I remain ever optimistic that spring, never mind summer, is just around the corner. Warm light evenings, the smell of barbecues in the air, Pimms on the patio, all the indicators of warm weather for many. But for me, I know it’s summer when it’s time to make potato salad.

Mister North and I grew up on potato salad. Family picnics and barbecues always involved a big salad bowl of it designed to last several days out. But because our mum makes the best potato salad possible, it never lasted more than one meal with the last chunk of spud highly prized.

Since we started blogging, I’ve debated whether to share this family secret with you all, but since pretty much every person who has ever tried a batch of the potato salad made the North/South Food way has asked for the recipe, I’ve decided the time has come. The secret is a little bit of milk in with the mayonnaise. Before you raise your brows, it lightens the mayo so that it coats the potatoes better and thus makes the salad creamier without being greasy or overwhelming.

I’ve grown up making this so I never weigh anything so I’m giving you a description not a list.

The Perfect Potato Salad: intended to serve 4

• 1 kg of salad potatoes such as Charlottes
• 2 heaped tablespoons mayonnaise
• 1 tablespoon milk
• 2 scallions or handful dill, chopped
• 2 big gherkins, chopped (optional)
• salt and pepper

You can make this with any potato really, but a firm waxy salad potato like a Charlotte is perfect. Sainsbury’s Basic Salad Potatoes at a quid a bag are simply the ones too knobbly and bobbly to make it to the Taste the Difference range. Cut your potatoes into quarters and leave the skin on. Boil for about 8 minutes or until al dente. You do not want a floury fluffy potato here so don’t overcook.

I flit between two types of potato salad, either a slightly Germanic one with lashings of chopped dill and gherkins or a more Irish version with chopped scallions. Both are delicious. I find the dill version a better basis for a meal and the scallion one a side dish.

If you are doing scallions, slice both the green and white while the potatoes are cooking. Place them in the colander you’ll use to drain the potatoes and then empty the pan of boiling water and potatoes over them. This blanches them and stops them being too oniony. Allow everything to cool for about 30 minutes.

Boil the kettle and fill a mug half full of boiling water. Place your tablespoon in it and allow it to heat up slightly. Then scoop out your mayonnaise into another mug or small bowl. Measure out half a tablespoon of milk. I use semi skimmed. You could use full fat. Mix well. You’re looking for a consistency slightly thicker than double cream, but still suitable for pouring. Add the other half tablespoon if needed (if you use the oddly textured Hellmanns, you probably will.)

Pour the mayo dressing over the still very slightly warm potatoes and the blanched scallions and mix well so it coats well. If you’re using dill instead, add it and the gherkins at this stage. Serve the salad and watch the bowl empty rapidly. My suggestion is to make a lot more than you need. There is never enough…

Meat Club Manchester. I’ll be honest… they got me at the name… combining a no-nonsense northern sensibility with a degree of intrigue. It conjures up mental images of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton bound by secrecy, or a group of meat traders at New Smithfield Market getting together for a few beers. Conflate the two, add a splash of civility and a heady mix of cooked meat and good booze, and you’ve got some idea of what goes on at Meat Club.

Chef and local food authority Deanna Thomas and her husband Patrick started Meat Club at the start of this year, and it’s grown steadily from a small group in intimate beginnings to this, the fourth in the series. The premise is gloriously simple: invite a local butcher to demonstrate breaking down and preparing the meat of choice, cook and serve it there and then, paired with some great drinks and a heavy dose on conviviality. No standing on ceremony, and every chance to get one’s hands dirty. In one fell swoop it helps banish inhibitions, serves up a double whammy of education and entertainment and showcases great food and drink. All on a school night.

Meat Club #4 was held at the award-winning The Parlour on Beech Road in Chorlton. We arrived early but the venue quickly filled up for this private event, with around 50 guests there to enjoy the hottest carnivorous ticket in town that night… Chorlton butcher Lee Frost introducing us to the pleasures of spring lamb. As it was St George’s Day, the whole evening was themed around quality English fare, with drinks and expertise also on hand from Michael Bush of Nyetimber, and Toby McKenzie of Macclefield’s Redwillow.

If you don’t know him, Lee Frost (Frosty) is a staple on the Manchester food scene. W H Frost’s have an enviable reputation as a supplier of quality meat to many of the best-known restaurants in and around Manchester, and also from their shop in Chorlton. Frosty himself’s a larger than life character, and never one to miss a well-placed pun when it comes to meat, or indeed a well-deserved dig at the major supermarkets. If there was a local meat advocacy badge in the Scouts, Frosty would’ve had it… along with another for meat-based smut. He makes for a highly engaging and entertaining compere.

For a bunch of reasons, life conspired against me going to either Meat Club #1 or #3, but I made it to #2, which was venison-themed and wonderful, again featured Frosty and his knife skills and razor-sharp, smut-edged banter. My better half had to duck out at short notice last time, so I was excited she was able to experience Meat Club herself this time. I reassured her the butchery was not terribly gory, it wasn’t a male-only preserve by any means, and the food would be delicious. Within half an hour of arriving, she was questioning that assertion as the offal flowed.

We enjoyed our first beer from Redwillow, a crisp and refreshing Headless Pale Ale, as the venue engorged like one of Frosty’s metaphors. Outside, faces pressed up to the plate glass windows, obviously curious as to what kind of private function had closed the venue for the evening and involved a sheep’s cadaver in the centre of the room.

Deanna gave a quick introduction, and then out came the offal. I’m a confirmed offal lover and enjoyed the trio of offally canapés: liver with a boozy red onion marmalade on pastry; gloriously spiced devilled kidneys on toast; and bacon-wrapped sweetbreads (glands in blankets?) paired with cauliflower purée. Mrs North is less convinced of the merits of variety meats. She took a short break and paced herself for the less icky bits. Meanwhile Frosty expertly broke down the lamb with his chopper, regaling the crowd with bon mots, impromptu sales pitches and a maelstrom of interesting facts about bits and cuts. Did you know lambs don’t have bellies (at least not as a cut of meat)? Instead, they have breasts, which extend down to their nethers. Insert punchline here…

After some audience participation butchery, it was time for a touch of sophistication with a glass of Nyetimber’s sparkling wine – in this case a glass of their 2008 Classic Cuvee – and an introductory talk from Mike about the history and ethos of the vineyard. The bubbles in the wine added to the general levity in the room, and reinforced the revelation that there’s a lot more to English sparkling wine than cheap jokes, cheap fizz, and episodes of The Apprentice. This was dry, fresh, crisp, held a hint of meadow fragrance, and was very refreshing. This wine would be ideally suited to a summer’s afternoon, accompanying the sounds of cricket or tennis and some freshly-picked fruit and cream… though we were more than happy to enjoy it in a crowded room in front of a half-dismembered carcass instead.

As a local lad, Lee Frost made the case that Cheshire lamb (in this case the wonderfully-coiffured Texel, originally a Dutch breed) is perhaps the finest in the country. As a Northern Irishman now living in the Pennines, and having eaten some superb Cumbrian Herdwick lamb only the evening before, I’d hedge my bets, though there’s no denying this was one seriously tasty animal. I’d be hard-pushed to select a single best breed or location for lamb in this country, but we live in probably the best country in the world to enjoy this wonderful meat.

Lamb (and mutton) is possibly my favourite meat, and although I know its sometimes strong taste is divisive for more finicky eaters, it’s both a versatile dish and a very natural product. The mere thought of Barnsley chops and Scotch pies make my heart beat a little quicker. Unlike some other ‘farmyard’ meats, it’s hard to intensively rear lamb: if they go beyond suckling they’re naturally free range, and stay healthy and well-toned. Farming sheep is a good way of taking advantage of less productive land, and thus using the meat and wool is an excellent option to support local producers. It’s also part of our country’s shared history: from the upland landscapes, shaped by many hundreds of years of sheep farming, to the symbolic nature of the woolsack in parliament, the British Isles are defined at least as much by our ovine as bovine heritage.

Living in Todmorden, astride the Lancs/Yorks border and the the middle of the Pennines, one is never far from the impact that the lowly sheep’s had on the social and cultural landscape of the north. It’s Lancashire hotpot to the west, and to the east is the rich legacy of the wool trade, on which Yorkshire’s wealth was largely founded before the Industrial Revolution. And yet despite, or perhaps because of, the ubiquity of sheep in the UK, we don’t embrace how lucky we are to have such good produce on hand. These sceptr’d isles provide such a broad range of breeds and pastures that, if you’re able to source decent local lamb, it reflects the characteristics of the land it was raised in… the breed, the minerals in the soil, the grasses and herbs they graze on, and topography itself. That’s why a good piece of salt marsh lamb from Wales, Cumbria or Dungeness is a truly exquisite and uniquely British delight, as is the wilder flavour of a rare breed from an upland farm or croft. Why people buy New Zeland lamb, shipped halfway around the world, when they could enjoy superlative English, Welsh, Scottish or Irish lamb instead, is beyond me. Support local farmers and butchers, please… and take time to rediscover both the cheap cuts and posh joints which can come from a good bit of lamb.

As the main meat cuts were transformed into delicious morsels by The Parlour’s chef Paul and his team in the kitchen, it was hard to dispute this was a superb tasting beast. Delicate slivers of cannon, paired with parsnip purée; chargrilled herb and garlic cutlets, and nut-stuffed breast (not belly, as we now know) provided the meaty accompaniment to the central section of the evening. After nattering about the pleasures of tartare, and how good raw minced lamb can be in Lebanese dishes, Frosty finely diced up some Texel and let me try it. Even unenhanced by seasoning there was a beautifully light grassy flavour, and a sweet note to the meat without any metallic tang you might expect from raw meat. Bloody great.

As we quaffed an introductory bottle of the delightful and very moreable Wreckless Pale Ale, Toby from Redwillow stood up and gave an insight into their beers (I finally found out why they all have names with particular relevance to each type) and how to build an award-winning brewery almost by accident (although I think he’s rather self-effacing… from branding to product quality, this is a seriously professional outfit and they know exactly what they’re doing). We enjoyed a bottle of their Sleepless ale whilst scoffing cute little lamb kebabs and burgers at the close of the evening, before slightly squiffily chatting to others as the crowd dispersed contentedly into the cool night air.

Incidentally, ram’s balls (or fries, as they’re more delicately known) were originally due to make an appearance on the menu, but Frosty explained the abattoir had dropped a bollock, so to speak, and so there was nothing testicular to accompany this young female lamb on the night. An audible ripple of relief resonated round the room upon this news…

I’d highly recommend Meat Club: you might never see as many cameraphones in action in one place as you will here, but it’s a great way to find out more about the journey from field to plate, taste great local food and drink, and to share those experiences with a bunch of others. It’s also getting more popular every month, and spaces go quickly. Wild boar’s next on the menu on the 29th at the Yard in Alderley Edge… more details on their website if you fancy some very boss hog…

Life has been extremely busy recently and days and hours have been whizzing by in a blur. I’ve been enjoying it immensely, but I’m not used to the pace and I crave quiet and familiarity to keep me grounded. I need a break from the newness and novelty and seek comfort in things I know well, especially with food.

Simplicity doesn’t have to mean denial though. You can make classics eternally interesting with quality ingredients and care. It can be mashed potato beaten with butter and hot milk until silky soft and smooth or the boiled egg cooked with a perfectly gooey yolk and fingers of toast just the right golden shade or a cup of tea drawn with fresh boiling water and proper tea leaves in your favourite cup. It’s the sum of its parts more than anything else.

At times like this, my greatest indulgence is crème brûlée. Combining how easy it is to make with the contrast between the crisp sugar shell and the smooth cream custard inside, it always hits the spot for me. I’m not an enormous fan of making this classic dessert too fussy, but I’ve always found the utterly simple vanilla version slightly lacking something. Inspired by the way that the malt powder in my recent Paris Buns deepened the flavour without dominating, I decided to use it instead of my albeit brilliant homemade vanilla extract.

Malted Milk Crème Brûlée (makes 2 large or 4 small, adapted from Felicity Cloake’s Perfect)

• 300ml double cream
• 2 tablespoons caster sugar
• 3 tablespoons malt powder (I used Horlicks)
• 3 egg yolks
• 2 tablespoons demerara sugar

Heat the oven to 150℃. Place two ramekins in a deep oven proof dish. Beat the egg yolks and the caster sugar together until they form a slightly airy mix. Pour the cream into a saucepan and heat over a medium heat until just boiling. Pour over the Horlicks powder in a heatproof bowl and stir well. Then add into it into the egg yolk mix. Transferring it from the pan to a bowl will cool the cream just enough to make sure the eggs don’t curdle. Make sure it is evenly mixed and voila, you have custard!

Pour the custard into the ramekins, leaving a bit of space at the top. Then fill the oven proof dish with cold water until it comes about 2/3s of the way up the dishes. This makes a water bath or bain marie and it cooks the custard gently so it stays wobblingly soft and yielding instead of omelette like. Bake for about 40 minutes and allow to cool at room temperature. You can then keep them in the fridge until needed.

Once cooled, sprinkle the top of the custard with the demerara sugar and blast under a very hot grill for about 5 minutes until blistered and melted or use a cook’s blowtorch for even more fun. Cool down again for about 10 minutes and the sugar will have formed a glistening crust that just cries out to be shattered with a spoon and eaten alongside the smooth creamy sweet custard with gusto. I won’t judge you at all if you run your finger round the dish to finish it all off…

This was the best crème brûlée I’ve made (and I’ve made a few, believe me!) The malt powder enhanced the natural sweetness of the cream and everything felt even more creamy and more luxurious than normal. Simple and classic but with just enough of a twist to be relevant. It’ll soothe even the most stressful day.

Baked goods have become very complicated these days. Cakes are 7 layered wonders, iced to Sistine Chapel like standards. Cupcakes have wacky flavourings and enough frosting to get lost in. Breads have starters from 500 years ago that require the kind of nurturing of a pet. It gets quite exhausting. Faced with so much choice, I’ve had a yen for something very simple. And nothing gets more simple than the staple of the Belfast bakery when I was a child, the Paris Bun.

Sweet bready cakes the size of your fist, they were little mounds of total simplicity, only jazzed up by a scattering of crisp pearled sugar on top. Some might even say they are a bit dull, but I loved them. Similarly comforting as a Rich Tea biscuit or a malted milk, they go quietly and unobstrusively with a cup of tea mid afternoon. No one outside of Northern Ireland and the west coast of Scotland seems to have known their un-showy charms and it was frankly a devil to get a recipe for them. I’ve ended up cobbling something together from three or four bits and bobs on ex-pat forums, adding my own twist in the shape of malt powder to give them a slight richness and flavour. Despite all that, they were very easy to make.

Paris Buns: makes 12

• 115g butter
• 125g sugar
• 2 tablespoons Horlicks or other malt powder (optional)
• 2 eggs
• 150g plain unsweetened yoghurt or buttermilk
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 250g plain flour
• 2  teaspoons baking powder
• Pearl sugar to scatter

Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the Horlicks powder and the baking soda and mix well. Crack the eggs in and pour in the yoghurt. Mix until a batter forms. It will look slightly curdled, but this is fine.

Sift in the flour and the baking powder and mix until the batter becomes a soft dough that pulls away from the sides and forms a lump in the middle of the bowl. Don’t overmix.

Place dessertspoonfuls of the mix on a baking paper covered tray. Paris Buns are traditionally a smooth domed shape with a slight point on the top which looks quite bosom like, so try and make these smooth and slightly more upright as they will spread while cooking. Scatter with pearled sugar and then bake at 220℃ for about 12 minutes. They should be a golden sun kissed colour rather than actually brown. Cool on a wire rack.

I was as pleased as punch with these. Paris buns could be a bit dry in my memory but the yoghurt in these makes them very soft and the malt powder gives them a stickier crumb with a beautiful glossiness. I had one with a cup of Suki Belfast Brew tea and it was the perfect combination. If you like your baked goods simple, do give these a try. They are so quick and delicious, you’ll understand why things that work well in Belfast are described as ‘wee buns’….

PS: I have no idea why they are called Paris buns. I suspect the shape might be supposed to look like the Eiffel tower. If you really squint…

Ah, Feijoada: the national dish of Brazil, straddling the culinary and cultural tectonic plate boundaries of Africa, Europe and South America. Possibly the stoutest meal you’re likely to encounter, and enough to give any vegetarian a dose of the cold shivers.

Feijoada marries the southern European / Romance tradition of slow-cooked pork cuts and beans, but with the addition of west African and Amerindian flavours and techniques. It’s often described as originating from slave fare (the story being it was made up of scraps and offcuts of meat that plantation owners disregarded), but like many classic dishes comes loaded with myths and romanticised stories of its origin. Regardless, it reflects the melting pot culture of modern Brazil, which perhaps explains its extraordinary popularity across generation, class, race and region.

I vaguely remember reading about feijoada many years ago, amongst a glut of facts about Brazil gleaned from geography schoolbooks. At the time it didn’t really register…as a teenage boy I was focusing more on images of the impossibly gaudy and glamorous Carnaval and sugar cane-fuelled cars than meat-heavy dishes. A few years ago, as part of an impromptu South American-themed meal, a good friend brought her own version of feijoada, and that sparked my interest. Ever since I’ve resolved to make my own.

Regular readers are probably spotting a pattern here: yet another dish pairing pork products and pulses, and another opportunity to indulge in the joys of black pudding. Well yes, guilty as charged. And having access to some superb rare-breed pork from our friends at Porcus, I’m inclined to work my way through the world’s greatest pig ‘n’ bean dishes, one by one.

When it comes to feijoada there are a plethora of recipes out there. My well-thumbed go-to-guide for South American recipes, Felipe Rojas-Lombardi’s ‘The Art of South American Cooking‘, suggested one needs at least five types of pork in there, including the snout. Others suggest a bit of pork belly and sausage is enough. In the end I ploughed my own furrow, referencing recipes from the ever-enjoyable Flavours of Brazil blog and a smattering of others.

I’d previously procured a Tamworth tail and trotters (being able to source a pig tail generally points to it being raised ethically, as sadly most intensively-farmed pigs have their tails cut off) and had also set aside some artisan chorizo from the fabulous folk at Levanter Fine Foods. After visiting Miss South in Brixton, allowing me to pick up some genuine morcela de lamego from the wonderful Continental Deli on Atlantic Road, I was as ready as I’d ever be.

Here’s the final recipe: it took a day of preparation and cooking, but believe me, it was worth every minute.

North/South Feijoada

Makes 6-8 portions
All measures and weights are approximations only

• 1 pig’s tail
• 4 pork trotters
• 1 portion of pork belly
• 1 chorizo
• 1 morcela / morcilla or black pudding
• 500g beef brisket
• lard / rendered pork fat / chorizo fat
• 100g pancetta / bacon
• 1 bunch coriander
• 5 scallions / spring onions
• Bay leaves
• ½ cup dry sherry (in place of cachaça)
• 2 red onions
• 4 cloves garlic
• dried black beans

Scrub the tail and trotters to get rid of any dirt, then cover in well-salted water and slowly simmer for 4 hours. Remove from the water, let it cool, then remove any meat from the trotters, while retaining the skin, fat and bones. This forms the basis of the stock for the main dish. Discard the water from the first stage, then simmer the leftovers in fresh water for at least an hour to form a glossy, fatty stock. Reserve this.

Tie the scallions and coriander together in a bunch and add to the bottom of a large pan (this pan is what you’ll use for the preparation of the main dish, so make sure it’s large enough to accommodate everything). Add some bay leaves, the dry sherry, and cover with the black beans. You’re creating a mattress of beans for the meats to sit on. Add the meat cuts and sausages whole (beef brisket, pork belly, chorizo and morcela) then cover with the stock. Leave this to simmer gently for a couple of hours.

Drain the liquid off, and reserve it, gently removing the meats, while keeping the black beans in the bottom of the pan. Leave the meats to cool down… then cut into bite-sized chunks. Meanwhile take your lard / chorizo oil and heat it over a medium heat in a heavy-bottomed pan. Add the chopped pancetta pieces, and fry them until browned and crisp, then add the chopped onions and garlic. While that’s sizzling happily, take half a cup or so of the black beans and whizz them up in a food processor until they’re a paste. Mix this in with the onion and pancetta mix, then add all this to the bottom of the main pan, along with the while black beans you left to cool. The pulsed pulses will help thicken the final liquid. Mix it all up in the pan.

Add the chunks of meat to the pan, then the reserved liquid. At this stage I added the pig tail back into the pot, more for show than for taste, then left everything to heat through thoroughly. It’s a good time to get the accompaniments in place. Some long-grained rice and greens is essential. I cut a couple of corners on the sides though – serving up a helping of locally-foraged wild garlic rather than collard greens or kale, forgoing the farofa (manioc) and a hearty slice of orange – and swapping the capirinhas for a bottle of Estrella Damm’s Inedit.

I shared the first serving with a good mate, the ex-vegetarian who’s embraced my carnivorous experiments with aplomb. Whilst he was a tad freaked out by the pig tail, we both devoured the dish. The taste is actually quite mellow and subtle – so I added some hot sauce on the side – but the whole dish is wonderfully porky, beany and rich. Seriously good stuff. An hour or two afterwards I realised we should’ve more closely followed the advice to eat this at lunch though… it’s a bit heavy for an evening meal. Over the next couple of days it provided a wonderful lunch though, providing more complex flavours as it matured, and setting me up for the rest of the day.

This gets pretty close to being an archetypal North/South Food dish… some of our favourite flavours and ingredients; relatively cheap cuts, prepared with love and cooked slowly; and mixing up local products with more exotic flavours and techniques. Having made it once, I think we’re due a revisit soon; next time sourcing more of the cured meat from the fantastic range of Portuguese and Brazilian delis in Miss South’s corner of London, while keeping the Pennine provenance of the fresh cuts. Might even smoke a couple of ears and a snout for good measure too. And I definitely want to share it with Miss South over a few caipirinhas on a lazy, sunny afternoon. Roll on the summer time, so we can give this another go!

Like everyone else in the UK I am absolutely desperate for spring to arrive. These grey skies, raw winds, bare trees and frozen crocuses are getting to me. There are two options: buy a lightbox or start adding spring flavours into my food despite the fact the view suggests it is January. One of my favourite fresh light flavours is tarragon. I adore this herb even if I cannot for the life of me get it to grow for me. The slightly liquorice, slightly aniseed taste is probably my favourite fresh herb and bunches of it from the deli are my indulgence. It works beautifully with chicken or fish or eggs, making very versatile.

However there is no finer use for tarragon than Béarnaise sauce. Sharpened with a pucker of vinegar and poured heartily over anything, but preferably steak, I adore the stuff. I made some on Saturday night and was faced with the greatest of middle class dilemmas. Should I reduce the recipe to one egg yolk and run out or go with all three and eat it all week? You can probably guess the answer.

It’s such a simple sauce to make, especially if you use Béarnaise essence instead of reduing your own vinegar. I can’t guarantee that when you buy some you’ll end up having a very bizarre conversation with Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin about it as I did when buying some a few years ago for Mister North, but it’s very useful to have for quick batches of Béarnaise all the same. But what to do with the leftovers? We heaped some on a fishfinger sandwich, lifting it from nursery food to utter joy. I then dipped a slice of cheese on toast into the sauce boat next day which was fantastic. And from there I wondered, could you make rarebit from it?

I’ve only ever made this once before. A rare savoury dish in a sea of wee buns in my home economics classes at school, I made a truly vile version with barely cooked out flour in my roux, economy grated cheddar and burned to a crisp toast. Forced to choke it down in class, I’ve never eaten this simple supper dish since, blaming it instead of my poor cooking skills in those days. But could I convert myself to it by adding Béarnaise?

Béarnaise Sauce: makes half a pint

• 100ml white wine vinegar or 1 tbsp Béarnaise essence
• 2 shallots, finely chopped
• 4 sprigs tarragon, finely chopped
• 3 egg yolks
• 150g butter, cold and cubed

Simmer the white wine vinegar in a pan with one sprig of tarragon and the shallot for about 20-30 minutes until the vinegar is very much reduced.

Make a double boiler by placing a heatproof bowl over a pan of barely simmering water. Put the egg yolks and the vinegar reduction into the bowl and begin adding the butter slowly. Stir constantly and the sauce will begin to thicken gradually. Add the rest of the chopped tarragon. Try not to dunk your finger in it until you actually serve it.

Easter Rarebit: serves 2 (adapted from Felicity Cloake’s The Perfect version)

• 1 tablespoon mustard powder
• dash of Worcestershire sauce (optional)
• 2 tablespoons stout
• 100g Lancashire cheese
• 100g Béarnaise sauce
• 4 slices of bread
• wholegrain mustard and capers to serve

After some questioning on Twitter I was pleased to see that rarebit did not need to risk a roux, but could simply be made using egg yolks to thicken the sauce. This is where substituting the Béarnaise made this even easier.

Place the mustard powder in a pan and add the stout to make a paste. I find freezing leftover stout from other recipes in ice cube trays equals about a tablespoon per cube. Add in the cheese and melt to make a gloopy fondue like sauce.

Toast the each side of the bread, one less than the other. Add the Béarnaise sauce into the cheese sauce and spread over the toast. Grill lightly until bubbling and golden. Serve with a little smear or two of mustard and a dabbling of capers and devour while piping hot.

This is so incredibly easy and quick to make that I couldn’t quite believe it. Packed with heaps more flavour than standard cheese on toast, I am an absolute rarebit convert. The buttery tarragon kick makes this the most luxury quick meal around. A fried egg would make it a little more substantial and really enhance all the flavours. I have no idea if this rarebit is Welsh not, but it will certainly make a perfect Easter treat this weekend…

Last weekend I found myself in the slightly retro experience of finding myself with half a can of evaporated milk needing used up. I haven’t eaten the stuff neat since childhood and even then I never particularly liked the slightly metallic taste. I generally prefer the toffee-ish tones of condensed milk and its sticky sweetness, and as a topping, I always preferred cream, so it seemed for a minute like I’d either be throwing it down the sink or finding out if squirrels like a spot of Carnation.

But then a conversation with the Lovely Scotsman reminded both of us about that peculiarly Scottish delicacy of tablet. Harder than fudge, sweeter than falling in a bag of pure caster sugar after being dipped in syrup and utterly lovely, it seemed like the perfect solution to my evaporated milk* dilemma. I prepared to roll up my sleeves and beat some molten sugar into submission when I espied that you can magic this sweetmeat up the modern way and do it in the microwave making it perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Tablet is usually served simply. Some even suggest that the addition of vanilla extract is too newfangled, but I’m no stickler for tradition so it seemed like a marvellous idea to add a Scandinavian twist and add some crunch to the tablet in the shape of some crushed up Daim bar. I thought the saltiness of it would work here without just copying the salted caramel trend.

Daim Bar Tablet: makes 24 pieces

• 454g (1lb) granulated sugar
• 142g (5 fluid ounces) evaporated milk
• 113g (4 ounces) butter
• 2 Daim bars, broken up (All Dime bars are now Daim. You don’t have to trek to Ikea I promise!)

Before you get started, make sure you have everything ready. Rushing around hot sugar is not a good idea. Line a square baking tin or dish with tinfoil and make sure you have a very deep dish to make the tablet in. I started off using a Pyrex dish but it wasn’t deep enough and I was constantly opening the door to stop an eruption of sugar everywhere which affected the temperature. I then switched to a deep  Tupperware container instead which worked brilliantly.

Once you’ve got your dish sorted, this is the easiest thing to make. Put the butter, sugar and evaporated milk in the dish together and cook in a 800W microwave for 12 minutes, stopping and stirring it about every 2 and a half minutes, keeping an eagle eye on it all. It will thicken and become darker and more butterscotch in colour after that amount of time.

Tablet differs from fudge in that after the sugar has reached the right temperature you beat it to add air to it to obtain its unique granular texture, so beat the mixture with an electric whisk or a wooden spoon for at least two minutes. It will go from sticky to an almost powdery texture that lifts away from the side of the dish in one piece. Add the Daim bar and mix well before pouring into your lined dish.

Mark the tablet into squares of about half an inch. Anything more is too rich to eat in one go. Allow the tablet to set for about an hour. It will be much drier than fudge. Then say you’re only to going to have one piece but manage to eat about four because it’s so good with that little salty sweet crunch and creamy buttery texture. The rest will keep for several weeks in an airtight container for you to dip in and out of as you pass. This is properly no fuss tablet…

*Some people are sceptical that evaporated milk works as well in tablet as condensed milk, but it really does. I’ve also been told that you can halve the ingredients and the cooking time and it works just as well.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day and in honour of our mum, I rediscovered a childhood treat that I associate with her making for birthdays and special occasions: frothy jelly! Basically a mousse made with jelly and whipped evaporated milk, it was soft creamy love in a bowl especially when layered with regular jelly too and some fruit. I can still picture the bowl that got used to make it as I hovered round, hoping to get a sneaky taste before it hit the table and I had to go and put my best frock on.

Because I no longer get to wear patent leather shoes and velvet party dresses, I’ve updated this classic idea to make it as grown up as I am these days and made my own fruit jelly instead of using a packet one. At this time of year, the brightest splash of colour comes from the beautiful blood oranges that are currently in season and I couldn’t resist harnessing that for a dessert on such a drab grey weekend to make the jelly. I’ve written before that blood oranges and gin make a perfect pair, but this time since it was a special occasion, I decided to make it a Negroni jelly and add red vermouth and Aperol as well. It took the pain out of waiting for the evaporated milk to chill enough to whip to a proper level of fluff…

Blood Orange Negroni Jelly Mousse: serves 2

• 600ml blood orange juice (approx 6 oranges)
• 1 measure gin
• 1 measure red vermouth
• 1 measure Aperol or Campari
• 1/4 tin evaporated milk (approx 100g)*
• 4 leaves gelatine

Chill the can of evaporated milk overnight or pop in the freezer for an hour. In the meantime, juice your blood oranges and pass through a sieve to remove any pulp. It should be clear and the gorgeous ruby shade.

Soak the gelatine leaves in cold water for 5 minutes, while heating the blood orange juice gently. Just as it comes to the boil, add the soaked leaves minus the water to it and heat slightly to activate the gelatine without boiling it too much. Take off the heat and mix in the booze. Pour 300ml of the jelly into glasses and allow to set.

Keep the other 300ml to one side and after about 30 minutes, check on it. When it is just about to set, but not so firm as to form lumps when you stir it, you’re ready to make your mousse. Using an electric whisk, beat the chilled evaporated milk until it is light, fluffy and bubbly and about twice the size, stir it into the remaining jelly. It will turn into the most perfectly princess pink mousse in seconds.

Pour on top on the plain blood orange jelly and chill for about an hour until completely set. The jelly will keep for several hours, overnight at most, but the mousse will start to flop if you leave it too long and you won’t get the same lovely contrast between the two layers.

This dessert looks delightfully cute in colour, but tastes very adult when you dip in. The blood orange jelly is sharp and refreshing and the mousse is soft and slightly sweet and both have a slight kick from the alcohol. It was exactly the reinvention of a childhood favourite I wanted!

*PS: there will be some leftover evaporated milk left over even if you buy a smaller tin, but I will be posting a recipe in the near future to use it up.

I am incapable these days of passing up the opportunity to buy something new to me when I’m food shopping. About the only spontaneity I go for is impulse shopping with groceries. This is one of the perks of shopping locally and seasonally where this style of shopping rarely results in coming home with seventeen sorts of biscuits and a bigger bill, but a bag of economical cooking challenges.This week’s why not moment was when I called in at the fishmongers and saw these plump pink roes.

I’d recently rediscovered the joys of taramasalata which I thought was both delicious and glamourous back in the 80s when it adorned every dip selection going, but as my little girl love of pink things waned, I lost my taste for it despite loving those intensely savoury umami flavours it offers. But a few weeks ago, a dish of it came alongside some pitta bread I’d ordered for a light lunch and I fell in love with it all over again.

These haddock roes aren’t smoked like the tarama (or bottarga) of the Mediterranean but I thought they might have the same creaminess at least. A generous 300g portion set me back £1.50 and it didn’t seem to matter that I had no idea how to cook them. (I really must remember to ask the fishmonger these things in future!) A quick Google suggested poaching them and then blending into a pasta sauce, but I wanted something more reminiscent of the picnic style family lunches of my childhood so I made a pate style dip instead.

Haddock Roe Pate: serves 2 greedily or 4 with some decorum

• 300g haddock roes
• 250ml water
• 1 tablespoon dry white vermouth
•  knob of butter
• 1 teaspoon anchovy paste
• 1/4 teaspoon mustard powder
• 1/2 smoked paprika

First poach your roes in the 250ml of water. I salted mine with a pinch of smoked Maldon sea salt, bringing the water to the boil and then poach gently for about 10 minutes. Take them out of the water and allow to cool slightly.

Pop in a hand blender with the vermouth, anchovy paste, butter and spices and blitz for about 1 minute. Then lift the lid to reveal a very chic pale pink creamy pate that should be soft enough to scoop. I put mine in a ramekin, gave it a wee squirt of lemon and then served it heaped generously on some toasted crusty bread for a lunch, but it would make an equally good pre drinks dip.

Much milder than taramasalata but packed with a delicate fishy flavour that exudes pure luxury, this was such a good lunch that it completely cheered me up after finding out my fridge freezer had died earlier and needed completely replaced. I couldn’t believe it was cheaper than even doing a basic smoked mackerel pate as it tasted like something Hawksmoor might serve you on a starched tablecloth with melba toast on the side for high tea. If you find haddock roes I very much recommend giving yourself an inexpensive and delicious treat. Just try and get them from a fishmonger who these days are more endangered than the haddock itself…

I am very fussy about how I like my bananas. Barely yellow, top tipped with green and a satisfying crack when they open, this means that there is about five minute window when they are at the stage where I can eat them and enjoy them. This means I spend a lot of time realising that the little blighters have gone and ripened on me while I was making a cup of tea or turning my back for just a second. This could be pretty wasteful except that I make really really good banana bread.

Like all banana bread, this is a great way to use up overripe bananas, but unlike many banana bread recipes, it’s as simple and straightfoward as you want it to be. In fact this recipe is so simple that it was the only thing at all I could make at all in my teens when I thought cooking and baking was too difficult and scary to be bothered with. I felt confident to make this recipe because I’d learned it from the mother of the family I au paired for one summer in America who couldn’t cook at all. In between ordering take out food or heating up frozen burritos, she whipped up fresh banana bread for breakfast and I figured if someone who struggled with doing carrot sticks to go with hummus could do it, so could I!

Over the 17 years I’ve been making this recipe, I’ve tweaked it a bit and it’s changed from Boston Banana Bread to Brixton Banana Bread with the addition of some different spices, but it’s still super easy to do. I simply mash up bananas as they ripen and freeze in bags until needed. They defrost by the time you’ve measured everything and it means you don’t chuck black bananas out all the time.

Brixton Banana Bread: makes 1lb loaf

• 300g plain flour
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 teaspoons ground ginger
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1/2 teaspoon mace
• 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
• 2 eggs
• 100ml vegetable oil
• 75g sugar
• 1 tablespoon black treacle
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 3 mashed bananas

Grease and line a 1lb loaf tin and heat the oven to 180℃. Then put the flour and all the other dry ingredients in a bowl. Put the sugar, oil and all other wet ingredients in another bowl and add in the eggs, beating them until combined. Then pour the wet mix into the dry and add in the bananas, mixing lightly til combined. The batter should be dark, glossy and slightly lumpy. Pour it into the loaf tin and bake for 1 hour or until a skewer comes out clean.

Cool on a rack for as long as you can wait and then have a good thick slice of this with a strong mug of tea. It’s super soft and sticky with a lovely sweet banana flavour and if you don’t devour the whole loaf in one sitting, it keeps really well for several days when wrapped in a tea towel. It also toasts beautifully with a smidge of butter as an excellent breakfast. It’s simplicity itself and I think it’ll probably something you make for years to come to once you’ve tried it!