplings with sesame & pillowy flatbreads & brown butter & lemon cupcakes are below + downloadable PDFs, and prep videos to help you seamlessly enjoy Spring April cooking.

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Welcome to the February edition of Seasonal, 2026 — our year-long celebration of the shifting seasons.

On the first Sunday of each month (alongside the weekly letters), I send out a bumper magazine-style edition where you’ll find the best of what’s in season, as well as flavor pairings and ideas for what to cook. I know that this time of year can be a little uninspiring, so I also share two brand-new recipes that have been tried and tested (see the menu below). Make yourself a cuppa tea or a cocktail and get cozy.

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Well, here we are already in February, with January no more than a blur. Currently, New York is frozen and covered in snow, California is typically enjoying its near-perpetual warmth, and Australia is basking in high summer. Here, in the English countryside, we are cheerfully awaiting the arrival of spring with all the signs of life and hope. Somehow, that hope feels especially needed just now.

This morning, on my way to the market, I noticed snowdrops clustered along garden edges and park paths, no longer shy; early daffodils nodding gently in the breeze; and at the market, people eagerly queuing to purchase the season’s first harvest of shocking-yellow mimosa and multi-colored tulips.

As for produce: celeriac - knotted, rough, and smelling of damp soil and anise - beckons with suggestions of soup, gratins and coleslaws, whilst turnips - lilac-shouldered and crisp, with a bite of pepper - are an economical addition to a tray of roasted vegetables.

Meanwhile, blood oranges - their rinds dimpled, hiding jeweled flesh veined with gold — whisper memories of the Italian winter sun.

Back in the UK, forced Yorkshire rhubarb, flushed pink, its sharpness aching for sugar, emerges from its protected cave of darkness into the bright sunlight and the excited applause of those who have waited patiently for this national seasonal treasure. And my favorite: kale — dark and crinkled, ink pooling at the edges, its bitterness ready to soften in heat — is a welcome source of winter nutrients such as vitamins A, B6, C, and K, as well as folate and fiber.

I make my purchases and cradle my finds. For us in the northern hemisphere, spring is on its way.

Kale and Chickpeas

Specifically, cavolo nero and chickpeas. Cavolo nero — dusky, deep green, its leaves dark as ink and crinkled like old parchment — has a mineral richness that seems to call out for softness. Chickpeas are the perfect partner, with their mild, slightly nutty, almost buttery flavor. For me, the contrast is quiet but complete. All that’s missing is pasta!

For a quick, thrifty supper, I blanch cavolo nero, then blitz it into a pesto-like paste. I then mix it with chickpeas, butter, parmesan (plus any other cheese I can find in the fridge), stock, as well as any other bits and bobs that need using up. The blitzed kale emulsifies into a lovely cheesy sauce, clinging to each chickpea, and curl of pasta. Full recipe below.

Citrus and White Chocolate

Orange and dark chocolate is a much-appreciated classic. I do love a segment of orange dipped in bitter 70% chocolate, finished with a pinch of sea salt. However, there’s something especially lovely about the way white chocolate takes to citrus.

Clementines, blood oranges and tangelos — with all their sharp, juicy brightness — seem to awaken the flavor of white chocolate. Meanwhile, the creaminess of the chocolate softens the acidity of the citrus without dulling it. The pairing works because they sit on opposite ends of the flavor wheel: one sharp, aromatic, and juicy; the other rich, fatty, and sweet.

My favorite expression of this flavor pairing is my meringue tumbles inspired by Chef Jeremy Lee: citrus segments nestled on a cloud of toasted, marshmallow-soft meringue alongside tart poached rhubarb and a stream of white chocolate custard. A spoonful of each bite is all air, acid, sugar and cream. It’s a very gorgeous pudding indeed! My recipe for the white chocolate custard is also a fantastic accompaniment to a variety of cakes and desserts - useful to have in your cooking arsenal.

Brussels Sprouts and Horseradish

If I have to endure any more boiled Brussels sprouts, I might scream. At home, I halve and pan-fry them until the edges catch and caramelize; the sulphur steps back, and the sweetness comes forward. I like to serve them with a horseradish crème for dipping, as a kind of cocktail snack, or a last minute offering when friends pop round. The cream is incredibly simple and contains just a few ingredients: crème fraîche, thick Greek yoghurt, and a spoonful or two of jarred horseradish. Cold, sharp, and creamy, this dip is a satisfying contrast to the hot, blistered brassicas.

Sometimes I turn this pairing into a more robust salad/appetizer so that crispy shallots, charred sprouts, shaved fennel and a drizzle of date chili oil, are arranged on a bed of the horseradish cream. Sweet, bitter, hot, cold. The recipe is debuting this coming week, hurrah!

Cabbage, Peanut and Chili

I’m about to launch a mini cabbage recipe series — trying to show what this much-maligned vegetable can actually do when you let it stretch its legs.

Here’s one quick idea: take a hispi cabbage and quarter it. Char it hard on a griddle or in a hot pan until it smells sweet and smoky, the edges blackening just slightly. Then pop it in a moderately hot oven for ten minutes or so, just to soften the inside. Meanwhile, mix a few tablespoons of crunchy peanut butter with a good spoonful of your favorite chili oil and a little honey. When the cabbage is ready, plate it up and pour this unctuous, satay-adjacent sauce over the top. You could also use this combination to make cabbage peanut noodles for an easy mid-week win.

Forced Rhubarb and Pistachio

By late January, the English landscape can feel bloody miserable monochrome. The days are short, the skies pewter grey, and the soil still clings to sleep. Then, suddenly, forced rhubarb appears — vivid pink, sweetly sour, and utterly gorgeous.

Grown in complete darkness in candlelit sheds, forced rhubarb grows faster in the absence of photosynthesis, producing long, tender stalks with a gentler, more floral acidity than its summer counterpart. It is, in many ways, the first true fruit of the year — even if it’s not a fruit at all.

Its sharpness needs something creamy or nutty to land on. Pistachio is the most poetic answer. A loaf cake is the obvious choice, though I’m partial to a pistachio frangipane galette, where the rhubarb roasts just enough to slacken slightly, bleeding pink into golden almond and green. is the expert on all things galette, so I’d highly recommend you read her Substack and buy her latest book!

For other rhubarb-inspired recipes, you’ll find plenty of ideas here.

Grapefruit and Blue Cheese

I’m no food scientist — just rather good at Googling and pretending I paid attention in chemistry classes - but in terms of flavor alone, it seems obvious that grapefruit and blue cheese are at opposite ends of the flavor spectrum. Blue cheese gets its pungency from methyl ketones, compounds produced during the breakdown of proteins by mould cultures — along with a whole spectrum of savory, salty, umami notes. Grapefruit, by contrast, owes its sharp, lingering bitterness to naringin, a compound that really lingers on the tongue. The bitterness of grapefruit cuts the fat of the cheese. The salt in the cheese brightens the fruit. One pulls, the other anchors.

As for recipe ideas, you could go classic winter salad vibes: grapefruit, radicchio, toasted almonds, a lemon vinaigrette, and soft blue cheese. Or go rogue — brûléed grapefruit slices with a little sugar, topped with a chunk of blue cheese, and served alongside a Negroni. It’s strange at first, but balanced enough to be curiously delicious.

Winter tomatoes and lamb

I used to dread cooking with lamb, unsure how to rid the meat of its slightly nauseating, gamey flavor. Two things changed that. First, asking your very friendly butcher about the age of the lamb — the younger, the sweeter and milder the meat. And second, technique: patting the lamb dry, letting it come to room temperature, salting it well, then treating it like steak - sear it hot, then baste with plenty of butter, garlic, herbs and aromatics.

Lamb needs sweetness and the addition of fresh flavors — ingredients that will lift and balance its richness. That’s why, in so many cuisines, it’s paired with fruit or acidity. In Greece, there’s youvetsi, where lamb is slow-cooked in a rich tomato sauce with orzo. In northern India, tamatar gosht simmers lamb with tomatoes, garlic and warming spices until everything melds together into a deep, fragrant stew.

This brings me to our pairing. You might assume winter isn’t the time for tomatoes but in milder coastal regions like Sardinia, Puglia, and Sicily, certain tomatoes thrive under pressure. Poor, sandy soils, minimal water, high salinity — the stress forces the plants to draw every last drop of flavor from their surroundings. The result is extraordinary: tomatoes that taste of sunlight and salt, condensed. You can find them through Natoora.

The other night, I made a lovely supper of pan-fried lamb chops and winter tomato rice — my anglicized take on something between paella (minus the seafood) and jollof. You could use tinned tomatoes — and you might have to. But the sweetness and depth of those winter tomatoes made the rice sing. I’m planning to publish a recipe for this very soon. I know, I’m such a tease!

Apples and Almonds

Here in England, Bramley apples are still available — just. Sharp and sweet-ish, they collapse beautifully when baked. I often make a simple apple and marzipan cake, the batter spiked with almond extract, the apples folded through to break down into pockets of soft, tangy sweetness. Lovely warm, with cream. Even better cold, for breakfast. If you can’t find any decent apples, try my cake with pears, or if you’re in a hot climate ( Australians, you lucky blighters, you) blueberries would work very well.

Leeks and Gruyère

In winter I crave gratins, and I don’t discriminate. Potatoes, celery root, cabbage, fennel — whatever’s knocking about. But leeks, with their perfumed sweetness and faint suggestion of onion, do particularly well with Alpine cheeses.

Try this: soften sliced leeks slowly in butter until they’re silky and collapsing. Pile them into a baking dish with a little cream and stock, top with grated Gruyère, and bake until golden and bubbling. Nothing fancy - just comfort, straight from the oven.

Radicchio and Pork

For my palate, there’s little more pleasing than the bitter crackle of radicchio leaves with the salty crispness of fried pork. A warm radicchio salad with lardons is simple, and deeply satisfying, you can find a recipe for a winter salad with a delicious vinaigrette here.

Other ideas? Toss shredded radicchio through pasta with pancetta and parmesan. Or braise it gently with cider vinegar and serve alongside roasted pork belly. Bitterness meets richness, and they both walk away happier.

Lemon and Mascarpone

I make an as-you-like-it lemon meringue cake that changes with my mood. Sometimes I go all in — a rich 4-5 layered celebration sponge cake with mascarpone cream crowned with peaks of torched meringue (as above) - Cipriani-inspired. Other times, it’s simpler: a lemon-scented sponge filled with lemon curd and lightly whipped mascarpone — a citrusy echo of a Victoria sandwich.

The pairing lends itself to all kinds of winter puddings. Lemon tiramisu, say, with mascarpone folded into whipped cream and soaked sponge spiked with Limoncello. Or a lemon curd fool — sharp, soft, and ready in minutes. Just fold a few generous spoonfuls of lemon curd into softly whipped cream and mascarpone, ripple until marbled, and spoon into glasses. Crushed amaretti or gingernuts on top wouldn’t hurt. Nor would a final splash of Limoncello.

Recipes, downloadable PDFs, and prep videos are below to help you seamlessly enjoy cooking this week.

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Welcome to the first edition of Seasonal, 2026, our year-long celebration of the shifting seasons. A new year brings new beginnings, and there’s so much to share. This first issue is a generous one, and intentionally so. I want this newsletter to feel like settling in with a beloved cookbook or flipping through the pages of a favorite weekend supplement. Inside, you’ll find the best of what’s in season, flavor pairings, and a collection of new recipes to carry you through these early weeks of the year.

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First, happy new year and welcome to old friends and new subscribers! Now seems like the perfect time to reintroduce A Good Table. I’m Sarah, and I started this (now bestselling!) newsletter in Autumn 2023. Here, the focus is on seasonal, creative cooking. After listening closely to your comments and requests over the past year, I’ll be leaning into easy yet elevated dinner recipes, full menus (from midweek meals to holiday entertaining), simple desserts, and imaginative bakes.

On the first Sunday of each month, you’ll receive a bumper seasonal issue, followed by a weekly letter under Recipes & Stories. Guest recipes from esteemed chefs, cooks and interesting folk live under & Friends, alongside the travel section. I am especially excited to see these sections of the newsletter grow.

Around this time of year, the air thickens with the heady perfume of reinvention — that feverish compulsion to emerge, butterfly-like, from the chrysalis of December excess.

On New Year’s Eve, we deliriously swill champagne, nibble mini sausages wrapped in bacon, and gorge on cheeseboards, charcuterie, and panettone. Then, come the stroke of midnight — or perhaps a bleary-eyed sunrise — we’re expected to transmogrify.

To become purified, sober, somehow shinier versions of ourselves, we must go to drastic lengths. The truffles are tossed; the treadmill embraced. No sugar, no dairy, no meat, and certainly no alcohol. Just cold-pressed penance and resolutions forged in guilt. In essence, balance is achieved by becoming extreme.

This morning I woke to frost — the kind that etches lace across the windows and makes bare feet ache against the cold floorboards.. I pulled on two thick jumpers and my warmest coat and stepped outside, into the hush of a world stilled by winter. The air was –4°, sharp enough to catch in the throat. With cheeks pink and tender, my breath billowing in clouds, and the thud of my heart filling my chest, for a while, everything else fell away.

I wandered to the farmers’ market: crates of citrus, pink forced rhubarb, bitter winter greens. I love this time of year. Then, breakfast: a hot cappuccino, strong and creamy; a glass of green juice, cold and tart; and finally, a bowl of porridge, warm and yielding, stirred together with cinnamon, apple, chopped dates and chia seeds, topped with a teaspoon of light brown sugar that adds a delicate sweetness as it gently caramelizes into the creamy oats.

Later, a quick workout. Nothing heroic. Just enough to remember that my body still works — that it belongs to me, even after too many days spent folded into the shape of the sofa

That afternoon, I ate a slice of sticky date cake from recipe testing. It was dense and sweet, still clinging to the knife. That evening, I opened a bottle of English sparkling wine — a Christmas gift — poured a restrained measure into a delicate glass , and relaxed as the crisp, citrus flavors cut through the oil of the salmon I served for dinner, whilst enhancing the sharp radicchio salad that sat alongside.

As you can probably tell, I’m not quitting anything. I have no patience for the morality we attach to food at this time of year. That endless, joyless game of good and bad, as if dinner were a character test. And the hypocrisy - the same companies that pushed Christmas junk are now pushing “brain food” and low-calorie heat-up meals.

I do acknowledge that if one lives on sugar and ultra-processed rubbish, the brain fogs the jeans protest and lethargy rules. But food is not a moral test. No apple carries sin; no beetroot bears guilt. I believe that when we eat in harmony with the world around us, nothing needs to be earned or atoned for.

In winter, this idea matters most. I feel a deep, physical craving for comfort, nourishment, and steadiness: hearty grains, bitter greens, long braises, oranges so sharp they make the gums ache. At this time of year, the kitchen becomes a retreat—warm, fragrant, humming with small rituals.

In these delicate days after Christmas - when the glitter has settled, and the fridge still holds echoes of excess — I find myself drawn, almost instinctively, towards balance. Not the punitive kind, but a quieter recalibration. I want to feel good in my skin, to move through the day without drag or heaviness. But I also want to feel that low hum of anticipation when I lift the lid on a pot or slice into something yielding, yeasty and warm. Pleasure, after all, should be enough.

Food is more than fuel. It’s memory and inheritance, comfort and connection. It tells the story of who we are and where we’ve come from. It deserves our attention—perhaps even our joy—but never our guilt, and certainly not our shame.

January need not be a season of denial. It can be a homecoming. A quiet return —to rhythm, to season, and to the self.

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Radicchio & Orange

I’ll never tire of bitter winter leaves. However, they are, it must be said, something of a Marmite affair — you love them, or you don’t. But here’s a thought: tear the radicchio rather than slice it. Somehow, the bitterness softens when the leaves are gently pulled apart by hand. Dress in my best ever vinaigrette (recipe below), bacon, beets and orange segments.

And if you’re after something more decadent — a luxurious appetizer worthy of a winter dinner party — try this: tumble torn radicchio and Castelfranco into a wide, shallow bowl, scatter with big, golden, outrageously crunchy croutons, and pour over a veil of melted Alpine cheese.

Pear & Chocolate

There’s something timeless — almost seductive — about the pairing of pear and chocolate. The soft, floral sweetness of the fruit is the perfect foil for chocolate’s dark intensity. For a simple but spectacular dessert, try this: poach peeled pears in a gently spiced syrup — think cinnamon, star anise, maybe a strip of orange peel — until tender and translucent.

Serve warm, with a generous drizzle of dark chocolate sauce. (A mix of bittersweet chocolate, cream, and a splash of pear poaching liquid does the trick beautifully.) Add a few toasted hazelnuts or crushed amaretti for crunch, and perhaps a dollop of softly whipped cream. But honestly? The pear and chocolate need only each other.

Cabbage and Peanut

According to every food trend report worth its salt, cabbage is having a moment. Gone are the days of wan, over-boiled side dishes. In 2026, it’s the sultry star of the plate - sashaying in with butter, bravado, and just the right whisper of crunch.

Brassicas: Hispi (Portuguese), January King, Savoy, kohl rabi, Romanesco - there are endless varieties. Pointed cabbage, also known as cone, sweetheart, or hispi, has a distinct conical shape with large, delicate leaves that range in color from yellowish to blue-green. Its flavor is sweeter and subtler than other types of cabbage, which makes it a perfect match for a touch of heat. Try my recipe for charred hispi cabbage with a whipped citrus tofu and peanut soy honey butter. It’s just about as glamorous as cabbage is going to get.

Leeks & Mustard

In winter, I find myself wanting to turn everything into a gratin. It’s the season for softness — for vegetables that slouch in butter, for heat that comes not from spice but from mustard, sharp and aromatic. Leeks respond particularly well to this treatment: slice and slowly sweat them in butter until they collapse, then stir in a spoonful of Dijon and a splash of cream. Tipped into a dish, scattered with cheese, and baked until golden, they become something far more luxurious than the humble ingredients suggest. Eaten with roast chicken or thick toast, it’s a dish that tastes like deep comfort.

Bergamot and Oranges

The exact lineage of bergamot is a little elusive, but it’s likely a hybrid of sweet lime and sour orange — so it naturally pairs well with citrus cousins like tangerines, mandarins, and clementines.

Last year, I developed a recipe for a citrus cake - fragrant, tender, quietly elegant and it quickly became a favorite. This year, I returned to the recipe and did a little tweaking. I think you’ll love the updated version. Full recipe below.

Cabbage & Pork

Cabbage brings out pork’s sweetness — the two have a long, mutually flattering relationship across cuisines: think Chinese dumplings, German sausages, Polish gołąbki. When pork is wrapped in cabbage leaves and baked in tomato sauce, the result is both hearty and oddly refined — the vegetal bitterness of the cabbage reins in the richness of the meat, while the sauce adds acidity and brightness. Add cheese — something soft and milky, like mozzarella, or sharper, like provolone — and it turns into a kind of Italian-ish comfort food, somewhere between a meatball and a lasagna.

Beets & Horseradish

Roast beetroot until tender enough to yield easily to a knife. While still warm, peel and cut the beets roughly, then dress with salt, olive oil, and a little vinegar. Fold through freshly grated horseradish and something cooling — yogurt, crème fraîche, or soft goat’s cheese. Eat warm or at room temperature; both reveal different sides of the pairing.

Carrots & Dates (or Prunes)

There’s a quiet alchemy when root vegetables meet dried fruit — something both soothing and indulgent. Carrots, with their gentle earthiness, pair beautifully with the dark, sticky depth of prunes or the toffee-sweetness of dates. Take cock-a-leekie soup — that traditional Scottish broth of chicken, leeks, and rice — where prunes are simmered into the stock, not as a garnish but as a slow-melting secret. They add a soft sweetness that deepens the savory base. A handful of carrots only amplifies the effect — mellow, fragrant, grounding.

This is a soup that surprises - gently. The sweetness doesn’t dominate — it deepens and suffuses, like winter sun on cold skin. See my version of the traditional recipe at the bottom of this letter.

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In this hazy, in-between stretch of betwixtmas, when days blur and indulgence feels justified - today’s newsletter is a guide to making proper hot chocolate: the Parisian café–inspired kind that arrives almost too thick to pour, feeling more like a dessert than a drink. Here, you will find my foolproof base recipe: wonderfully rich, beautifully simple, and satisfyingly thick. And then, we consider creative diversions: flavor pairings that range from the classic to the unexpected — think macaron-inspired almond and vanilla, Earl Grey with burnt orange, or pistachio kissed with rose.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible. We’ve got some exciting things happening for 2026!

This edition is a little longer, so if your email cuts off, you can always read it in full on the website or app.

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I’m back in England after a stretch in California, which — naturally — means I’m absolutely freezing. My British family keep insisting it’s “mild for December,” but my husband and I are teeth-chattering wrecks. I remember moving to California ten years ago and laughing, rather smugly, at the locals who whimpered when the temperature dipped below 60°F. And now, of course, I’ve become one of them.

So yes, I’m cold. But more than that, after the madness of Christmas I’m in the mood for comfort — and for me, nothing conjures winter festive coziness quite like hot chocolate.

Ordinarily, the first hint of frost is enough to stir a longing. But right now, it feels less like a craving and more like a requirement — a necessary act of self-preservation. There are rituals of winter I hold sacred, and at the very top of that list sits hot chocolate. Not the dusty instant kind whisked into water (perish the thought), but a slow, velvety creation: thick, dark, and unapologetically indulgent.

For me, the measure of a truly proper hot chocolate is this — if it’s thick enough to briefly support a spoon before it sighs and sinks slowly to the rim of the cup, then you’re exactly where you need to be.

The foundation

Every proper hot chocolate begins with milk — not skimmed but whole, organic, delicious and golden. Its fat content brings more than just richness; it gives the drink that essential voluptuousness associated with the kind of texture that lingers luxuriously on the tongue whilst seeming to amplify the flavor of the chocolate itself.

I gently warm the milk , just until it sends up the softest curl of steam. No bubbling, no boiling, only the quiet promise of what’s to come. For the full technique, skip to my base recipe below.

Type of chocolate

Because there are so few ingredients in a truly good hot chocolate, quality matters enormously. The chocolate should be dark — properly dark, 70% cocoa solids — not only for depth and richness, but because its lower sugar and higher cocoa butter content give the drink its essential body, that luxurious viscosity that clings, just slightly, to the spoon. That said, I’ve also made hot chocolate with a 50/50 blend of dark and milk chocolate — and it was, I must admit, utterly wonderful. Softer, rounder, less intense perhaps, but no less indulgent for all that.

Technique

This is not a moment for impatience. The whisking is not simply a means to an end, but part of the process — and the pleasure. You whisk with intention, not frenzy, watching as the chocolate slowly thickens into something rich and glossy, dense with promise. It’s this stage — the transformation from milk and chocolate into something resembling satin — that most rewards your attention.

It is also, inevitably, the moment when the scent begins to spread — that deep, warm aroma winding its way throughout the house, drawing others in before it’s remotely ready. But there’s no rushing it. The longer you whisk, the thicker, more luxurious it becomes.

Salt

A pinch of flaky sea salt is transformative. The addition doesn’t make the hot chocolate salty — that’s not the point — but it adds a lively, clarifying contrast. Salt sharpens the sweetness, deepens the chocolate, and somehow makes each sip feel more balanced, more grown-up. Think of it as sweet seasoning — the kind that lingers, gently, in the background.

I use fleur de sel — the delicate, hand-harvested salt from the surface of salt pans — or a good flaky sea salt like Maldon. Fleur de sel has a gentle salinity, almost mineral and faintly floral, without the harshness of regular table salt. It’s fine crystals dissolve cleanly and evenly, allowing you to season with control. What you want here is not saltiness, but balance — just enough to heighten the chocolate’s darker, more bitter edges, and to give the sweetness a kind of clarity it doesn’t have on its own.

Citrus

Adding a little citrus zest — especially from clementines or tangerines — does something quietly wonderful to hot chocolate, lifting its richness with a bright, perfumed edge. Citrus is at its best right now, in season from late autumn through winter, when the fruit is sweetest and most generous. From now until early spring, a fine scrape of zest is the easiest way to make hot chocolate feel fresher, deeper, and just a little more considered.

Vanilla

Then, the vanilla — subtle, but essential. I prefer vanilla paste for its intensity and complexity; it contains both the extract and the crushed seeds, which means you get that deep, almost smoky floral note. It’s fuller, more dimensional than extract alone. Though when I’m feeling especially indulgent, I’ll split a whole pod and let the seeds slip into the warm milk where they release their perfume.

Chantilly cream

Ever since my first visit, as a child, to Angelina’s cafe in Paris, where the hot chocolate arrives together with a silver bowl of softly whipped cream, I have never been able to have mine any other way. For me, the ritual isn’t complete without a generous spoonful of vanilla-scented Chantilly on top: cool against the heat, soft against the richness, a cloud meeting a wave.

The Extras

I confess: I’m something of a purist when it comes to hot chocolate. If your chocolate is good, sugar isn’t essential. But that’s not to say it’s unwelcome. A spoonful of soft brown sugar, a drizzle of maple syrup, even a thread of honey — each adds a little warmth, a little roundness.

Below you’ll find my best hot chocolate recipe — rich, properly thick, and better than anything you’ll get from a café — plus a guide to seasonal, creative flavor pairings, so you can tailor each cup to your mood and the moment.

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Before we get into today’s recipes, a quick thank you. Watching this community take shape and getting to connect with you has been such a joy.

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Fruit cup possets have become a Christmas tradition and one of the most appreciated desserts I prepare. This can be infuriating, not because they lack distinction, but because something so creamy, citrus-sharp, and deliciously indulgent has no right to be quite so effortless.

During holidays past, I lost entire afternoons to the mad alchemy of dessert planning. I whisked, I tempered, I baked. I coaxed cold cubes of butter into flour for pastry so light it might simply float away. There were chocolate pavlovas that spent hours in the barely-there warmth of the oven, earning their crackling carapace and mallow-soft middle; coffee jelly–layered (à la Ballymaloe) panna cottas — alternating tiers of creamy silk and dark, quivering jelly — that demanded the patience of a saint and the timing of a surgeon to set just so; and a six-layer Black Forest gateau so structurally ambitious it really ought to have come with planning permission.

Now, when family and friends descend for the holidays, I have little appetite for oven-wrangling or balancing delicate, high-maintenance fiddly cakes. Instead, I return to a guiding principle learnt from my mother: when the ingredients are good, one need not interfere too much. Enter the fruit cup possets. Three ingredients, ten minutes, no oven, no stress! Hurrah. They rapidly set in the refrigerator whilst I bustle about the kitchen, performing usefulness with great conviction. And they vanish almost as soon as they are served — more swiftly than any fancy sky-high soufflé I have ever pleaded into rising.

Served in hollowed fruit shells, sometimes brûléed until the edges crackle, they are unfailing crowd-pleasers. Children adore them, and best of all, they can be made well in advance, sparing you the indignity of last-minute kitchen theatrics.

A posset, for those unfamiliar with its charms, began life in England as a curative — a hot, curdled mixture of milk and ale or wine, doled out solemnly for coughs, chills, and flagging spirits. Mercifully, it has since shed its medicinal earnestness and evolved into something far more beguiling: a silken cream, set with citrus, designed less to restore health than to induce contentment.

The method

The method is simple. Warm cream and sugar gently for a few minutes, then pour the mixture into freshly squeezed citrus juice — clementine, lemon, lime, or strained passion fruit all work beautifully. The transformation is immediate: the cream thickens on contact, obedient and sure.

I prepare the fruit cups in advance, setting the hollowed shells in muffin tins before filling them with the posset. A few hours in the refrigerator is all that’s needed for them to set. If time allows, I finish them with a scattering of sugar. You may then take a blowtorch to the tops yourself. Or — better still — enlist a willing family member, or any obliging pyromaniac, to do the brûléeing while you gather yourself and take a restorative sip of something cold, or strong, or ideally both. The spectacle is brief, the applause immediate, and you are left looking far more industrious than you have any right to.

Flavor

When making possets, simplicity is key. After all, when you’ve tasted the brilliance of an in-season clementine, why complicate it with extra flavor pairings? To sharpen the citrus punch, I use both zest and juice. The zest provides that pleasurable lip-puckering, tongue-tingling astringency. Serve with ginger or lemon shortbread biscuits.

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In my family, we have a festive tradition that I treasure: every Friday at 7 p.m. in December, we gather for what we call Cocktail Club. The idea is simple — bring the bar home.

Each of us chooses a drink — some strong, some soft — and my husband mixes to order. We favor seasonal flavors: a homemade cranberry syrup, a twist of clementine peel, or a splash of something bitter or smoky. Snacks are essential. A table of small, delicious nibbles: cocktail sausages wrapped in crisp bacon, cheddar biscuits that shatter just so, olives steeped in citrus and brine. Jazz murmurs in the background. We sip, we talk, and the week begins to melt away.

This year, I’m hosting a lot, and I’ve decided to borrow from our family tradition whilst giving it an Italian Aperitivo style twist. Rather than the full theatre of a dinner party — and all the fuss that comes with it — I’m leaning into something looser, lovelier: aperitivo hour, featuring elements of Italian as well as British comfort food, all served in the relaxed, cozy atmosphere of the home. Think trays of what us Brits so fondly call picky bits — small, perfect morsels to graze on, passed around with napkins and accompanied by a signature Italian cocktail or two.

Don’t get me wrong — I love a proper dinner party. But the Christmas season can be so intense. Sometimes, it’s far nicer to curl up on the sofa, surrounded by friends, with nothing more pressing to consider than a plate of crisp, salty somethings and a cocktail, that’s more pleasure than performance.

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The secret to a cocktail party — a proper one — lies in its simplicity. No overhead lighting, ever; just flickering candlelight that lends an atmosphere of safety and comfort. A soundtrack of jazz, Christmas oldies, and anything by Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye will provide a sense of nostalgic familiarity like a second conversation humming through the room. Choose one or two signature cocktails — nothing too fiddly — and preferably something that can be batched ahead, to free you up for the real pleasure: being part of your own party.

I like to offer one cocktail that invites a sense of play — something stirred or shaken to order, so guests can get involved. This Friday, bitter citrus shakerato — a delicious, clarified little number starring Luxardo Bitter Bianco. I shake this over ice, sometimes with a whisper of simple syrup and a tumble of mixed citrus peels. Guests choose their own glass — though I recommend tall ones — and garnish according to preference. This participation encourages relaxed conversation keeping guests happily occupied while you tend to the picky bits. With any luck, it will introduce just the right level of delightful chaos.

For the food, I like to do most of the work the night before. Bread is always my starting point, and since we’re leaning into a subtle blend of Italian and British influences, I’m choosing focaccia — and when I’m feeling whimsical, I bake it in mini cast-iron skillets. Studding the dough with rosemary and Luxardo maraschino cherries is my secret weapon. I always seem to have a jar or two on hand; they’re perfect in cocktails, and lend themselves beautifully to all sorts of creative baking. Here, they bring just the right note of sweetness and gleam.

Then a British classic: Welsh rarebit — that richly savory cheese sauce traditionally spread over toast — reimagined here as a bubbling, molten dip. Far less fiddly than assembling individual slices, it feels faintly fondue-ish, wonderfully sociable, and just the pairing for plunging in seasonal crudités or tearing up and dipping that cherry-studded focaccia.

And finally, a Christmas staple: sausages wrapped in bacon. I use chorizo sausages for a gentle heat, each one tucked with a sage leaf and brushed in a honey‑mustard glaze. They can be wrapped a day or two ahead, so all you have to do is slide them into the oven when guests arrive. The smell alone is enough to bring everyone into the kitchen.

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Bitter Citrus Shakerato

Adaptable and simple, the Bitter Citrus shakerato is a lovely little cocktail. Inspired by the classic shakerato style of drink preparation - used for chilled espresso drinks in cafés by day and single ingredient shaken cocktails by night - the technique aerates, chills and slightly dilutes the liqueur, softening any bitter edge and bringing aromatic flavors to life.

My version features Luxardo’s beautifully clear, botanical Bitter Bianco. The result is light, citrusy, and subtly herbal

You’ll need

• 2 oz (60 ml) Luxardo Bitter Bianco

• A strip or two of grapefruit peel (or any citrus peel you fancy)

• Optional: ½ tsp simple syrup (if you like it slightly sweet)

• Ice

• A tall glass, chilled if possible

Shaken (Recommended)

Fill the cocktail shaker, mason jar, or stainless steel water bottle with plenty of ice. Add the Bitter Bianco, grapefruit (or any citrus) peel, and syrup (if using). Seal and shake hard for 10–15 seconds — you’re looking for that pale, frothy top that gives this drink its charm.

Strain into a chilled tall glass (the foam lasts longer that way) and garnish as you please — more citrus peel, a cherry, or nothing at all.

Stirred

Chill a short glass ( or any glass you prefer) and add a large cube or two of ice. In a separate glass, stir the Bitter Bianco, syrup, and grapefruit (or any citrus) peel together with ice cubes until chilled. Strain into your chilled serving glass over the large ice cube(s).

Make it your own

The Bitter Bianco is wonderfully versatile — sometimes I mix it with soda, sparkling water, or tonic; other times I add a few drops of Luxardo Maraschino, or a little vermouth and gin for a lighter-style Negroni.

About Bitter Bianco

Bitter Bianco is Luxardo’s revival of a 1930s classic: a crystal-clear aperitivo with the same botanical infusion as their Bitter Rosso, but distilled before blending. The result? All the depth, none of the heaviness. Think mint, thyme, marjoram, bitter orange, and a hint of wormwood — fresh, floral, and bitter in the most elegant way.

Mini Cherry & Rosemary Focaccia

Recipe inspired by Alexandra’s kitchen

(Serve in mini cast iron skillets or a large baking dish)

Ingredients

For the dough

• 515 g all-purpose or bread flour

• 15 g flaky sea salt

• 1 tsp sugar

• 2 tsp (approx. 8–9 g) active dry yeast

• 450g lukewarm water

For greasing & finishing

• Butter, for greasing

• 4 tbsp (60 ml) olive oil,

• Flaky sea salt (e.g. Maldon)

• 1–2 tsp rosemary leaves (optional)

• 100 g maraschino cherries (Luxardo)
  

Method

1. In a medium bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the lukewarm water. Allow to stand for 10 or so minutes, until foamy and emitting a slightly earthy and yet sweet aroma. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and sugar. Pour in the yeast mixture and stir with a spatula until a sticky, shaggy dough forms. Cover and allow to rest for 30 minutes. With wet hands, stretch and fold the dough 4–5 times: lift from the edge, fold to the centre, rotate the bowl, and repeat. Coat the surface generously with olive oil. Cover and refrigerate for at least 12 hours, or up to 3 days.

2. Grease one large baking pan, or several mini cast iron skillets with butter or a mix of butter and olive oil. Add 1 tbsp of olive oil per small pan, or 2 tbsp for a large version . Remove the dough from the fridge. Using two forks, deflate by pulling the dough in from the edges toward the centre. Form a rough ball, then divide in half (or into 4-6 if using smaller vessels). Place each portion into its oiled pan then roll and turn gently to coat. Allow to rise, uncovered, at room temperature for 3–4 hours, until visibly puffed.

3. Place the oven rack in the middle of the oven and then preheat the oven to 220°C (425°F) Drizzle each dough round with 1-2 tsp olive oil (or 2 tbsp for a large pan). With lightly oiled hands, dimple the dough deeply with all ten fingers. Nestle Luxardo cherries into the dimples. Scatter rosemary, if using. Finish with a generous pinch of flaky sea salt. Bake for 20–25 minutes, until golden on top, crisp at the edges.

Cool completely or serve warm. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days. Reheat at 175°C (350°F) for 15 minutes.

Chorizo Sticky Honey Pigs in a Blanket

with honey Mustard Glaze

Ingredients

• 15 chipolatas (or small breakfast sausages) or 2–3 large chorizo sausages (left whole for cooking)

• Smoked streaky bacon, enough to wrap each sausage — the larger chorizo sausages may need more than one strip

• 15 fresh sage leaves, washed

• 1–2 tbsp honey

• 1-2 tsp wholegrain or Dijon mustard

Method

This isn’t a strict recipe — more a festive nudge. Adapt depending on how many you’re feeding and what ingredients you have to hand.

1. Heat the oven to 190°C (375°F). Line a tray with foil or baking parchment — save yourself the scrubbing.

2. Pat the sage leaves dry. Press one onto each chipolata (or a few along the length of the larger chorizo), then wrap in a slice of bacon — or two if needed. Lay each sausage seam-side down on the tray.

3. Mix honey with a little mustard — Dijon for heat, wholegrain for texture, both if you fancy. Brush lightly over the sausages.

4. Roast for 20–35 minutes (depending on your oven), until the bacon is crisp and the glaze is sticky.

5. If using larger chorizo sausages, let them cool for a minute, then slice on the diagonal into smaller pieces (as pictured) before serving.

Make it your own: Swap sage for thyme, use maple instead of honey — you can’t really go wrong. Serve warm, with drinks, and plenty of napkins.

Variations

• Extra sticky: Brush again halfway through baking.

• Spicy: Add chilli flakes to the glaze.

• Make-ahead: Cook fully, then reheat at 175°C (350°F) for 10 minutes.

  

Baked Welsh Rarebit Dip

with Seasonal Crudités, Crackers, or Bread

Ingredients

• 45 g unsalted butter

• 40 g all-purpose flour

• 240 ml Guinness (or other dark stout)

• 60 ml whole milk

• 450 g grated cheese (e.g. sharp cheddar + fontina)

• 15 g Dijon or wholegrain mustard (approx. 1 tbsp)

• 15 ml Worcestershire sauce (approx. 1 tbsp)

• ½ tsp fine salt

• ¼ tsp black pepper

• 2 tbsp honey ( or more to taste)

Method

1. Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir in flour and cook for 2 minutes, until golden and nutty. Gradually whisk in the Guinness/stout and milk. Bring to a boil and then reduce the heat and simmer until slightly thickened.

2. Then, turn down the heat to low and stir in handfuls of cheese until melted, and the sauce is smooth. Add mustard, Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and honey. Stir to combine. Taste and adjust.

3. Pour into a small ovenproof dish. Broil (grill) for 2–3 minutes until bubbling and browned on top.

To Serve

Serve hot. It will thicken as it cools — perfect for dipping. Pair with crudités, crusty bread, crackers, or roast potatoes.

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Every December, I perform the same act of self-deception: Not this year, I proclaim. No color-coded spreadsheets. No obsessive cross-referencing of recipes. No midnight dashes to the store for more butter. And I certainly shan’t be crawling into the underworld of the cellar to unearth those dented old biscuit tins with their mismatched lids nor rummaging through the bottom drawer for warped, ancient festive cookie cutters, like a woman possessed.

This year, I would be realistic and acknowledge that making a Christmas cookie box is definitely too fiddly, too chaotic, and far too time-consuming for the busy festive season. I would indeed regulate my competitive streak, that so often results in an insatiable urge to outdo last year’s effort, threatening, in the process, to erode any festive cheer. It’s easy to forget that such projects begin as something simple: a small, homemade gesture of love for friends and family. So this year, I said no.

Instead of sweet treats, friends and family would receive a gift card, perhaps a thoughtfully chosen book. And that, I told myself, was that.

But then the neighbors started flinging fairy lights over everything in sight, and somewhere nearby the warm, sweet smell of cinnamon and cloves began to mysteriously drift through the air. There was a definite chill, too — the kind that settles in quietly and makes everything feel a little more wintry, a little more expectant. Suddenly, everything felt dangerously Christmassy.

And just like that, I found myself beginning again: back at the kitchen counter — ingredients measured, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour. Maybe it was muscle memory: the familiar scrape of the mixing bowl, the quiet satisfaction of lining up cooled biscuits in neat rows. Maybe it was a flicker of seasonal giddiness, or a last-minute urge to avoid becoming the cookie box equivalent of Scrooge, but really, what pulled me back — what always pulls me back — is the kitchen.

There’s a certain clarity I only find when cooking for someone else. I’m reminded it’s not about control or perfection. The steadiness is in the doing — the warmth of the oven, the clatter of trays, the quiet rhythm of repetition. Slowly, the need to hold everything together softens. You give a little of yourself with each stir, each slice, each bake — and sometimes, that’s enough.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible.

This edition is a little longer, so if your email cuts off, you can always read it in full on the website or app.

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Christmas Cake Salami

A festive confection borrowed from the Italian salame al cioccolato, but dressed in the flavors of an old-fashioned, homemade whisky-fed Christmas cake — minus the actual liquor, unfortunately. This version is rich with two kinds of chocolate — deep, dark 70% and caramelized white chocolate— and packed with candied fruit: glacé cherries, citron, marshmallows too, and all the heady spice of the season. Think of it as an elegantly disheveled Christmas Rocky Road. And the best part? No baking required.

Meringue Mushrooms

The first fancy meal I ever had featured a dessert called A Woodland Scene. I ordered it, of course. What arrived was a forest: a bed of dark chocolate biscuit soil, edible moss, and — best of all — small, uncannily realistic meringue mushrooms. I was twelve, and it was the most magical thing I’d ever seen.

This cookie is a quiet homage to that moment — to a young cook enchanted by the language of food. The mushrooms are much easier to make than they look, and absurdly fun to eat, which is really the whole point. Crisp on the outside, with a soft, marshmallow centre and the faintest whisper of cinnamon — they dissolve almost instantly on the tongue. Which is exactly why one is never enough!

Peppermint Mocha Kisses

Every December, I make kisses in every flavor I can dream up. They’re whimsical little things, built on three of life’s greatest pleasures: buttercream, shortbread, and meringue. But this year, it simply had to be peppermint mocha. A base of shortbread — crisp, buttery, laced with cocoa and crushed candy canes — brushed generously with dark chocolate, then topped with a rich coffee-chocolate fudge and finished with a peppermint meringue kiss.

It sounds fiddly — and yes, there’s a touch of faff — but it’s the joyful kind.

Ginger Spice Cookie Sticks

Think Pocky, but homemade, festive, and infinitely better. Spiced shortbread, scented with a Speculaas spice mix and dotted with little nuggets of crystallized ginger, baked into slender sticks for dunking into tea or coffee. Once cooled, they’re dipped and decorated to your heart’s content. Fun, fragrant, and absolutely delicious.

Calissons d’Aix

A Provençal classic — delicate, diamond-shaped confections traditionally made with ground almonds and candied melon — here reimagined for the home kitchen. You’re essentially making marzipan, but with the added warmth of spice, candied citrus and cherries, cocoa, and whatever festive flourish your mood allows. All it takes is a food processor and a little patience. No baking, no faffing — just beautiful little sweets that look far more impressive than they are difficult.

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Welcome to the December edition of Seasonal, our yearlong celebration of cooking in rhythm with the land. This final, very special seasonal newsletter for 2025, is full of ideas to carry you through the heart of winter and the holidays — from Christmas itself to those in-between, slightly odd days that follow. In today’s edition, I spotlight my favorite seasonal ingredients, along with flavor pairings and a collection of brand new recipes to welcome December.

On the menu: a cranberry and orange Queen of Puddings — a traditional English dessert with a gentle festive lift; sticky honey–harissa roasted carrots with hazelnut dukkah and whipped goat’s cheese; and pommes boulangère with sausage and duck confit. The boulangère dish may sound grand, but it’s hardly a recipe — more something I throw together on a Sunday. It changes a little each time depending on whichever spices or herbs are to hand, but all you really need to know is that it’s made with potatoes, rich chicken stock, more butter than is strictly decent, and plenty of salt. It’s heavenly. I’ve borrowed from Chef Adam Byatt for the presentation and finished mine with confit duck atop. Honestly, if you don’t fancy the faff of a turkey, goose or ham, this makes a very fine Christmas lunch.

And because this is a special newsletter, I’ve included a dark chocolate chestnut cake — a recipe that began life as a complete mistake and has since become a firm Christmas favorite in my home. It’s so gloriously over the top and delightfully eccentric in method that I’ve christened it, with affection, my Ridiculous Chocolate Chestnut Cake.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible.

This edition is a little longer, so if your email cuts off, you can always read it in full on the website or app.

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December cooking is rich with tradition and pageantry, but as with everything in the kitchen, my only real guiding principle is to make and eat what you truly want. If you loathe Christmas pudding, don’t serve it for tradition’s sake. Make, or choose, something you actually look forward to: a gooey chocolate cake, for example, or a simple board of good French cheese paired with a glass of cold dessert wine.

The best meals, I think, begin with what you’re craving and feature and what tastes good now. The holidays are busy enough without the pressure of elaborate sauces or roasts that demand a culinary diploma and saint-like patience. Start with what’s in season, and it often takes very little to make a meal taste exceptional.

Onions and duck

The onions are caramelized first — slowly, until they’re golden and collapsed — then layered beneath thinly sliced potatoes, duck confit, and, sometimes, sausage. As the whole thing cooks in chicken stock, the onions melt further, infusing the dish from the bottom up.

The result is a base that tastes remarkably like French onion soup: sweet, savory, brothy, and rich with butter and duck fat. The top crisps; the bottom simmers. It’s both roast and stew, elegance and comfort — and all from a dish that’s barely a recipe. By the way, the pan (which is currently on sale) in the photo was generously gifted to me by Ruffoni — one of my favorite cookware brands, and truly a joy to cook with. You can get the exact one in the photo here, or the pan with a cute mushroom top handle here.

Chocolate & Chestnuts

There’s something inevitable about the pairing of chocolate and chestnuts — as if they were always meant to meet in the depths of winter. Both are mellow, rich, and slightly earthy; they speak in similar tones, just different accents. Chocolate brings bitterness and depth, while chestnuts offer sweetness, starch, and that faint, smoky whisper of woodsmoke.

As I mentioned earlier, I have a cake recipe I now make every Christmas— though it began as a mistake. It started with a simple chocolate loaf cake accidentally underbaked by 5-10 minutes, the sort that slumps a little in the middle as it cools, as if exhaling. I happened to have some leftover ganache and buttercream from a failed Mont Blanc experiment. On a whim, I spooned the dark chocolate chestnut ganache into the unintended dip in the centre of the sponge, allowing it to settle into a glossy, soft-set pool. Then I spread the buttercream over the top. This consisted of sweetened chestnut purée and dark chocolate beaten together with softened butter until barely holding its shape. It looked promising.

And it was. The ganache firms just enough to slice neatly, but still clings softly to the knife. The buttercream is sweet and nutty, but not cloying. It’s so excessive, so unapologetically rich and a little absurd in technique, that it’s become a fixture at every Christmas — and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cauliflower & Saffron

Cauliflower, when roasted, behaves like a shape-shifter: soft-hearted, nutty, golden-tipped. Break into florets, toss together with olive oil, a scattering of cumin, and a pinch — just a pinch — of saffron threads bloomed in warm water. Roast until the edges caramelize. Serve with a spoonful of salted Greek yogurt, lemon zest, and toasted almonds. It’s an adaptable recipe and a very lovely side for Christmas dinner.

Radicchio & Stilton (or Brie)

Radicchio is excellent at the moment — firm, bitter, ruby-veined. I dress the leaves simply with lemon, olive oil and plenty of flaky sea salt, then serve them on a large platter with a baked, molten Brie (or camembert) in the centre — still in its little porcelain baker. Guests simply tear the leaves and dip! A good baguette on the table doesn’t go amiss either. Sometimes I make a bitter leaf salad (see below) and pour melted Camembert all over it, then top it with bacon lardons and croutons. It’s very, very good.

Another idea: Quarter the radicchio and place it cut-side down in a hot pan with a little olive oil. Let it take on color, just enough for the edges to soften and curl, the bitterness mellowing as it cooks. Crumble over a little Stilton while it’s still warm, and finish with toasted walnuts and a trickle of balsamic — not too much, just enough to bring it together. Serve it warm, perhaps with grilled bread.

Orange and Cardamon

There’s a reason we stick cloves in oranges during Christmas: the zesty acidity of orange contrasts well with warm, aromatic spices, each enhancing the other to create a more balanced, complex flavor. Lately, I’ve been enjoying a spiced orange yogurt parfait for breakfast. It’s a quick fix to layer creamy Greek yogurt with a spoonful of homemade Seville orange marmalade, followed by a sprinkle of cinnamon and cardamom, topped off with homemade granola. To make the granola mix oats, chopped nuts, honey, almond butter, and cinnamon, then place this mixture on a baking sheet and bake until golden and crisp. It makes for a very good breakfast indeed.

Salsify & Anchovy

Salsify — pale, knobbly, and often mistaken for a root best left behind — is December’s best-kept secret. It looks unpromising, like a muddy stick or an anaemic parsnip. But once scrubbed and roasted whole until the skins wrinkle like old parchment, the flesh inside turns tender and sweet, almost creamy.

Once cooked, drizzle with warm anchovy butter — salty, golden, quietly rich. Alternatively, layer into a gratin with cream and Gruyère, then bake until the top is browned, bubbling and fragrant. This feels like the kind of dish you’d find scribbled in the margins of a very old cookbook, next to a note that just reads: “delicious.”

Parsnips & Curry Leaf

Slice parsnips into batons — the kind that feel sturdy in the hand — and roast until blistered. Meanwhile, sizzle fresh curry leaves in ghee with mustard seeds and turmeric, until they pop. Pour the amber-slicked oil over the hot parsnips.

A squeeze of lime at the end sharpens everything into focus. Think roast dinner detoured through Kerala — fragrant, surprising.

Red Cabbage & Clove

Shred red cabbage finely and place in a heavy pot, together with apple slices, a splash of vinegar, brown sugar, and a few whole cloves — not too many, just enough to add a whisper of aromatic fragrance.

Allow to gently cook until the texture resembles a kind of edible velvet — spiced, jammy, more than the sum of its parts. Perfect with roast duck, sausages, or simply piled beside mashed potatoes.

Cranberry and orange

Cranberry with orange is a pairing that manages to feel both festive and sharply refreshing — a contrast of tartness and perfume. In my Queen of Puddings, the cranberries bring their vivid, tannic brightness, which could easily overwhelm without balance. Orange does the work of both softening and lifting - juice taming the sourness, zest amplifying the fruit’s own citrusy top notes. Baked into a custardy pudding, this layer becomes something like a jewel-toned jam — sharp-sweet, slightly bitter, and intensely aromatic — cutting through the richness below and holding its own beneath the soft clouds of spiced meringue.

Jerusalem Artichoke & Truffle

Roast whole Jerusalem artichokes until their skins are wrinkled and the insides give under a knife. Smash roughly, then drizzle with oil — not too much — and finish with a shaving of truffle (or a good truffle oil), pecorino and a fistful of parsley.

There’s a kind of primal luxury here, the knobbly roots made princely by the addition of the musky umami flavor of truffle, which enhances rather than overpowers this dish.

Bergamot and Cocoa

Have you ever tried a chocolate mousse infused with Earl Grey? It’s subtle, floral, rich, and light all at once. Bergamot, of course, is the star of Earl Grey. So, if you find yourself with a free Sunday and a craving for a project, why not apply the same combination to a chocolate layer cake but use a bergamot orange instead? Follow your favorite chocolate sponge recipe (just make sure to use a good 70% dark chocolate) and pair it with a bergamot-infused chocolate whipped ganache by simply steeping some bergamot peel in your cream. Finish it off with a touch of earl grey buttercream.

Turnip & Brown Sugar

The most unpromising vegetable — beige, blocky, begrudging — becomes astonishing when bathed in butter and brown sugar ( but then, doesn’t everything?). Dice, steam gently, then sauté with a little nutmeg and the faintest flick of cayenne. Think butterscotch turnip if you like. Serve with glazed ham, roast goose, or spooned onto a plate and eaten while standing at the stove, wondering why we ever gave turnips such a hard time.

Carrots & Harissa

Carrots, when roasted whole — skins scrubbed and peeled — turn sweet, almost syrupy at their core. I roast them with honey, harissa, plenty of salt, and a generous amount of butter, allowing the edges to catch and darken just slightly.

While they’re still warm, I toss them with a spicy-sweet hazelnut dukkah — fragrant, crunchy, faintly smoky.

Serve with generous spoonfuls of thick yoghurt or whipped goat’s cheese, a scattering of crushed pistachios, and mint — or parsley, if that’s what you have to hand. The harissa doesn’t shout — it smolders. A slow, smoky heat that catches at the back of the throat rather than setting fire to it. It’s all about contrast: fire against cream, softness against char, the modest root vegetable made unexpectedly seductive.

Swede & Fennel Seeds

Swede (rutabaga, for the Americans) has the texture of a potato but the soul of a turnip. Roast it in wedges, then toss with fennel seeds, olive oil and crushed garlic, until the edges darken and the inside becomes sweet and tender.

There’s something old-world here — peasant food in the best sense. Serve with sausages, lentils, or under a poached egg with a tangle of bitter greens. Fennel cuts the heft, like laughter during a serious film.

Carrots & Hazelnut

Carrots again, but this time roasted with thyme and a splash of sherry vinegar, then tumbled with chopped hazelnuts, toasted until golden and fragrant. Spoon over a dressing made from tahini, yoghurt, lemon and garlic — add a whisper of honey if the carrots aren’t sweet enough. Serve warm with freekeh or cold the next day with soft cheese and whichever herbs survived the frost.

Persimmons & Burrata

Persimmons are something of an enigma — striking to look at, but often left lingering in fruit bowls, waiting for someone to understand them. When ripe, the soft amber flesh turns almost custard-like: smooth, lush, delicately honeyed. Some varieties carry a whisper of warm spice — cinnamon, clove — as if they’ve been ripening in a spice cupboard.

I like to keep things simple: slices of ripe Fuyu or Jiro persimmons tossed in a pomegranate vinaigrette (just pomegranate molasses, lemon, olive oil, and salt), layered with burrata, and finished with a little balsamic and flaky sea salt. A salad of sorts — bright, creamy, sweet, and sharp.

An easy snack idea: dried persimmons with a spoonful of mascarpone and a little honeycomb are surprisingly lovely — especially alongside a cup of herbal tea, when you want something gentle and generous, but not too much.

1. Exhausted from Thanksgiving and don’t fancy cooking for Christmas? Don’t blame you. The Madera menu looks utterly delicious.

2. The other day I was invited to the Whaling Bar in San Diego and had the most delicious steak. If you’re in the area, I’d highly recommend stopping by for a cocktail and a light bite.

3. I hear there is a new english restaurant in LA and the food is incredible. The dining room looks very cozy indeed. If you can snag a reservation, do it!

4. In other news, my husband and I will be leaving San Diego and making the UK our main (ish) base for a while — between bouts of ping-ponging to the East (and West) Coast. There are many places I’m looking forward to eating, Fink’s is one of my first stops.

1. My uniform and 12 hour kitchen day essential. 2. A very large and fabulous tub of mustard 3. Pan of dreams 4. Chic but comfy for the Christmas party - lovely shoes by J.Mclaughlin 5. Candle stick 6. Green velvet dressing gown… don’t mind if I do!

   

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In today’s newsletter you will find a simple and entirely non-hysterical, non-comprehensive Thanksgiving guide for the week ahead: a gentle, day-by-day plan to help you reach the feast rested and calm. While this plan is written with Thanksgiving in mind, it would work just as well in the lead-up to Christmas - so for non-Americans, this one’s for you too.

I’ve included suggested timings and recipes — but treat them as guidance, not gospel. There are also brand-new, unpublished recipes at the bottom of this letter: herby, cheesy biscuits; jalapeño honey cornbread (especially good, if I may say so); spiced cranberry sauce; and sugared cranberries.

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’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.

This edition is a little longer, so if your email cuts off, you can always read it in full on the website or app.

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I once heard — and may even have said myself — that Thanksgiving is a cook’s Super Bowl. The saying felt apt: all that anticipation, the pressure, the heightened sense of occasion. But on reflection, the metaphor leaves me cold, conjuring images of competition, high-stakes performance, and endurance met with applause. That is not — or ought not to be — the spirit of the day. Thanksgiving isn’t a platform for culinary theatrics. It’s a moment to gather and share — an occasion for food that is heartfelt and home-cooked, prepared honestly; less a pursuit of perfection than a gesture of expansive generosity, offered with warmth and a certain ease.

Of course, I don’t mean ease in that stylized, breezy sense - the pretense that it was nothing - which can feel insincere. I mean the kind of ease that makes guests feel comfortable… at home. Unless you’re a chef commanding a brigade, or a call handler fielding crises at the Butterball hotline, there’s no need for formalities. In the rush for culinary glory, it’s worth remembering what truly matters: the people at the table. Even the most traditional meal is, at its heart, something simple: food, thoughtfully prepared and generously offered. What gives a meal its meaning is not the number of courses served, nor the hours spent in the kitchen, but the intention with which it is made. To feed someone is an act of trust. And in the end, what stays with us is not the cleverness of the cooking, but the sincerity of the experience.

As a cook, I find myself forever in pursuit of deliciousness - and, I’ll admit, perfection. I live for that mysterious moment when ingredients harmoniously complement and balance each other so that the food on the plate brings not just satisfaction, but unbridled joy. And yet, sometimes, the more I research, refine, fiddle and perfect, the further I seem to drift from what I’m truly seeking. I want to feed people — to give of myself in the simplest, most generous way. Because in the end, no one remembers whether the carrots were sous-vide or the turkey slow-roasted beneath a muslin shroud of herb butter. What lingers is the feeling of being welcomed — indeed, without sounding glib, of being loved. And that, I think, is what feeds us most.

Depending on where you are — morning, afternoon, or somewhere in between (my apologies to any Australians for whom this may already be Monday) — tonight is the moment to begin. Not with panic, but with a quiet inventory. Open the fridge, peer into the freezer, and scan the cupboards. Review my recipes, or any recipes you are using and make a shopping list. And while we’re on the subject of the fridge, give it a quick clean — before it becomes a battlefield.

Buy anything that keeps: frozen spinach, sweet potatoes, whatever meaty centerpiece you’re choosing (I’m using duck legs, but turkey, ham, or a celebratory roast of any kind will suit), a few bottles of something drinkable, and the pantry necessities — sugar, maple syrup, spices, stock.

And then, when you return, choose something simple for supper. May I suggest this: toast some cracked black pepper in a dry pan for a minute, until fragrant. Meanwhile, simmer water or chicken stock, then stir in pastina or any small pasta. Let it bubble into something thick and soupy, then fold in a spoonful of cream cheese, a handful of grated odds-and-ends cheese that you’re about to throw out, and that warm, perfumed pepper. Season to taste, eat from your favorite bowl, and pour yourself a glass of something delicious. Or, if you can’t bear being near a stove, order pizza and make a dirty martini. A warm bath, a book, and an early bedtime are also strongly encouraged.

The turkey - It is worth noting that if you’re roasting a whole turkey, it needs to begin defrosting in the fridge five or so days before you plan to cook it — allow a full 24 hours for every 4 to 5 pounds. Put the bird in a deep tray to catch the inevitable drips, and place on the lowest shelf, away from anything that minds the cold.

The stuffing - Prepare today: sauté, season, mix, and place into your chosen dish (or dishes). Cover well and freeze, unbaked. On Thursday, it can go straight into the oven and emerge golden-topped and deeply savory, as though made that very morning.

If the idea of having the dish already cooked brings you peace, then bake now and reheat gently on the day. It will still be delicious. If you have freezer space, make extra! It’s a meal in itself, and exactly what you’ll want to come home to after a long day, when the fridge is bare and your will to cook has vanished.

The pie crust - The pastry for the chocolate fondant orange pie — or any pie — can be made ahead and frozen. A few ingredients are pulsed in a processor, followed by a brief rest in the fridge before shaping, and it’s ready for the freezer. Don’t waste time fretting about perfection. Pastry is more forgiving than its reputation suggests, and the filling will politely conceal any flaws. If you forget, or feel yourself starting to unravel, send someone out for a shop-bought version. Stash it in the freezer. When Thanksgiving comes around, and no one’s paying attention, rough it up a bit and no one will be any the wiser.

Sweet potato casserole - This can be made up to three days in advance. Prepare the base and place straight into a serving dish of your choice . The pecan topping lives nearby in a lidded container, waiting for its cue. On the day, simply assemble and bake until warm and bubbling. This recipe involves meringue, which is never a friend to last-minute stress. To ease the pressure, you can weigh out your ingredients in advance and store them in the fridge, clearly labelled, ready for action. Some say meringue can be frozen, but it’s never quite the same — nothing beats the gloss and lift of freshly whisked whites, piped, baked and served there and then. If this detail induces anxiety, have a packet or two of store-bought marshmallows in the cupboard to use instead. I can already hear our European readers’ mutterings - “disgusting combination”, “too sweet”, etc - but fear not, this dish is rather incredible. Try it and report back.

Other sides, vegetable prep, dips, relishes, and dressings - Prepare any other sides that freeze well or keep happily in the fridge. Mac and cheese, for example, takes kindly to the freezer. As for prep, if you feel your energy dipping, delegate particularly arduous tasks, such as cheese grating. There’s always someone who extols the therapeutic benefits of specific chores. Take that lofty claim at face value, and when they’re done, they can apply the same enthusiasm to cleaning the bathrooms - and perhaps bring a little order to the coat cupboard while they’re at it.

Cranberry sauce - Joy! This takes barely ten minutes to make and improves with rest. Time softens the edges and deepens the flavor. Serve it cool, at room temperature, or — my preference — gently warmed. Think of this dish as something between a sauce and compote. Keep scrolling for the unpublished recipe!

Biscuits or bread - Make them now, freeze unbaked dough on a tray, then store in a bag. They bake straight from frozen, rising tall and golden. A tray of warm biscuits, delivered at just the right moment, gives the impression of effortless grace — whether or not it’s deserved. Recipe below!

Cornbread - Measure your ingredients and store, this prep makes baking so much easier. You or a gracious helper will be baking this fresh on the day. I highly recommend investing in deli containers, I don’t know what I’d do without them.

Creamed spinach crumble - Or any side that improves with a night in the fridge — make it now and set aside.

Dips and appetizers - For the date cloud dip, whip the goat’s cheese and store in a container placed in the refrigerator. The bacon and dates are best made on the day, but the infused honey can be prepared beforehand and reheated on the day. Assemble just before serving — or earlier, if that’s what makes you feel composed. After all, a relaxed host sets the mood and pace of the celebration.

The meat - If you’re opting for the path of least resistance and making the duck confit — which I do very much recommend — place the frozen duck legs in the fridge overnight to thaw. Measure your duck fat and pop any herbs or garlic in a deli.

The table — Before retiring to bed, save yourself tomorrow’s headache and set the table. Keep it simple: a few pumpkins, some dried leaves, a linen cloth, and plenty of candles. Then, reward yourself with a glass of something delicious.

If you’ve followed the week as planned, today should feel less like a culinary assault course and more like a composed unfolding. There will still be things to do — of course — but nothing should be frantic.

The morning

First, a strong cappuccino and a warm, flaky croissant from the local bakery. If you have guests or family staying, send them on some light-lift errands — or gently suggest a scenic walk, a charming café, anything that gets them happily out of your way for an hour. You’ll need a moment to gather your thoughts — and your wits.

Now that’s done, remove any sides or dishes from the freezer, ready to be cooked in the afternoon.

The turkey (or duck) - If roasting a whole turkey, you know by now that it should already be defrosted, brined if you like, and ready to go. If you’ve opted for duck confit, the legs will have thawed in the fridge overnight and be ready for roasting when you are.

The chocolate fondant pie (or any pie) - Bake the pie in the morning and consider it done. If you prefer to serve the pie fresh, warm and molten, blind-bake the crust earlier in the day, then make the filling and pop it in the oven once the savories are out. That said, a very low-maintenance method — and one I’ve tested — is to bake the whole thing ahead. It reheats beautifully in the oven for 10 to 15 minutes, and is also just as good cold. Prepare any whipped creams or sweet sides. Note: you can also make my chocolate fondant pie as a cake, simply omit the pastry crust!

Cornbread - I prefer to make this fresh. The texture doesn’t quite forgive a freezer, and the scent — warm, buttery, faintly sweet — is too intoxicating to sacrifice. I usually hand over the prepped ingredients and recipe to a capable family member along with a printed copy (scroll to the bottom of this newsletter), and leave them to it. It’s an easy, satisfying task and, crucially, out of your hands.

Appetizers — If you’re serving the date cloud dip — or anything of that ilk — assemble it now, or delegate. The goat’s cheese is already whipped, the honey ready to warm, and all that’s left to do is pan fry the bacon and dates. But one dip rarely satisfies. I find a few well-judged picky bits — something creamy, something crisp, something sweet, something warm — keeps guests happily grazing and out of the kitchen. Think warm rosemary nuts, sugared cranberries (recipe below) or salty shards of cheese. A cold glass of fizz never hurts.

Ask me anything! With Thanksgiving and Christmas on the horizon, I’ll be around on the paid subscriber chat to help with any cooking questions you might have. The community there is warm, generous, and also full of good ideas. Do come and join us.

I’ve added a few extra recipes to this special edition: a bread course of sorts - jalapeño hot honey cornbread, and herby, cheesy biscuits with chorizo gravy. Good alongside the main meal, even better the next morning. There’s also a spiced cranberry sauce I make every year, and sugared cranberries - sharp and sweet.

And if you’re still seeking a little more inspiration, may I suggest the following: Cranberry jam roly poly, crab and butternut squash arancini, apple marzipan cake, 100 clove garlic soup, pumpkin and short rib pie & baked squash with ricotta and parmesan.

The Bread Course

Everyone’s Thanksgiving table looks a little different, but I’d argue ours is especially eccentric - a joyful jumble of American, French, and English dishes, with a few things that, on paper, make no sense at all. And yet, on the plate, they absolutely do.

When I go to a restaurant, the two things I look forward to most— the dishes that quietly tell me everything I need to know —are the bread and the salad. If a kitchen can dress a leaf properly and bring delicious bread to the table, chances are the rest will be worth eating.

I love bread in all its forms: sourdough with just the right amount of chew, pillowy milk bread, glossy challah, brittle rye, soft and salty focaccia. All are welcome.

So it’s probably no surprise that our Thanksgiving table leans heavily on carbs. One of our more beloved traditions is the presence of not one, but several types of bread: jalapeño-honey cornbread, warm and just sweet enough; herby, cheesy biscuits that flake apart in your hands; and buttery brioche rolls, golden and soft.

A few years ago, my husband, American, and clearly in the grip of nostalgia, asked for biscuits and gravy with Thanksgiving dinner. I hesitated. To me, biscuits and gravy belonged firmly to the Southern breakfast table: a dish born of Depression-era thrift, transforming flour, fat, and sausage into something deeply comforting and quietly brilliant. But not, surely, something you serve with roast turkey?

Still, I made it— a spicy chorizo version, thick and smoky, meant just for the biscuits and just for him. And yet—of course— everyone wanted some. And to my surprise, it’s a wonderful, rich accompaniment, perfect for mopping up all those sauces. What began as a curious craving has quietly become tradition.

A very good spiced cranberry sauce

There’s a kind of quiet satisfaction in making cranberry sauce from scratch: the gentle simmering; the scent of citrus and spice curling through the kitchen; the satisfying pop as each berry explodes, releasing its bright fragrance.

This version is pared back and balanced: cranberries, the juice and zest of an orange - for mellow zing - a flicker of cinnamon, and just enough sugar to soften any tartness, without tipping into sticky-sweet jam territory. A whisper of clove or allspice deepens things, though it’s entirely up to you what creative extras you add.

Make the sauce a day or two ahead and let time do the work — the flavors settle, the texture sets just so. Come feast day, serve the sauce cool, at room temperature, or — how I like it best — gently heated through.

Sugared cranberries

Some holiday flourishes serve no purpose beyond joy — and thank goodness for that. Utterly unnecessary and completely delightful, these sugared cranberries fit the bill.

Crisp and sugary on the outside, tart within, they’re the edible equivalent of frost-kissed baubles: glistening, frivolous, and quietly show-stealing. Serve them as a sparkling amuse-bouche with a glass of fizz, use them to top pies, embellish cheese boards, or simply dot them around the house in little bowls for guests to nibble on - a natural version of sour candy. Wherever they land, they are sure to introduce a little magic.

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Welcome back to the Thanksgiving series. If you’re not American, consider this an excellent opportunity to quietly bank ideas for Christmas — or for one of those gloriously over-the-top Sunday roasts.

If you’re American, you’re probably knee-deep in menu planning — valiantly trying to remain serene while juggling the ever-growing list of Things That Must Be Done. Dishes to prep, pie crusts to freeze, patience to summon, small talk to rehearse. All while life — unhelpfully — carries on.

Or perhaps you’re in the other camp: the ones who’ve chosen neither to make dishes nor a fuss — preferring to plan a discreet exit before the 27th, when the table fills with aunts, uncles, great-grandmothers and second cousins once removed, guaranteeing that talk will turn to relationships, money or, heaven help us, politics.

Wherever you fall on the spectrum, I’ll keep it brief. Today’s recipe is another side dish — one I make every Christmas without fail. It’s so good, in fact, that it has stealthily crept into my Thanksgiving lineup, too.

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’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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To whet your appetite, all you need to know is that this buttery, creamed spinach and cheese crumble tastes like a baked spinach dip that’s gone to finishing school — rich, creamy, savory.

The beauty of this recipe is how it shifts with the seasons. In spring, I use beans, peas, and wild garlic — a sort of green bean casserole. In summer, zucchini, tomatoes, and peppers take the stage, sun-soaked and sweet. But come Thanksgiving, my favorite version appears: spinach and shallots laced with nutmeg, folded through cream cheese and double cream.

It’s technically a vegetable dish, so you can feel pleasantly virtuous about the presence of something green on the table — though the generous amount of cheese rather undermines that particular nutritional moral victory.

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Welcome back to the Thanksgiving series. To an English person, stuffing is the quiet heart of a Christmas meal: porky, sage-scented, tasting of slightly sweet onion with the possible addition of a little cranberry. This rich, essential element of the festive meal speaks of recipes passed down by memory rather than the written word. My family’s version was never the bread-based kind, but something more meaty, herby, and fragrant spooned into the bird with more instinct than ceremony.

My first encounter with the American version — or “dressing,” as some call it — was a wonderful surprise. A dish built on chunks of bread, not meat. Tender at the centre, crisp at the edges, generous by nature. It reminded me of recipes and flavors I already loved: the burnished top of a good French cheese soufflé, the soft custard interior of the bread pudding my mother used to make - now in savory form. I didn’t need convincing. One stock-soaked, golden forkful was enough — I was hooked.

Here, brioche stands in for breadcrumbs or cornbread, bringing a buttery sweetness that, with rich chicken stock, drifts towards custard. Gruyère melts into gentle, elastic threads that cling to the toasted corners. There’s sausage, of course, and a ribbon of maple syrup, just enough to warm everything with a quiet golden sweetness. Plenty of spices, garlic, herbs, all the good November wintery things. It is, almost, a meal in itself: a glorious, bubbling, burnished dish that feels as though you’ve smuggled the best part of the feast into one dish.

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’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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How to Serve

I like to serve this stuffing in individual gratin dishes. I find that guests love the feeling of being handed their own bubbling, browned dish to share between two, and it makes portioning simple. If you’re feeding a crowd, however, bake the whole thing in a large dish, this Ruffoni gratin dish is on my dream wishlist, though any large baking vessel will do.

You can assemble the whole dish a day or two before, allowing the bread to absorb the stock and flavors overnight only deepens the richness - then bring it to room temperature, top with the remaining cheese, and bake at 180°C (350°F) for 35–45 minutes, or until golden, bubbling, and warmed through. Crucially, you can also make this ahead and freeze cooked, or uncooked up to 1 month. Just remember to increase cooking time by about 15-20 minutes.

Change the cheese - Comté brings a lovely nuttiness, cheddar adds sharpness, but Gruyère is the flavor we’re after — rich, melting and savory, with that gentle elasticity that winds its way through the bread.

Change the bread - Brioche gives richness and a faint sweetness, which suits my cravings. Milk bread works too. I’ve made this with day old croissants — wonderful, though it leans more breakfast than feast. Sourdough adds a pleasing tang; cornbread pulls things toward the American South. Use what speaks to you.

Add texture - A scattering of chestnuts (very English, very Christmas), toasted pecans, or a few dried cherries will ensure unexpected pockets of yum.

Spice - A pinch more cayenne, a spoonful of harissa stirred through the sausage. Or change the sausage altogether - something spiced, like chorizo, will take the flavor profile in an entirely new and deeply pleasing direction.

Herbs - Tarragon gives a soft aniseed lift, rosemary brings a wintery depth, marjoram a gentle sweetness.

Go vegetarian - Lose the sausage, brown a mix of shiitake and chestnut mushrooms, use a good vegetable stock, and increase the Gruyère just a touch. It still feels luxurious, just in a different way.

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My usual Thanksgiving pie roster includes pumpkin, pecan, cranberry, and brown-butter maple. I’ve baked them all, many times over. And still, for all that devotion, there’s a curious contradiction at the heart of the Thanksgiving (and Christmas) table.

We serve a meal of baroque proportions: a bronze-skinned bird; bread-laden stuffing; potatoes in duplicate - mashed and roasted - sometimes sweet and crowned with a pecan crunch and marshmallows (glorious, by the way); and then expect to follow all this with dessert. Not a demure sorbet or a slice of poached pear, but a wedge (often wedges) of sugar-glossed, syrup-soused pie.

I always imagine I’ll want dessert. I plan for it, bake it, and even drool at the sight of it. Yet when the feast is finally over and the plates are cleared, my stomach groans…the idea of pie feels faintly absurd. At best, I manage a token mouthful before realizing what I really want is a big container of Tums close at hand and a long, luxurious nap.

My slice is usually wrapped and shoved into the fridge, where it waits. By morning, I’m inexplicably ravenous — ludicrous, after the previous night’s carb carnival. The pie, cold and a little soft at the edges, calls my name. It’s always best eaten standing at the kitchen counter, fork in one hand, coffee in the other, while everyone else is still in a coma.

Lovely as dessert-for-breakfast is, this year I’d like to actually enjoy this course as intended — at the table. So today’s recipe began as a simple challenge: a pie grand enough for the feast, yet light enough to still accommodate. I think this year, I’ve cracked it.

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’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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Picture this: a chocolate orange fondant pie - a whisper-thin, buttery pie crust (yes, homemade, but effortlessly so), cradling a centre of warm mousse, featherlight and meltingly soft with a delicate crackled top. Think of a chocolate truffle, but lighter. Or a soufflé, but deeper. Rich and decadent? Yes, but lifted by that bright, citrusy kiss of orange. All silk and warmth — without the weight.

• Yes, there is pastry, but don’t be alarmed - This isn’t the fussy kind. It’s simply a matter of whizzing flour, butter, a little sugar, and ice water together.

• That said, if making pastry feels like a bridge too far - skip it. Bake the filling mixture in a (8–9 inch) pie dish or cake tin. The result is a light molten fondant cake that puffs dramatically in the oven, all dark and glossy, before collapsing into itself as though it’s sulking after being hauled out of the sauna too soon. It’s meant to. That’s the magic.

• The pastry, if using, can be made ahead. Wrap and leave in the fridge for up to two days. A little time chilling makes it easier to roll and handle. Preparing ahead gets one task out of the way before the festivities begin. Alternatively, assemble your crust in the pie dish and freeze for up to a month.

• There is coffee, but you wouldn’t know it. Just a little espresso, there to darken the chocolate’s edge, not to shout its own name.

• I’ve added orange zest, because I love Terry’s Chocolate Orange. When I’m in America, I find myself longing for that nostalgic orange-and-chocolate pairing. The zest lifts the dark chocolate beautifully, adding brightness without diminishing its indulgence.

• Fancy something else? Try a different spiced accent. Only a whisper. Just ½ tsp of ground cardamom would add a sweet and spicy trail of warmth. Or how about a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg? Yum.

• When the pie emerges from the oven, the centre will have risen like a soufflé.
  Don’t panic, it’s supposed to. Then, as it cools, the filling will sigh and fall, cracking on the top. At this point, scatter with Maldon salt and serve with whipped cream, softly peaked and scented with vanilla.

Need Thanksgiving recipe ideas?

1. Try my savory/sweet monster of a side dish, the sweet potato casserole with crunchy pecan topping and spiced meringue

2. Then, the sticky date cloud dip: soft, sweet, and so unapologetically spoonable, that your guests will be kept happily employed whilst your bird of choice roasts and crisps up in the oven.

3. The jam roly-poly — a proper English steamed pudding, but nudged toward the American table by the inclusion of tart cranberry and orange jam.

4. Skipping turkey this year? I have the perfect (very easy) main course idea, duck confit.

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Welcome back to the Thanksgiving series — a collection of ‘true’ family recipes, if only in the sense that they’ve never been written down, just remembered, roughly, passed from hand to hand and plate to plate, year after year. These are the dishes that have shaped my family’s English–American table. None of them have ever appeared in the newsletter. Until now.

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’d be thrilled if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.

This is a rather long post, so feel free to view via the website or app if the email cuts out.

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There comes a moment, sometime mid-November, when you realize — with a kind of existential dread — that you will soon be required to manhandle a bird roughly the size of a small dinosaur. The thought of brining, stuffing and wrestling it into a tin before unceremoniously shoving it into the oven … well, let’s just say the festive magic wears off rather quickly.

But duck — now that’s an altogether different proposition.

The English do love a duck — particularly the whole, roasted sort. And fair enough, after all, cooked properly, the skin turns a deep bronze, producing a satisfying crackle when sliced to reveal the meat, as rich and complex as a Dickensian subplot. But let’s not pretend it doesn’t come at a cost. The oven ends up lacquered in grease whilst the sink heaves with slippery pans. Meanwhile, the air, thick with a certain ‘eau de duck’, clings to your walls, clothes, and even your hair for days. Neither orange-scented candles nor expensive conditioners can banish the lingering aroma of this gamey fowl.

But duck confit - that’s different. There’s a sort of grace to confit. The duck legs cook slowly, lounging in their own fat like a decadent bath, until the meat yields and separates obligingly from the bone. A quick blast in a hot oven restores crispness to the skin — golden, puckered, edged like antique lace. It’s not showy, but it is quietly magnificent.

The short-cut confit method, I think, is one of the finest ways to cook duck — and absurdly low-effort. No billows of smoke, no frantic basting, no oven door flung open seventeen times. Just that deep, savory richness — glossy, aromatic, garlicky, faintly herbal — ready when you are, without drama. There are also endless ways to make this recipe your own (see below).

This is the sort of dish that makes you feel competent and grown-up, even if you’ve spent most of the morning charging around the kitchen in slippers, hair unbrushed, slightly frazzled, hoping the doorbell doesn’t ring…just yet.

A few delicious ways to make this recipe your own:

• Citrus peel - Thick strips of orange or lemon zest, tucked in with the herbs, lend a gentle brightness that lifts the richness beautifully. Think of it as perfume for the fat.

• Whole spices - A star anise, a few cracked cloves, coriander seeds or juniper berries — subtle, warming, and quietly aromatic. Nothing too assertive, just background intrigue.

• A touch of chili - A dried chili or a pinch of Aleppo pepper will bring warmth rather than heat. Not fiery, just enough to remind you it’s there.

• Chinese five spice- Use sparingly — a pinch in the salt rub is often enough to make the duck sing over noodles or greens.

• A splash of something heady - Madeira, Marsala, even a little brandy stirred into the fat can add depth and a quiet sense of occasion. Not essential — but rather special.

Need some Thanksgiving recipe ideas?

1. Try my savory/sweet monster of a side dish, the sweet potato casserole with crunchy pecan topping and spiced meringue

2. Then, the sticky date cloud dip: soft, sweet, and so unapologetically spoonable, that your guests will be kept happily employed whilst your bird of choice roasts and crisps up in the oven.

3. The jam roly-poly — a proper English steamed pudding, but nudged toward the American table by the inclusion of tart cranberry and orange jam.

4. Finally, the crab and butternut squash arancini — a cocktail hour favorite.

Right! I know you’re short on time, so let’s cook.

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Welcome back to the Thanksgiving series. We began, as one should, gently. First came the crab and butternut squash arancini — a cocktail hour favorite - golden and crisp, the sort of irresistible little mouthful that disappears faster than you can set them down. Then, the sticky date cloud dip: soft, sweet, and so unapologetically spoonable, that your guests will be kept happily employed whilst your bird of choice roasts and crisps up in the oven. And finally, the jam roly-poly — a proper English steamed pudding, its roots deep in tradition, but nudged toward the American table by the inclusion of tart cranberry and orange jam. Today, we press on — with sweet potato casserole.

Oh, and if you keep scrolling, you’ll come to a menu — more or less my family’s English/American hybrid Thanksgiving greatest hits. I was convinced I’d shared these recipes before — they’ve been cooked so often, they feel as though they must have been published. But no. They’ve lived on napkins, scraps of sauce-stained paper, and in muscle memory, passed along year after year simply because we love them.

This isn’t a complete list (we are, it must be said, a family firmly in favor of options — especially when it comes to sides, desserts and the non-negotiable presence of more than one gravy). But everything here is tried, tested, and well-loved.

I asked whether you’d prefer the recipes one at a time or all at once. Most of you voted for speed, so I’ll keep trickling them through — and then gather them into one big, generous round-up for ease.

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I’ve spent over a decade tooing and froing between England and America, navigating time zones, customs, and cravings. But even before I first arrived in the States, I longed for Thanksgiving — a holiday seemingly devoted entirely to food. A kind of pre-Christmas warm-up, but with better sides. Yes please.

In those early years, before I met my husband and settled into rituals and traditions of our own, I drifted from one friend’s feast to the next. That’s where I first met sweet potato casserole. Some versions wore a pecan crumble, golden and nubbly. Others came crowned with blistered mini marshmallows. A few — magnificently — had both.

For me, it’s a dish that answers every craving. Soft, crunchy, gooey, creamy - sweet and savory - the resulting flavor profile, more than a sum of its parts. This is the kind of dish that stops you mid-bite, wondering how something so wrong can taste so unreasonably right.

One Christmas, newly returned to England and feeling mildly unanchored — dislocated not just geographically but gastronomically — I attempted a version of my own. No recipe, just remembered textures: the yielding softness of the mash, the candied brittleness of the pecans, the singed puff of marshmallow. I expected bemused politeness. Instead: plates wiped clean and second helpings requested — even by a young cousin, who generally regards anything involving a root vegetable as a personal affront. Since then, it’s become immovable. Thanksgiving, Christmas — there it is. A dish once borrowed in curiosity, now firmly lodged in the family canon.

I’ve heard it said — usually with a shudder — that some people don’t like sweet potato casserole. The sweetness, the marshmallows: too much, too strange, too dessert-adjacent. Frankly, I can only assume they haven’t tried this version.

The critics may have a point: this side dish is, admittedly, gloriously over the top — but there is balance to be found, and the method is, forgivingly, simple. Pleasurably so. At its heart: sweet potato, butter, cream, sugar, spices, nuts — all intermingling to produce one great, gloopy, crunchy, salty-sweet monster of a side dish.

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That said, a recipe only tastes glorious if you use good quality ingredients . Go to the market and select the best sweet potatoes you can find — fat, heavy, taut-skinned. And don’t bother with cinnamon that’s been sulking at the back of the cupboard since 2012. Buy new! And while we’re at it, avoid pre-grated nutmeg — it pales in comparison to freshly grated nutmeg (this handy little tool makes grating effortless). The key to balancing all that sweetness is salt and spice. I use a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger — though some years I’ve added clove, even cardamom — and more flaky sea salt than you’d think necessary.

The mash and crumble can both be made a day or two ahead, which means no flapping about on the day itself. And while the meringue is, I’ll admit, the crowning glory, you don’t have to make it. If meringue gives you performance anxiety, buy some good-quality marshmallows and scatter them on top. I won’t judge you. Nor, I suspect, will your guests.

Speaking of guests: if you’re in England, or anywhere outside the States, and serving this to the uninitiated, don’t explain. Just spoon it onto their plates with enthusiasm, tell them to trust you — and wait for the expression on their faces.

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Welcome to the November edition of Seasonal, our yearlong celebration of eating in harmony with the rhythms of the land. Today is a huge bumper issue to celebrate the start of the festive season, so read this with a cuppa and a biscuit! If you’re new here, each month — on the first Sunday — I spotlight my favorite seasonal ingredients along with flavor pairings and a set of tested, developed recipes for you to use during the week.

Good news! I’m currently working on special Thanksgiving and Christmas menus. But while we wait, today’s newsletter is devoted to the quiet arrival of November, and the gentle pull back to the kitchen.

In other news, I finally did it — I launched my own storefront. All my favorite things, thoughtfully curated in one place — from the kitchen essentials I use daily, to skincare I’d recommend to everyone. To celebrate, I’m excited to introduce a new section to the seasonal letter: The Edit — a curated collection of joyful products and activities that I have found myself increasingly drawn to lately: fashion, travel, beauty, homeware, places to visit , and new hobbies. I thought it was about time I started sharing them with you.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible.

This edition is a little longer, so if your email cuts off, you can always read it in full on the website or app.

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November is suddenly here, slipping in almost unnoticed. The light is lower, the evenings longer. I find myself craving the sort of cooking that warms from within: soups with depth, braised meats whose savory-sweet spice drifts from the oven and curls around the corners of the house like a blanket.

There’s something about this time of year that reignites my creativity. After the laissez-faire salads of summer, I want to stir, to simmer, to roast. If summer is prosecco and a succession of easy, sun-drenched gatherings, then autumn is the season of instinctive cooking — slower, more deliberate, made for second (or third) helpings of clove-scented, slow-built dishes.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the food I grew up with: English food. It often gets a bad rap, but for me, it’s one of the most generous, quietly brilliant cuisines in the world. Shaped by centuries of trade, conquest, and curiosity, English cooking is a glorious patchwork of everything from Roman spices to Norman sauces, Tudor puddings to the rich French and Italian influences of the last century. And no season suits it better than autumn.

This is the time for pies that steam when you cut into them, sponge cakes that smell of ginger and treacle, orchard fruits stewed until velvet-soft. It’s food that welcomes you home.

Pumpkin & Short Rib

An elevated shepherd’s pie, and a match made in heaven. Short ribs, slow-braised with ale, a spoonful of maple syrup and a flick of smoked paprika, cinnamon and thyme, until dark, glossy, and falling from the bone. Meanwhile, leaning against the ribs, the pumpkin quietly roasts before finally collapsing into the sauce. It works because the sweetness of the squash/pumpkin lifts the richness of the meat — each deepening the other, never competing. Keep scrolling for the recipe.

All of this succulent deliciousness is modestly tucked beneath a layer of rich cheesy pommes purée — smooth, golden, heavy with butter and alpine cheese— then baked until rippled and browned at the edges.

Serve with something bitter and green.

Chestnuts & Coffee

Chestnuts, when roasted, offer that rare mix of smoke, sugar and starch. Warm them, peel them while they’re still soft enough to break with your fingers, and crush roughly. Stir into softly whipped cream with a little icing sugar, espresso, and nutmeg — then spoon over poached pears or squares of bitter chocolate cake. It’s all woodland warmth and soft edges.

Or take it further. Think tiramisu, reimagined with chestnut. Soak savoiardi biscuits in strong coffee, layer with a mascarpone cream laced with chestnut purée, then dust generously with cocoa. It’s Mont Blanc meets Italian pudding — soft, nutty, scented with memory.

Brussels Sprouts & Anchovy

Thinly shred sprouts and fry them over high heat in oil until the edges catch and curl like the tips of burnt paper. In a separate pan, melt butter with a mashed anchovy fillet, a lick of chilli, a teaspoon of maple syrup and a squeeze of lemon. Pour this savory, sweet and salty slick over the hot sprouts and eat warm, with a fork, from the pan. The anchovy disappears, but its depth remains.

Leeks & Nutmeg

There’s something undeniably French about a leek that’s been cooked until it slumps. Not boiled to mush, but slowly braised — in butter, Gruyère, and a little white wine — until the greens lose their brightness and the whites turn silky, almost translucent. Think of it like a leek dauphinoise: assembled in layers, baked gently, the edges just catching, the whole thing humming with quiet richness.

Before placing in the oven, pour over a little cream and then add a whisper of grated nutmeg — not enough to shout, just a warm murmur in the background. Finish with a scatter of lemon zest at the table, if you like, to brighten the edges.

Serve with a poached egg and toast to swipe through the sauce. This is the kind of dish you might stumble across on a handwritten bistro menu in the 11th arrondissement — or make for yourself on a quiet night in, when you want something deeply reassuring.

Kale & Grapes

A kale salad with a little ceremony. Massage torn kale leaves in olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and lemon, until they soften and glisten. Add halved grapes — red or black, the darker the better — and crumbled goat’s cheese or parmesan shards. A handful of toasted walnuts or hazelnuts wouldn’t hurt. It’s a salad that feels composed, not assembled; bitter, sweet, creamy, sharp.

Onions, Taleggio & Pomegranate Molasses

Start with halved onions — I like the sweet blush of giant shallots. Let them roast slowly in a shallow roasting dish with butter and thyme until, sweet and deeply bronzed, they collapse. In the final ten minutes, tuck slices of Taleggio into the folds so it melts into the onion’s seams. Once out of the oven, drizzle in a teaspoon of pomegranate molasses. Serve with warm flatbreads.

Pomegranate & Ginger

Not every Thanksgiving dessert needs to be heavy or filled with custard. Sometimes what’s needed is a moment of brightness — something that crackles and cools and catches the eye.

Think - pavlova! All cloud: crisp shell, marshmallow centre. Spoon over a rose-scented cream — whipped with a little yoghurt for sharpness and a whisper of fresh ginger for warmth — then finish with a tumble of pomegranate seeds. Glossy, sharp, jewelled with rubies. A drizzle of pomegranate molasses, loosened with honey, gives the whole composition depth and perfume — floral, fragrant, like someone whispering a secret in a garden at dusk.

I also use this combination for my ginger loaf cake (above)— sticky and spiced, topped with a sharp pomegranate icing that stains the sponge just slightly pink at the edges. The cake is bolder, darker — the pavlova is its lighter cousin. Both deserve a place on the table.

Chicken and quince

I begin with the chicken — thighs, skin-on and bone-in, roasted until bronzed and sticky at the edges. This is the kind of tray bake you can make with your eyes half closed, and adapt to whatever’s in the kitchen that day. Once, I threw in leftover grilled red peppers and halloumi. It was wonderful. The quince version, however, leans more towards autumnal flavors.

Thick chunks of potato, sliced apples, and cubed quinces go into a baking dish with a generous drizzle of olive oil, quince syrup (apple cider, or whatever sweet-spiced liquid you’ve got to hand), and a whole head of garlic, halved to expose the cloves. The chicken thighs are patted dry and well seasoned — salt is essential here to offset all that syrup and fruit — then nestled on top. A scattering of white pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg, or even pumpkin spice adds warmth. Then into the oven it goes.

Half an hour in, out comes the tray. A few knobs of butter are placed on top of the chicken, followed by a lacing of maple syrup over the skin, and a good splash of apple cider vinegar around the fruit and potatoes for sharpness. Then it all returns to the oven at a higher heat until the chicken is golden, crackling and glazed, and the potatoes are catching beautifully at the corners.

What you end up with is a dish of contrasts: sweet against savory, crisp against soft. The apples and quince collapse into silk, the garlic mellows, and the syrup reduces into a sticky, rich glaze. Serve with something bitter and fresh — a radicchio salad, perhaps — to keep things in balance. Like most good tray bakes, it’s less about strict quantities and more about instinct. The recipe welcomes improvisation.

Beets and maple

Beetroot and maple syrup share a mellow, root-deep sweetness — one earthy, the other amber and woodland. I like to roast beets with carrots and radishes until their edges catch and darken, the syrup turning everything glossed and fragrant; a humble, hearty side. Serve with goats cheese and pistachios.

Wild Mushrooms & Brioche

Take wild mushrooms — chanterelles if you’re feeling flush, chestnuts if it’s the week before payday — and fry them gently in too much butter. Let them take their time. When they’re golden and catching at the edges, pour in a good glug of dry sherry and let it hiss and sigh. Stir through a spoonful of crème fraîche and plenty of black pepper. Salt, if you can, at the very end — it keeps the mushrooms from weeping too much into the pan.

Spoon the mixture onto toasted brioche, the kind that yields just slightly when pressed. Eat with a glass of something you had sworn to save. It’s a romantic dinner fit for a main character in a French novel — the kind who writes long letters by candlelight and definitely owns a velvet robe.

Apples & Miso

Roast firm apple wedges in butter until their skins blister and the flesh slumps just slightly. Make a glaze of white miso, maple syrup, and rice vinegar, loosened with a splash of hot water. Pour over the apples while warm, pop back in the oven for a few more minutes and when cooked, scatter with toasted sesame seeds. Perfect next to seared pork or spooned cold beside a creamy cheese. The funk of miso against the tang of fruit is unexpectedly thrilling.

Carrots & Cardamom

Winter carrots are denser, darker, and more intensely flavored than their summer cousins. At this time of year, it is less about crunch, more about caramelization, with carrots tasting particularly delicious with warm spices or sharp cheeses. Here’s a suggestion for a Sunday roast or a Thanksgiving side: roast whole carrots — skins on, generously oiled — until they blacken in places and smell faintly of toffee. In the final minutes, drizzle with honey and a dusting of crushed cardamom seeds, sea salt, and orange zest. Serve warm with thick salted yoghurt or labneh. Try pairing this combination with roast turkey or prime rib, for a Thanksgiving meal no-one will forget.

Pears & Rosemary

King, the New York restaurant by Clare de Boer, Jess Shadbolt and Annie Shi, just posted a photo on Instagram — a tray of whole pears, rubbed with butter and rosemary, waiting to go into the oven. The team serves them with pork chops. We should all follow suit. This is the kind of plate that I can imagine tastes of woodsmoke, orchard air, and the last light of October.

Butternut Squash & Black Tea

Hear me out! Roast butternut squash until caramelized and tender, then brush with a glaze made from strong brewed lapsang souchong, a little brown sugar, together with tamari or soy sauce. The tea brings smoke and tannin, a brooding counterpoint to the squash’s natural sweetness. Serve warm in a cast iron pan with toasted pecans and melted brie.

Cauliflower & feta

Chef Bernardo Costantino serves cauliflower ‘steaks’ — thick cross-sections of the vegetable, pan-fried in alarming amounts of butter and just enough garlic to register. The cauliflower scorches, crisps, then yields.

He serves the steaks with cooked feta — not raw and crumbly, but baked or blow-torch seared until the cheese softens, browns at the edges, and takes on a kind of savory flake. The brilliance, I imagine, is in the contrast: sweet, nutty brassica against tangy, briny dairy. One softens, the other sharpens. Together, they meet somewhere between indulgence and asceticism — like a dish devised by a very hungry monk.

Parsnip & Rum

Peel and roast parsnips with butter until sticky and golden, then finish with a dash of dark rum and a scattering of sea salt. The rum catches in the heat of the pan and adds a depth of sweetness that’s almost toffee-like, without a trace of sugar.

Celeriac & Hazelnut

Celeriac is a little underrated — it’s not the most aesthetically gifted of vegetables, but full of quiet charm and earthy elegance. Grated raw into fine threads and dressed immediately with lemon juice to hold its ghost-pale colour, it becomes the cleanest of slaws. Fold in crème fraîche, a suggestion of Dijon mustard, toasted hazelnuts, and perhaps a few sage leaves. It’s earthy but bright. An autumn/ winter salad made to accompany pork schnitzel or a roasted bird, it’s quietly luxurious.

Radicchio & Alpine Cheese

Radicchio doesn’t beg to be liked — it’s bitter, cold, a little sulky. But give it something nutty and rich, and it relaxes.

Shave Gruyère, Comté, or another Alpine cheese over torn radicchio with toasted walnuts/pecans and a sharp-sweet dressing of cider vinegar, olive oil, and a spoon of quince jelly or honey. Or take it further — melted raclette or brie poured straight over the top is absurdly good. The heat wilts the radicchio just enough, softening the bite without losing the edge.

A salad with backbone — all bite, butter, and brass.

1. Rather fabulous walk in the mud!? Yes please! Barbour wellies 2. Let’s go for 90! Golf notes book 3.My lunchbox did not look like this at school - Lunchbox/very stylish handbag 3. Everyone knows when you look good you play better - Malbon golf bag 5. Brace that November chill with this dreamy Barbour jacket 6. Ready for the rodeo in these Annie Tecovas

The clocks have just gone back — England last week, America today — and the light is slipping away like steam from a cup. The days are folding inwards, taking on the hush and ambered stillness of late autumn. We could moan, and let’s be honest, no one does it quite like the British — it’s practically a winter sport. But instead, I suggest we lean in. Wrap up. Step outside. And most importantly, pack really good transportable snacks and a thermos full of something spicy.

If you read my last midweek digest, you’ll know my husband introduced me to golf five years ago. I was mid-meltdown and mistook his “Want to hit the range?” for a date proposal — a new restaurant, maybe a cute rooftop bar? It was neither. But it worked. One fortuitously perfect shot — 150 yards, straight as an arrow, and my troubles had disappeared.

Rancho Bernardo Inn, was kind enough to host me for a round the other day, and I took full advantage — accidentally leaving my phone at home. What I didn’t forget were the snacks. Because a round of golf, complete with all the unintended chaos, provides the perfect excuse not only to pack a selection of moreish provisions, but also to recount and recover with a long, lazy lunch. Now that’s my kind of sport.

Golf (or frankly, any outing that involves the outdoors and a flask) demands proper provisions — not those grim protein bars or meat sticks that taste like a penance. So, I decided to make the following: : spiced Chex Mix (or Par-tee mix, if you’ll indulge me), apple-spiced Arnold Palmers, breakfast biscuit sandwiches with a scandalous smear of homemade pumpkin butter, and banana miso loaf.

The par-tee snack mix was particularly moreish. If you wish to make this, simply combine 1 cup lightly salted pistachios, ½ cup roughly chopped pecans, 1 cup mini pretzels, ¼ cup pumpkin seeds (or sunflower seeds), and 1 cup crunchy cereal (Chex, granola, Rice Krispies — whatever you have) in a big bowl.

In a small saucepan melt 150g unsalted butter with ½ cup (80g) light or dark brown sugar, ¼ cup (50g) granulated sugar, 1 tsp pumpkin pie spice, 1 tbsp maple syrup, and ½ tsp fine sea salt until smooth and glossy, then pour this over the dry mix and stir to coat well.

Spread out on a parchment-lined tray and bake at 350°F for 20–25 minutes, stirring once. Let cool until crisp. Store airtight — it stays delicious for up to two weeks.

Paid subscribers, if you would like any of these golf snack recipes, I’ll happily send via pdf in the paid subscriber chat, just comment below!

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1. Smell like my cake! Jo Malone Ginger Biscuit 2. Dress like a very chic cowgirl with these pants 3. I’m going for New York detective from the 60’s with these glasses 4. Wall street babe from the 90’s vibe in this blazer 4. Tally ho! Love these boots. 5. I’ve just started using this product and suddenly have gorgeous glass skin.

For the past few years, fashion and I were on a break. Covid happened, work blurred the days, and comfort became the only currency that mattered. I lived in jeans and a white shirt — my uniform — and on kitchen days (which, let’s be honest, is six out of seven), a sauce-stained apron and Birkenstocks. Functional. Fine. A little boring.

But lately, I’ve found myself idly scrolling again. Bookmarking. Wondering what kind of woman I want to be dressing as these days. At thirty-six, it feels quietly thrilling to be curious again — about fabric, color, silhouette — as if I’m tasting something I’d forgotten I loved.

Lately, I’m drawn to things that feel a bit cinematic: trench coats and tartan, equestrian style boots with a whiff of saddle soap, and a dash of 1990s Julia Roberts — part frazzled Englishwoman, part Ralph Lauren on a ranch.

A few things currently on my wishlist: A trench the color of caramel, soft and slouchy in that effortlessly capable way; a tartan scarf, perfectly imperfect and slightly askew — all the better for it; and a pair of gorgeous red Sam Elderman equestrian boots, polished but not pristine, the kind that can handle mud, and markets. I was also recently kindly gifted a smart little gizmo called The ZIIP HALO which is a sort of at-home spa facial/mini nanocurrent device that boosts glow and helps with lymphatic drainage. They even have an app you can follow for guided treatments. I’ve tried it twice now and honestly — I was so relaxed afterwards I had to take a nap.

1. A classic for a reason 2. Diane Henry’s writing is beautiful and this book is perfect for the forthcoming season 3. The Flavor Thesaurus - essential for the creative cook 4. Alice Waters - what a legend. 5. Perhaps my fav cookbook…ever?! 6. Classic Martha.

I’ve been revisiting Bergdorf Blondes by — last read at 15, when I was far too young to understand half of it but utterly convinced it was glamorous. A critic once called Plum’s timbre in the book “shrill,” which feels deeply unfair. It’s whip-smart, fizzy, and deliciously knowing. Plum is also on Substack and I highly recommend subscribing.

Alongside that, I’ve been dipping back into The Silver Palate Cookbook. I’m also hunting for a copy of ’s Home which I don’t think is yet available in the US yet, but I’ve been told is equal parts wit and comfort.

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An autumn cookie box (or collection) wasn’t on my recipe list for October. Not even close. But a few weeks ago, in a moment of idle curiosity, I asked — casually, offhandedly — on Instagram: “What recipes are you craving?”And lo, the people spoke. Or rather, a small but resolute chorus replied: “Autumn cookie box!” — as if it were the most natural seasonal necessity in the world, right up there with switching on the fire and buying new socks.

Once I’d committed to the idea, I briefly considered turning the whole thing into a Pinterest Fall fantasy: maple leaf sugar cookies, acorn-shaped delicacies, miniature pumpkins. You know the type - confections that require a piping diploma and the patience of someone hand-tempering chocolate in August.

All very lovely. All very…precious.

But the truth is, I can’t bring myself to fuss over icing that calls for both tweezers and a ruler. Even the thought of it made me want to reach for a dirty martini and retire to the sofa. I had a feeling you might feel the same.

So instead, I set out to develop recipes for ‘proper’ biscuits. The kind you can really get your teeth into — the ones you fantasize about during a dreary Q4 meeting, while someone drones on about metrics and you’re quietly picturing a blanket, a fire, Gilmore Girls, and a plate of something sweet.

In short: not the cookies that look like fall. Rather, the ones that taste like it!

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There are four master recipes in this collection, though a few have sub-recipes — elements such as the meringue kisses, buttercream, and shortbread. Think of this as an invitation to experiment. Each cookie recipe is designed to be adapted and reimagined.

These aren’t just cookies — they’re a starting point for creativity. A gentle nudge to play, tweak, and make them entirely yours.

Pistachio butter salted double chocolate cookies

Totally, unapologetically indulgent. This is not the moment for restraint. Here, more is most definitely MORE.

This recipe produces a soft, yielding cookie featuring rich, chocolate and sweet butterscotch tones - the result of combining 70% dark chocolate with Valrhona dulcey chocolate.

The dough is laced with salt, generously so, the way you’d season something savory. And at its heart: a spoonful of pistachio butter, rich and green and faintly floral, which turns molten as it bakes, so that the centre stays gloriously soft — almost liquid —when you break it open.

Nestled on top, a few diamonds of flaky sea salt and a crumble of pistachios provide crunch and contrast. Furthermore, as the bittersweet and buttery dark and toasted chocolates melt and merge, the flavor and aroma of pistachios adds a cool, nutty richness. It’s a decadent sort of cookie, best eaten warm, with a strong cup of coffee near at hand.

Pumpkin spice meringue kisses

This cookie begins with spiced shortbread — crumbly, buttery and tender. On top sits a swirl of pumpkin spice buttercream. Silky, spiced, and mellow, like the filling of a pie that’s been folded into whipped cream. And to finish, a single spiced meringue kiss, crisp on the outside, with just the faintest chew at its centre - like a whisper of toasted marshmallow.

Pop one in whole and you’ll get the sandy crumble of shortbread, the soft coolness of buttercream, and the sweet snap of meringue, all at once. It is impossible to have just one. Dangerous.

Hazelnut praline latte biscuit sandwiches

A recipe inspired by my culinary hero, Nigel Slater — which is to say, it’s comforting, quietly indulgent, and genuinely enjoyable to make.

This recipe begins with hazelnut praline, which sounds alarmingly labour-intensive. In truth, the process is pretty straightforward. You melt sugar in a pan, add toasted hazelnuts, then cook the mixture until it turns a deep amber. A pinch of salt, followed by a quick stir, and it’s ready to spread onto a baking sheet to cool. Before long, you will have a golden, glassy slab. Once set, blitz the praline until it resembles fine rubble — fragrant, nutty, and utterly irresistible.

The praline is added to both the cookie dough and the espresso-infused buttercream, sandwiched neatly between two biscuits.The result is a double hit of deep, toasty hazelnut, with just enough coffee bitterness to keep things from veering into sweetness overload.

Reverse chocolate cookies

If you’ve ever lived in, or visited the UK, you’ll likely know Gail’s: the ubiquitous bakery chain. They do a reverse chocolate cookie (dark dough, white chocolate chunks) that is, irritatingly, quite perfect. Deeply chocolatey, soft in the middle, and difficult to forget.

I’d been thinking about it - longingly. But what I really wanted was a homemade version with a slightly crinkled, crisp-edged exterior, and an interior that was soft, melting, and just the right side of slightly underbaked. A true cookie–brownie hybrid: rich, chewy, dark, and deeply satisfying.

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Welcome to the October edition of Seasonal, our yearlong celebration of eating in harmony with the rhythms of the land. October always feels like a doorway: we step through, leaving the green abundance of summer behind, and suddenly the world is copper, russet, and gold. The light slants differently, it seems softer, and the air carries the scent of woodsmoke and crunchy fallen leaves.

This is the month for storing and savoring. Root vegetables, pumpkins and squashes crowd the markets, apples and pears are at the peak of their honeyed ripeness. It’s the season of steaming bowls of soups and stews, of slow roasts and warming spices. The pleasure of October cooking lies in its quietness. No drama — just the soft thud of a knife cutting through squash, the scent of butter browning, the warmth that rises as something slow, sweet and simple bakes in the oven.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible.

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Pumpkin & Cinnamon

Pumpkin on its own is pleasant enough — sweet, mild, edging toward the vegetal. But add cinnamon, and it’s suddenly transformed: the spice’s warm, aromatic heat pushes pumpkin’s sweetness into sharper focus, making it taste richer, rounder, more assured.

Think of it this way: pumpkin without spice is like a whisper in a crowded room. Add cinnamon (and/or nutmeg), and everyone turns to listen. The spice doesn’t overwhelm so much as amplify, pulling out caramel notes you didn’t know were there.

Nowhere is this clearer than in an autumnal cake. A pumpkin sheet cake frosted with cookie butter miso cream cheese — the cinnamon already woven into the cookie butter — is a perfect example. The cake itself is tender and almost pudding-soft; the frosting hits with tang, warmth, and spice.

Pears & Black Pepper

There’s something exciting about pairing the soft, yielding sweetness of ripe pears with the sharp bite of black pepper. It elevates the fruit from simple and sweet to complex and sophisticated. A ripe pear sliced thinly and sprinkled with cracked pepper (and perhaps a shaving of Parmesan) makes an elegant appetizer. Or, bake them into a tart (using phyllo pastry perhaps?) where the pepper lingers in the syrup, surprising the palate - just enough.

Pumpkin, Parmesan & Miso

Pumpkin is often paired with spice, but miso creates a more complex flavor profile, with the umami depth of miso balancing the pumpkin’s natural sweetness, thus adding a savory note to the almost caramel-like richness.

Parmesan, meanwhile, is one of those rare ingredients that seems to straddle different worlds: salty, nutty, faintly fruity, its crystals crunching like sand in the bite. It doesn’t just add flavor, it adds structure — a backbone of savoriness that holds sweeter elements in place.

Try this: I recently made stuffed squashes with a savory custard that blended Parmesan, ricotta, miso, and maple syrup. The maple gave a whisper of sweetness, the miso anchored it in umami, and the Parmesan tied everything together as the savory custard set softly inside the roasted squash. Each bite was silken, nutty, and autumnal — sweet, salty, and deeply satisfying.

Sweet Potato & Coffee

Sweet potato’s caramel depth matches beautifully with the roasted, bitter edge of coffee. The result is rich, and warming. I tried this the other day: whisk instant espresso into melted browned butter and brush over baked sweet potato wedges. Sprinkle with flaky salt and a touch of cinnamon sugar for a sweet-salty treat.

Cabbage & Apple Cider Vinegar

Cabbage loves acidity, and playing it against caramel makes for a surprising balance of sweet, sour, and vegetal. In a large, cast-iron pan, I sauté shredded green cabbage until deeply browned at the edges. Then, I push the cabbage to one side and sprinkle a little sugar and butter into the empty space. Let it melt and darken to a deep amber, then stir in a splash of apple cider vinegar to make a quick caramel right there in the pan. Toss everything together so the cabbage picks up all the sticky, tangy gloss.

Serve as a side to pork or roast chicken.

Plums & Bay Leaf

Plums lean toward the heady and voluptuous — tart skins, jammy flesh, a perfume that sits somewhere between wine and roses. Bay leaf, by contrast, is cool and herbal, almost medicinal. Pair the two together and something curious happens: the bay reins in the plum’s lushness, giving it backbone, while the fruit softens the bay’s austerity, making it taste less like medicine and more like mystery.

Poach plums with sugar, a bay leaf or two, and a cinnamon stick and the fruit’s sharpness mellows into syrup, the sauce perfumed with a faint, resinous whisper. Spoon it over yogurt or ice cream and pair with granola or an oat cookie ( recipe below) and you’ve got a fancy breakfast/ simple dessert that tastes far more complex than the effort required.

Brussels Sprouts & Chestnuts

October marks the return of Brussels sprouts — miniature cabbages with a bad reputation, until you taste them properly caramelized. Pair them with roasted chestnuts and crispy maple bacon, and you get a nutty, smoky sweetness that feels utterly autumnal (but also great for a Thanksgiving or Christmas side dish). Toss with brown butter and sage, and you have a side dish that might outshine the main course.

Fennel & Orange

As days shorten, citrus begins to creep back into the kitchen. Fennel, with its aniseed freshness, is cut beautifully by the bright acidity of orange. Shaved fennel salad with orange segments, toasted walnuts, sea salt, and a drizzle of olive oil is a palate-cleansing dish, light yet grounded.

Grapes & Peanut Butter

Concord grapes are a fleeting October treasure — dusky purple, intensely aromatic, almost perfumed with wildness. Pair them with the creamy saltiness of peanut butter, and suddenly you’ve got the most grown-up elevated version of PB&J imaginable. I recently baked a peanut butter and grape jam tart.

The flaky shortcrust base was filled with a homemade grape jam that shimmered like jewels before being topped with a crumble made with chopped peanuts and peanut butter. Once baked, it was equal parts nostalgic and something entirely new — a classic lunchbox pairing transformed into something elegant enough for the table. Unfortunately, there’s no formal recipe for my pie — but I thought I’d share the idea and let you get creative with it.

Beets & Cocoa

Earthy beets and bitter cocoa have more in common than you’d think: both are dark, earthy and almost mineral in flavor. Try this: roast beets until caramelized, then purée into a silky soup with a spoonful of cocoa powder, a splash of cream, and a pinch of smoked salt. Serve with a dollop of crème fraîche or sour cream. Borscht -adjacent.

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I’ve been immersed in all things autumnal lately, testing recipes that whisper of falling leaves and crisp evenings. Unfair, really, when California is still caught in the grip of a late-summer heat wave. Thirty-three degrees outside, and there I am, sliding pumpkin pies into the oven. Torture. At least recipe testing has its treasures: a bowl of pumpkin purée, fragrant with spice and far too good to waste. So I turned it into a homemade pumpkin spice creamer, the foundation for the best pumpkin spice latte I’ve ever had.

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Creamer? But you're British! Well, I live in America for a good portion of the year and albeit reluctantly, I’ve become unashamedly enamored with creamer in my coffee as part of my morning routine. When in Rome…

But creamer is disgusting! No, it’s not, it’s bloody delicious. Don’t let the gourmands, culinary purists and epicureans lie to you, I bet that behind closed doors, they are all secretly enjoying lashings of the stuff.

Now, to be fair, not all creamers are created equal. Some varieties (like the brand whose name rhymes with “coffee hate”) taste like a mouthful of corn syrup and chemicals. A quick scan of the ingredients list is enough to put you off entirely, which is why I make my own.

My recipe involves a little effort, but there is pleasure in the toil as well as the added bonus of knowing that your PSL doesn’t contain any unpleasant additives with names that resemble algebra equations.

The key to this delicious creme anglaise-like creamer is homemade pumpkin purée and homemade pumpkin spice. The creamer also serves as a delightful pairing for a diverse range of fall desserts and puddings. I can imagine how good it would be with sticky toffee pudding.

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Welcome to the September edition of Seasonal, our yearlong celebration of eating in harmony with the rhythms of the land. This month’s magazine-style newsletter leans into the shift from late summer to autumn, with flavor pairings and brand-new unpublished recipes to carry you through the season: spiced apple Bircher muesli with autumn fruit butter; pecan pie granola; roasted kabocha squash with sage brown butter; crispy capers, Brie and toasted hazelnuts; creamy butternut squash and rice soup with pumpkin spice chicken and almond gremolata; and a plum pecan crumble buckwheat loaf cake with brown butter whip. You’re in for a real treat.

A note to subscribers! A Good Table has grown from zero readers to a bestselling newsletter, and that’s thanks to you. Whether you’ve just joined or been here from the start, I’m so grateful. Each recipe, menu, and story takes time and care to create, and paid subscriptions make it possible.

Today is the last day of the August 60% sale, so if you’ve been thinking of upgrading, now’s the moment. Every cent goes straight back into the cooking, writing, and ideas that make this space.

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Allowing the seasons to lead, and noticing what the earth is offering, feels like a quiet rebellion in a world that rarely pauses. Right now, we are approaching my favorite season: Autumn. There’s so much to look forward to: crisp morning walks, leaves crunching underfoot, the scent of spice and sugar curling through the kitchen.

Yes, we’ll miss the summer markets, the ruby-red tomatoes, and berries sweet with sunshine. But there’s no need to mourn. Pumpkins, pears, figs, apples, quinces — they’re waiting in the wings. The season is turning, and I can’t help but feel a little thrill.

This section highlights what's in season at the farmers’ market right now, along with flavor pairing suggestions designed to spark ideas and encourage a bit of playful creativity in your cooking this month.

Apples and Tahini

Right now, apples are just coming into season - sweet, crisp, and ready to be tasted at the peak of their late-summer arrival. There’s something quietly satisfying about this pairing. Apples are sharp and clean, the sort of flavor you think you know until you experience it next to the deep, nutty, slightly bitter taste of tahini. Together, they feel balanced. Familiar, but with a twist.

I’ve been working on an applesauce and tahini loaf. It’s soft and not too sweet, with a gentle sesame richness that lingers after the apple fades. Still a work in progress, but there’s something there. The flavors taste as though they belong.

Pears and Saffron

Lately, I’ve been starting my mornings with a homemade spiced apple Bircher muesli - a Swiss-style mix of oats soaked overnight in milk or yogurt until soft and creamy. I top this muesli with a pear poached in saffron, cinnamon and a little sugar. The saffron is subtle, but it lifts the fruit, adding warmth and depth without overpowering the flavor pairing. The introduction of a faint floral note means that everything else tastes more vivid.

On Sundays, I prep a few elements to make breakfast easy, yet still interesting all week. Often I make a quick pear, apple and plum butter that comes together, on the stove, in under 30 minutes. I also bake a batch of pecan pie buckwheat granola, crunchy and maple-sweet, the sort of breakfast that makes me feel like a guest at a very posh country hotel. Keep reading for the recipe!

Quince & Cardamom

There’s something inevitable about this pairing. Quince, with its perfumed, honeyed depth, seems made for cardamom’s cool, resinous spice. Together they taste like an ancient Persian garden — roses in bloom, fruit ripening in the sun, the air heavy with sweetness and spice. Try this: poach quince gently with cardamom until its rose-gold flesh perfumes the syrup with warm spice. Serve with a spoonful of cream or thick yogurt and a shortbread biscuit - an easy and very lovely dinner party dessert.

Figs and Banana

An unexpected duo, but imagine banana bread studded with ripe figs and scattered with pistachios. The figs collapse into tiny bursts of jamminess, the bananas offer texture and hints of creamy, caramelized sweetness, and the pistachios provide a little crunch and salt. Alternatively, you could simply try the same ingredients in a breakfast yogurt bowl - jammy figs, caramelized bananas, and a little pistachio butter on the side.

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Plums and Buckwheat

There’s a Slavic sensibility here. The nuttiness and almost tea flavor of buckwheat flour, paired with the sweet-sour intensity of late plums, feels grounding and honest. Spoon plum compote over warm buckwheat groat porridge or make a buckwheat and plum tart. For me, however, the best way to enjoy this flavor combination is in a spiced pecan crumble plum loaf cake. Keep scrolling for the highly adaptable recipe.

Blackberries and Bay

This pairing is all about perfume. A couple of bay leaves steeped together with blackberries, in jam or syrup, coax out something darker, more mysterious. The result is less hedgerow jam, more Brontë novel in a jar. Serve with soft cheese for an after-dinner treat or swirl into yogurt for an elevated breakfast.

Grapes and Blue Cheese

Choose red grapes - or better yet, Concord grapes, those dark‑blue, slip‑skin wonders known for their intense, candy‑sweet aroma and autumnal richness. Here’s a suggestion: roast the grapes until their skins wrinkle and the juices begin to taste faintly of wine. While still warm, spoon them over crumbled blue cheese — Gorgonzola, Stilton or Bleu d’Auvergne, all work beautifully. Add toasted walnuts and a good slice of sourdough bread.

Alternatively, try roasting grapes with figs, then crumbling in blue cheese or Brie just before serving. This rich, sweet, tangy combination is exactly the type of cozy snack you crave when the evenings start to cool.

Sage and beans

Not tied to any season, but firmly in the realm of an autumn-leaning pantry supper. The other night, craving something hearty on a stormy, humid evening with that strange half-rain, half-steam weather, I threw together a supper that really hit the spot. A tin of cannellini beans, a splash of chicken stock, lemon juice/ zest, and a spoonful of brown butter I’d infused with sage. The soupy beans simmered gently until creamy, at which point I stirred in Parmesan and served the whole concoction with harissa lamb sausages, crisp and spicy from the pan.

No recipe (some meals don’t need one) but worth remembering for when the weather turns and you want something comforting.

Butternut squash and pumpkin spice

Pumpkin spice has been hijacked by lattes and scented candles, but in the kitchen, it has far more to offer. Pumpkin spice is usually a mix of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves - warm, fragrant, and often used in sweet bakes. But the blend thrives with heat. Harissa is a good companion - smoky, floral, and with just enough kick to keep things interesting. Lately, I’ve been mixing a homemade pumpkin spice blend with harissa and smoked paprika, then rubbing it over chicken and roasting until the skin is bronzed and crisp. It’s warm, a little sweet, and deeply savory.

I like serving the pumpkin spice chicken sliced, with a gently spiced soup scattered with cubes of sweet butternut squash. The flavor seems to encapsulate perfectly the transitional season we are currently in. Keep reading for the full recipe.

Beets and Goat’s Cheese

Beets come into their own in cooler weather. Later in the season, when the air shifts and the roots get sweeter, I roast them until they are tender and the skins slip off easily. While still warm, slice into thick rounds or angular chunks before scattering with goat’s cheese. Finish with a light dressing - olive oil, vinegar, nothing complicated. Bank this idea for later in the month.

Leeks and Brown Butter

Leeks usually appear by late September. Braise them slowly until soft, then drizzle with brown butter and a scattering of toasted hazelnuts. This is food for when the light shifts and you start thinking about socks and novels.

Mushrooms and Thyme

With the first rains come, the mushrooms arrive. They ask for very little - lots of salty butter, garlic, a few sprigs of thyme, perhaps a splash of cream. Serve on toast or with pasta, ideally by candlelight. Julia Child would approve.

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Kabocha squash & brie

There’s something about the nutty sweetness of roasted kabocha squash that begs for richness. Add sage brown butter, a scatter of crispy capers, toasted hazelnuts, and then brie - melting softly into the warm squash - and it all comes together in a way that feels rustic and indulgent.

The fresh Brie in my recipe (below) comes from Marin French Cheese Co, a company with deep roots in Northern California. They’ve been making cheese since 1865(!!!), when Jefferson Thompson began crafting fresh “bar cheese” on his Marin County dairy ranch. More than 150 years later, they remain the country’s oldest continually operating cheese company. Their breakfast range is my favorite: delicate, floral, and luxuriously creamy.

Because of their support, this recipe is free for all to read. Downloadable PDF below.

Roasted Kabocha Squash With Sage Brown Butter, Crispy Capers, Marin French Cheese Co Breakfast Brie & Toasted Hazelnuts

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With summer winding down, now’s the time to go a little feral at the farmers' market - grab the last of the season’s peaches, tomatoes, and whatever else is hanging on.

Tomatoes & Anchovy

A late-summer tomato tastes as if it’s been quietly concentrating its sweetness all August, holding onto the sun until the very end.

Rich, almost meaty, it demands to be paired with something with backbone. Enter anchovy - an ingredient powerhouse. Select quantity according to your preference for salt, chop finely and scatter over thick tomato slices with capers, lemon zest, and a handful of golden, garlicky breadcrumbs. The anchovy doesn’t shout, it deepens.

Peaches & Sherry Vinegar

Peaches grilled until their sugars caramelize don’t need much - a flick of sherry vinegar, some torn basil, and a dollop of burrata, turns them into a dish best enjoyed whilst relaxing in the comforting warmth of a late sunny afternoon. The vinegar sharpens the syrupy sweetness just enough to avoid sickly stickiness. The Spanish do this well, balancing fruit with acid in a way that feels less like a recipe and more like instinct. If your peaches are on the brink of collapse, even better. Overripe fruit has the decency to cook itself.

Peppers & Feta

Red peppers, once blackened and peeled, lose all their bravado and become something silkier, sweeter and more generous. Paired with feta - cold, crumbly, faintly briny - they become a meal with backbone. Now all you need are a few olives, some oregano, and extra virgin olive oil. Greek cooks will stuff a whole pepper with feta and bake it until the cheese bubbles and oozes over the edges and through the creases, but the raw version, eaten with fingers and juice dripping down your wrist, is just as satisfying.

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There comes a point, during the steamy warmth of late summer when the prospect of eating yet another salad feels positively depressing. It’s not the salad’s fault. It’s the heat. Lunch outside in the Californian sun does indeed sound charming, until you find yourself dodging wasps, perspiring profusely, brushing away June bugs, and watching beady-eyed lizards dart across the patio while your once-crisp leaves wilt into submission.

Can you blame me, then, when right around the moment a giant bluebottle with a disproportionately large derrière plopped into my ice-cold strawberry marg, that I started fantasizing about a bowl of steaming hot pumpkin soup? Oh, and bread — a thick, crusty slice with an indecent amount of butter - perfect for dunking. Well, that was it! I suddenly found myself tumbling into a spiral of thoughts about proper, pillowy, stick-to-your-hips comfort carbs: giant cinnamon buns crowned with cream cheese frosting, preferably eaten in a cable-knit jumper, under a blanket, slurping on a pumpkin-spiced beverage, whilst watching Gilmore Girls for the thousandth time.

Now, I know it would be ridiculous to wish summer away. The season is a cook’s Super Bowl. The markets are overflowing: tomatoes, aubergines and stone fruit on the verge of collapse. And those dahlias - unapologetic, firework-like - at their theatrical best. And for that, I am grateful.

But you see, the thing is, this morning at 6 a.m., on my daily walk, the air felt different. A faint crispness had crept in, barely there, but just enough to start thinking about socks, apple cider and staying inside all day.

So here, in anticipation of autumn, is a list of things to do as the season turns. No summer blues!

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1. Cook! Perhaps I’m biased, but I’ve always believed the seasons are best celebrated through cooking. During autumn, I feel a deep pull toward comfort and sustenance. The days draw in, and the kitchen becomes a retreat—a place to hunker down, to feel wholly centered. This is the season for generous, grounding dishes such as baked potato chicken harissa soup, caramelized spiced butter apples with a pork stuffing, sage infused butternut squash pastina and spiced fig torte. Scroll to the bottom of the newsletter for full printable pdfs of the recipes.

   

2. Rewatch Gilmore Girls from the beginning, or for the first time (you’re in for a treat). - Yes, the dialogue is faster than your resting heart rate, and no, not every plot line has aged gracefully. But there’s a comforting rhythm to Stars Hollow - the family dynamics are endlessly fascinating, and the literary references make you feel clever (and distract from the fact that you’re slowly fusing with your sofa). Make it a night: snacks, a blanket, and a cup of something hot - preferably in a Luke’s Diner mug.

3. Channel your inner grandma! - Growing up is realizing just how much Grandma had it figured out. Pie making, gardening, puzzle solving, sock knitting, curler setting, tea brewing - she was living the dream! ’Tis the season for grandma activities

   

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4. Make your own fall syrups - Seasonal coffees at the major chains now cost about $7-8 and, if we’re honest, taste faintly of soap. Skip it. Homemade syrups are deceptively simple to make: just sugar, water, your chosen star ingredient, a saucepan, and about ten unhurried minutes. Think pumpkin spice, chai masala , pecan-maple, spiced apple, pear–ginger, or honey–sage, each one capturing a different note of the season. Keep a bottle tucked in the fridge, and suddenly every cup of coffee, every mug of hot chocolate, even a plain bowl of porridge, becomes an elevated bespoke treat.

5. Take up golf - I’m not usually one to recommend sports. But since meeting my husband, I’ve discovered that golf has its charms. Don’t be intimidated: start with a few practice sessions at the driving range, then book a round. Golf is a humbling sport, and unless you’re playing with Scottie Scheffler, you’ll quickly realize most people are just as rubbish at it as you are. Plus, there’s something unexpectedly therapeutic about sending all your irritation sailing off with a tiny ball. It’s great! You’re outdoors early, when the world still feels hushed and forgiving, and the air has that cool, bracing clarity. Best of all, you can slip a thermos of hot coffee and a pocketful of snacks into your bag. Call it exercise if you like, but really it’s just another way of stealing a quiet morning for yourself.

6. Make your own pumpkin spice creamer - See point 4. It’s not just about refusing to hand over $8 for a PSL that tastes suspiciously like a melted Yankee Candle. It’s because making creamer yourself is absurdly easy and infinitely more satisfying. Recipe below.

7. Bake - You don’t have to be Nigella Lawson in her Domestic Goddess era to begin baking. Start with spiced apple crumble, then try cinnamon rolls or pumpkin pancakes, ginger cookies, buttermilk scones with plum jam, a pear and cardamom loaf, sticky toffee pudding, roasted squash galette, or French apple cake. I could go on. This autumn, I plan to be your go-to cozy recipe resource - so if you’re not a subscriber yet, consider this your nudge.

   

8. Thrifting and antiquing – My best tip? Go straight to the poshest neighborhood you can think of, then duck into the scruffiest-looking charity shop or the dusty little antique emporium you’d normally breeze past. That’s where the treasure hides. I once found a collectable blue splatter china loaf pan (apparently quite rare) and a glorious stack of old Martha Stewart Living magazines. And if, like mine, your husband starts visibly twitching at the mere mention of yet another “thrift shop,” refer him firmly to point 5. Then use it as leverage. Or blackmail. Entirely your call.

9. Create a signature fall cocktail - Start a tradition: one cocktail you make every autumn, year after year. Mine is a Fig Negroni — bittersweet and dusk-coloured. I simmer dried figs with equal parts sugar and water to make a fig simple syrup, strain it after it cools, then stir 1 oz gin, 1 oz Campari, 1 oz sweet vermouth, and ½ oz fig syrup over ice. Strain into a chilled glass, and garnish with a slice of fig and an orange twist. It’s strong, jammy and sets me off giggling, uncontrollably, by the second sip.

   

10. Send a handwritten letter - A pretty cutting edge concept in the age of screens, swipes and twenty open tabs. Choose proper paper, something thick, elegant, with just enough tooth to make you feel like Nancy Mitford jotting a note before cocktails. Shops such as Choosing Keeping in London and Goods for the Study in New York offer especially lovely stationery. Slip in a pressed leaf, a favorite recipe, perhaps a spritz of your perfume. Seal it. Post it. Days later, it will arrive, fragrant with charm and far superior to any WhatsApp message.

11. Decorate seasonally - Forget the plastic pumpkins that come with a Prop 65 warning and a faint whiff of something flammable. Go for the real stuff instead: think knobbly gourds in wooden bowls, dried corn and straw wreaths.

12. Visit an independent bookstore - It’s a grey Sunday, 10 a.m., coffee steaming in hand - now head to your nearest indie bookshop and lose an hour or two among the shelves. This is the moment for that classic you’ve always meant to read: Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, The Return of the Native (Eustacia Vye is such a babe), or anything deliciously gloomy by Edgar Allan Poe. Or lean all the way into coziness: The Secret History by Donna Tartt, The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry, 84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff, or The Lost Spells by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris. Think spooky creaky floorboards, romantic crackling fires, and sentences you ache to underline.

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13. Visit a college campus - You may be well past your back-to-school era, or ferrying around someone who’s just entering theirs, but do try to find time to wander a campus near you. UCLA, for instance, is magnificent. Last time I checked, you could still drift into the library, where everything feels calm, promising, and slightly Harry Potteresque.

14. Read or watch Harry Potter - Speaking of Harry Potter, I have the happiest memories of my mother reading the books aloud to the family while I was curled up by the fire. It’s a tradition I’ll never tire of—and one that feels especially right in autumn. What happened to reading aloud anyhow?

    

15. Buy (or create) a new seasonal fragrance - Last autumn, I partnered with Ffern, the Somerset-based fragrance house known for its one-off seasonal blends, to create recipes inspired by their autumn scent. Last year’s was quince-forward: rich, golden, perfectly nostalgic. I wore it daily, and now anything quince-scented takes me straight back to that time. Here are a few suggestions: Jo Malone’s English Pear & Freesia is perfect for the shift from late summer to early autumn—pear, melon, freesia, rose, patchouli and soft amber. For something deeper, try Aesop’s Marrakech Intense: a warm, woody blend of bergamot, jasmine, cardamom, rose, and sandalwood. For the home, think pear, bergamot, woodsmoke, amber, or a whisper of vetiver. You can blend a few drops of essential oils - pear and bergamot for brightness, vetiver and amber for depth—into a carrier oil and dab it onto cotton balls or porous stones. Tuck them into corners, drawers, or behind curtains. Or, fill a small bowl with dried herbs, citrus peel, and a splash of oil to make a quiet, smoldering potpourri. Or go for a candle that smells like a walk through damp woodland while carrying a warm croissant.

16. The autumn clean out - A reset of sorts. This is the season to clear out the out-of-date sunscreen, broken flip-flops, and beach gear you’ll never touch again. Cleaning isn’t thrilling, true - but neither is languishing in a house full of dusty, sandy remnants of summer. So make it bearable: cue up a jazz playlist or a comforting YouTuber, pour a glass of apple cider, and sort your junk into three piles - donate, sell, keep. Be ruthless! By the end, the house feels refreshed, ready for candles, blankets, and everything the season has to offer.

17. Visit a local farm - Avoid the commercial pumpkin patch - children in full candy-corn sugar delirium, an arch decorated with lurid orange plastic pumpkins, and a forty-minute wait for a photo you’ll never frame. Instead, track down a proper farm, the kind with apples, knobbly gourds, pumpkins, and squash stacked in muddy crates. Many have visiting hours, some even offer tours, and it feels infinitely more satisfying. Plus, your visit actually helps support local farmers after the summer rush.

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