Winter tests my patience. I begin, around about November, by loving it - mainly as an excuse for new knitwear, pies for every meal, and sloth. But then it goes on and on, like a bad vicar at a wedding. Round about now, I come out blinking into the light, in desperate need of an emergency pedicure and inordinately grateful for every squeaky green bud, every froth of blossom.
One of winter’s great benefits is that I can spend most of it in the kitchen: “No, I really can’t come out tonight as I am perfecting my muhammara, so sorry, bye.” I put another log on the fire, postpone combing my hair as a treat for another day and embrace the restorative nature of cooking. It’s what I call my Prescription Kitchen.
For me, truly comforting food - as opposed to that overused phrase, ‘comfort food’ - is carbs. Pasta simply with butter and cheese, potatoes transformed into chips, hash, gratin, dauphinois or tartiflette. In the south of France, I once had a tartiflette pizza - pizza topped with potatoes, reblochon, onions and lardons - and I have honestly never felt more alive. Who am I kidding? It was twice. I had it one day, then went right back the next day and had it again.