My obsession with freshly baked goods – and with these madeleines in particular – is such that, realistically, it was just a matter of time before I attempted to recreate this delicacy at home. Indeed I regret that it has taken me so long, as I was surprised by how easy these little sponges are to make. The trick it seems is to invest in a silicone madeleine tray – no need to grease it, no need to worry that the cakes might stick to the tin, and with mere tap of the hand you can pop them out while they’re still hot. To eat instantly. Once you have acquired the essential – and it really is essential – silicone baking tray everything else simply falls into place with joyful ease: the batter is straightforward to make, and is best made in advance so that it has a little time to sit in the fridge – all you need to do is dollop the mixture into the tray and place in the oven for fifteen minutes. Et voila`. Watch as these little cakes rise and rise and rise. They are so light and fluffy that each mouthful feels like biting into air. Air that tastes of creamy butter with a smidgen of honey. Utterly sublime.

I used the recipe from the St John cookbook. I made no changes because – frankly  - it is so close to perfect that I couldn’t imagine any modification possibly improving upon it. Its simplicity and its delicacy are both inimitable and incomparable. However, I also made a zabaglione cream – a mixture of egg yolks, sugar and marsala beaten over heat until a warm, light and airy custard forms – to serve alongside my madeleines. This was a master touch. Warm madeleines dipped in warm zabaglione. Utterly sublime. Perfect for breakfast, tea or pudding. Perfect at any time of the day. So very more-ish. And so very tasty. I don’t think that I’ll ever eat anything else again.

To make madeleines…

Both a silicone madeleine tray and an electric (ideally freestanding) mixer are essential here. Once you have these, the rest is – quite literally – a piece of cake. Makes 18-24 small madeleines.

• 135g butter
• 2 tbsp runny honey
• 3 eggs
• 110g caster sugar
• 15g brown sugar
• 135g self-raising flour, sifted

Place the butter and the honey in a small saucepan and melt, leaving to simmer until golden brown. Remove from the heat and leave to cool. Whisk the eggs, and sugar together for 10 minutes or so until the mixture has tripled in volume and leaves a trail on the surface for a few seconds when the whisk is lifted. basically, the longer you whisk the eggs for, the lighter the madeleines will be. Fold the flour and melted butter through the egg mixture until you have a smooth batter and leave to rest in the fridge for 2-3 hours. When you are ready to eat the madeleines, preaheat the oven to 190 degreees. Place a desertspoon of batter into each mould and bake for 12-15 minutes until they have risen and are golden brown. To check if they are fully cooked, insert a metal skewer – if it comes out clean, then they are done.

To make zabaglione cream…

This couldn’t be simpler and is divine with most deserts.

• 6 egg yolks
• 150g caster sugar
• 150ml marsala

Combine the ingredients in a heatproof bowl, and place over a saucepan of boiling water. Whisk  constantly over the heat until a custard begins to form. All done.

I had never attempted to make marmalade before – although I have made a number of other jams and preserves in the past – and I was pleasantly surprised, by how simple the process is. Granted there is a small amount of organisation involved: the oranges need to sliced and soaked overnight, and the pips need to be separated from the fruit and wrapped in a muslin bag. Fiddly, but  not difficult. And then there’s the boiling of the fruit for a couple of hours. But beyond this, making marmalade seems to involve little more than chopping up fruit and mixing it in a pot with large quantities of sugar. Yet the rewards are so ample: there is no true pleasure quite like dousing your morning toast with lashings of butter and homemade marmalade. Not only does it taste truly, truly divine . So divine, in fact, that you will inevitably find yourself increasing your morning intake of toast just to satisfy cravings for this homemade delicacy. Be warned. But people will hail you far and wide as a domestic divinity. How could they not?

The recipe which I used for my marmalade is adapted from The National Trust’s book of ‘Jams, Preserves and Edible Gifts’. I adopted their recipe for basic Seville marmalade, lessening the sugar content quite substantially – although, as you can see, it is still ample – so as to produce a more bitter jam, and adding a touch of heat with some crystallised ginger. Ginger and Seville oranges are two flavours which work notoriously well together: the bitterness of the one serves to compliment the punchy warmth of the other. Sublime. So, as you spread lashings of this delightful marmalade on your toast in the mornings – and eventually give in to the urge to just eat it by the spoonful – you will find yourself nicely surprised by little pockets of spice which just brighten up the day. The finer your chop the ginger, the less powerful and the more evenly distributed its flavour will be. But I like it chunky. Kind of like the Russian Roulette of the breakfast spread world.

To make Seville orange marmalade with a hint of ginger…

Makes enough for 4 medium to large jam jars. Keep it all for the ultimate indulgence. Or give some away to friends who will then love you forever. Your choice.

• 900g Seville oranges
• 1 sweet orange
• 1 lemon
• 2.4l water
• 1.4kg caster sugar
• 300g crystallised ginger, finely chopped

Cut all the fruits in half, remove the pips and then place them to one side. Slice the fruit finely so that you’re left with thin half moon shaped slices; place in a large bowl and cover with 1.8l of the water. Then place the pips in a separate bowl and cover with the remaining water. Cover both bowls with clean cloths and leave to stand over night. When you’re ready to make your marmalade, first sterilise your jars by putting them through a hot cycle in the dishwasher. Place the fruit slices and their water in a large saucepan and bring to boil. Leave to simmer for 1.5 – 2 hours or until the peel is tender and the water is greatly reduced. Next strain the pips – adding their water to the saucepan of simmering fruit – and tie them in a piece of muslin cloth; add the parcel of pips, chopped ginger and the sugar to the saucepan. Keep on a simmer and wait until the sugar has warmed (and dissolved) before bringing to the boil. This is important, as otherwise – if you boil the sugar before it has dissolved – it will crytallise later in the preserve and leave you with lumpy marmalade. Now, bring the mixture to the boil and boil rapidly for 5 – 10 minutes, stirring frequently to stop it sticking to the bottom. After it has boiled for 10 minutes or so, check periodically to see if it has set. I do this by placing a scarce teaspoon of marmalade on a chilled plate (I put a plate in the freezer 10-15 minutes before this point): drizzle the liquid on to the plate, leave for a minute or so and then poke at it with your finger; if the jam wrinkles then it has set. When ready, turn off the heat, scrape any scum off the top and allow the marmalade to sit for ten minutes or so. Finally, spoon the marmalade into your sterilised jars, being careful not to touch the inside of the jars or their lids.

The combination of citrus and fennel is just perfect for this time of year, when spring is nearly upon us but not quite there yet. When the days still have a wintery chill to them, but the sun shines bright and the first few daffodils are sprouting in the park. Bored of winter’s heavy foods – those warming soups and stodgy puddings – as our bodies cry out for spring and summer. Yet the wintery flavour of the blood oranges in this delicate salad pays a seasonal homage to the fact that it is still February – albeit the end of February.

Light but with flavoursome body, this salad is ideal to serve for both a simple lunch or a more elaborate dinner – either on its own as a delicate starter, or alongside your main course. Perhaps with a roast chicken, or duck of some sort – oranges work so very beautifully with duck. Delicious. Better still – serve it with fish. It makes for the absolute perfect accompaniment to fish. We eat it alongside lightly roasted sardines. And nothing else. We don’t need anything else. This salad just doesn’t need for anything else. It makes for a heavenly and complete meal.

To make blood orange and fennel salad…

Serves 4-6 people as a side dish.

• 4 bulbs of fennel
• 4 blood oranges
• small bunch of parsley
• olive oil for dressing
• pinch of salt

Slice the fennel as thinly as you can. Cut the oranges in half, then thinly slice them – keeping one half of one orange whole and to one side for later – so that you’re left with thin half moon shaped slices. Combine the orange and fennel slices in a bowl and drizzle with oil; add a pinch of salt and squeeze the remaining half of an orange over them. Then mix up the fennel and orange slices with your hands so that they’re all evenly dressed. Place the salad on a large round dish and sprinkle with roughly chopped parsley. Serve as is. You’ll want for little else.

There is no need to sit for dog biscuits on International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. There is no need to perform tricks on this wonderous day. There is no limit on the number of dog biscuits one might consume. Even the tiniest of dogs get to eat like labradors on this special day: it is one of those glorious eat-until-you-feel-slightly-sick-and-then-eat-a-little-more-just-because-you-can days. As I said, much like Pancake Day. My little dog, Coco, is quivering with excitement at the mere prospect. She barely slept a wink last night. Her tiny eyes wide open and every ounce of her minute little being crying out ‘International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day is so nearly upon us’. Although she actually voiced this sentiment as ‘Woof. Woof woof woof.’.

Of course Coco would prefer an International Small Cubes of Cheese Day, or an International Little Slivers of Roast Beef Day – or, indeed, better still – International Dollops of Peanut Butter Day (her absolute favourite). But the world is not a perfect place, we work with what we are given and dog biscuits it is. So today, in honour of this celebrated holiday, I am making my own dog biscuits, as – I can but assume – like all baked goods, they taste better when home made. I plan on following this recipe, and then shaping them into tiny little bones. And hearts. So very darling. I couldn’t resist. And perhaps I will even add a dash of peanut butter. I am sure that Coco will appreciate the extra effort.

Will you be treating your pooch today? After all, International Dog Biscuit Day only comes once a year.

A genuine and legitimate blow-out. Decadent, ostentatious and crowded. Best of all are the traditional sweets: ‘galani’ – wafer thin squares of deep fried sweet pastry dipped in icing sugar – and ‘castagnole’ – tiny little balls of chestnut flour, also deep fried and dipped in sugar – are just some of my favourite choices, among the wide range of street food for sale across the city at this time. But above all, amongst Carneval food, the ‘fritella’ reigns supreme. The ultimate decadence. Often served with a generous dollop of custard or chocolate cream, or better still with boozy zabaglione. ’Fritelle’ are effectively mini doughnuts, although in calling them such, I fear that something is lost in translation. Because they are so much more than simply mini doughnuts. Little balls of light, fluffy dough fried and dipped in sugar, rippled with grappa-soaked raisins, candied peel, and pine nuts. Utterly sublime. In so many ways. Each bite – so lightly scented with alcohol and sweet fruits – will melt in your mouth. It is with supreme confidence, that I declare you not to have lived – until you have at least tasted a ‘fritella’.

Make them today – just follow this simple recipe. And eat them while they’re still piping hot. By the dozen. With a crumbly coating of sugar. Have them in addition to your traditional Shrove Tuesday pancakes, if you must. Die a divine death by sugar. Why not? Lent – and the diet – start tomorrow, after all.

To make ‘fritelle’…

Makes roughly 14-16 small ‘fritelle’, but do not hesitate to double the recipe if you’re feeding a crowd. These are hideously more-ish.

• 125ml grappa
• 100g raisins
• 50g candied peel
• 50g pine nuts
• 125ml milk
• 250g bread flour
• 1 1/2 tsp instant yeast
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 25 sugar for the ‘fritelle’  and a further 100g for dusting
• 1 egg
• sunflower oil for deep frying

Place the raisins and candied peel in a small bowl and cover with grappa, then set to one side to soak. This will give the raisins a wonderful flavour, as well as a lovely plump texture. Warm the butter and milk together in a small saucepan, and take off the heat as soon as the butter starts to melt. Combine the flour, yeast, salt and sugar in a mixing bowl; then beat the egg into the warmed milk, and add to the dry ingredients, mixing with a wooden spoon until well combined. Knead the dough until it reaches a silky consistency. Use a freestanding mixer with a dough hook here if you have one, if not just do it by hand. It should take roughly 10 minutes. Roll your dough into a ball, place in a clean mixing bowl and cover with clingfilm before setting somewhere warm to prove until it has doubled in size (roughly 1-2 hours). When the dough has risen, punch it down, add the raisins and pine nuts, and knead a little more. Then cut the dough into little balls (roughly 4cm in diameter), place on a baking tray and set once again to one side to rise for a further hour. When you’re ready to cook your ‘fritelle’ heat the sunflower oil in a saucepan – make sure that the oil isn’t too hot, as this will burn the outside of the ‘fritelle’ and leave the inside uncooked. If you have a sugar thermometer, try to keep the oil between 140 and 160 degrees (just take the pan off the heat for a few moments, if it’s getting too hot). If you don’t own a sugar thermometer, it might be worth investing in one (they’re not expensive and come in very useful) or otherwise, just keep an eye on the oil – basically you don’t want it to boil. This part sounds much trickier than it actually is – don’t be daunted and give it a try, within your first few doughnuts you will have got the hang of it. Place the little balls of dough into the hot oil (about 4-5 at a time depending on the size of your pan) and cook for 4-6 minutes, periodically rotating them so that they cook evenly (I used a pair of chopsticks to do this, and it worked a treat!). The difficult bit is knowing when they’re cooked through: they shouldn’t take more than six minutes, and when they’re browned on the outside they’re probably done. But the only way to know for certain is to break one open and try it. Tragic but necessary. Once cooked, place on some kitchen towel to soak up any excess oil, then roll in sugar. Eat as is or serve with a drizzle of zabaglione as the ultimate pudding.

Hundreds of cookbooks adorn our kitchen shelves, slowly infiltrating into our living room. And study. And bedroom. And bathroom. Everywhere. Books on how to create the perfect macaroon (still haven’t fully mastered that skill, but working on it); on roasting obscure cuts of meat; on healthy food; on unhealthy food; on raw food; on every kind of food; on chocolate; on how to create the perfect wedding cake (what was I thinking? – yet it’s one of my favourite reads)… Our home – and my poor husband – have  reached the point of saturation. Too many books. Everywhere. But I can’t stop buying more. My cookbooks provide me with inspiration, comfort, escape. I need them. And then I need more. It’s a compulsion. As I said, I’m a cookbook-aholic.

And these are my current favourites…

‘How to Feed Friends with Relish’ by Joanna Weinberg - Mostly I am drawn to cookbooks with lots of appealing photographs. Food porn drives me. However, what this book lacks in stylised photography, it abounds in fabulous recipes. And adorable anecdotes. Joanna writes beautifully: a whole different kind of food porn. She welcomes her readers into the heart of her kitchen and provides them with a veritable treasure trove of tips: from how to lay a pretty table, to how to compile the perfect guest list or cook the tastiest roast chicken. Basic essentials, but all oh-so-very necessary. Each chapter offers a different setting, from picnics to afternoon tea to relaxed suppers around the kitchen table. All centre around mouthwatering recipes and the incomparable joy of cooking for friends and loved ones. You just can’t help but smile.

Favourite recipes include her heavenly orange blossom treacle tart and rack of lamb with rose petal sauce.

‘British Baking’ by Oliver Peyton - They say that you should never judge a book by its cover. But this book is a heavenly shade of lilac with touches – very subtle touches – of rose pink. How can you not judge it by its divine cover? Superficial, I know – but inevitable, somehow. It doesn’t disappoint. Sugary pink icing and lashings of luscious cream are pervasive. A series of fabulously classic and retro recipes from the brilliant Peyton and Byrne bakery, everything – just everything – in this charming book evokes the nostalgia of childhood culinary memories. And britishness. Vintage, but not old fashioned, and always delicious, recipes for cakes and puddings, with helpful, clear instructions and beautiful photography. I challenge you to find anything in this book that you don’t feel absolutely compelled to bake.

Favourite recipes include homemade marshmallow teacakes and Chelsea buns. Need I say more?

‘How I cook’ by Skye Gyngell - Like Joanna Weinberg, Gyngell again provides a series of near perfect menus for breakfasts, lunches and dinners, only here with a seasonal theme. As with all her books, the divine menus are almost overshadowed by utterly stunning photography. Image after sublime image of culinary heaven. Food porn at its absolute best. Everything – simply everything – looks perfectly rustic and enticing. Spring flowers in jam jars. Linen napkins. Eclectic cutlery. And piles upon piles of sensational, fresh, simple food. You can’t help but want to make these recipes. Because you want to live that life. Cook those meals. Eat that apple and green tomato pie. In that beautiful ceramic pie dish.

Favourite recipes include her classic roasted sea bass with lemon, thyme and homemade mayonnaise which makes for the perfect summertime dish; and sourdough toast with bananas, strawberries and ricotta – not really a recipe, but so divinely yummy that it is now a regular breakfast favourite of mine.

Initially the real challenge was to locate figs amidst snowy London. It seemed that I couldn’t find them for love nor money. So when I spotted some for sale at our local organic supermarket, I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give this intriguing flavour combination a try.

While overjoyed to have located the figs, my expectations as to their flavour – given that they are currently very much out of season in Europe – were nonetheless limited. And so, I decided to lightly roast them with a drizzle of honey, hoping to intensify their delicate flavour. The result was pleasing: dark fleshy figs swimming in sweet honeyed juices. A delicacy in themselves, I kept a couple to one side to enjoy with a dollop of creamy greek yogurt for my breakfast. Each bite was like a little burst of summer.

But I digress – they were also most delicious in the salad. A colourful and light dish which makes for a great starter to any meal. I simply combined the figs – which you could very easily cook in advance – with a mixture of rocket and watercress leaves, before crumbling over an abundance of Stilton and drizzling with balsamic vinegar and a touch of olive oil. Utterly delightful.

Thanks, Em – that was a great tip! I will definitely be making this dish again. Very soon. Very, very soon.

To make a honey roasted fig and stilton salad…

I made a large salad, enough for 6 people as a starter, and served it on a long thin dish. You could just as easily plate it in individual portions if you prefer. The ingredients below are a rough guide of what I used, but you can play around with the proportions as you like.

• 50g wild rocket
• 50g watercress
• 9 fresh figs
• 4 tbsps honey
• 150g stilton
• drizzle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, to dress the salad

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees. Slice the figs in half and place them on a baking tray, flesh side up. Drizzle with the honey and the place them in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until they have darkened in colour and swelled a little in size. When you are ready to serve the salad, simply scatter the green leaves on a plate, place the figs on top, then top liberally with crumbled stilton. Finally drizzle with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Utterly, utterly delightful.

Although to describe this recipe as cooking is perhaps a slight overstatement: I’m not convinced that assembling ingredients in a heatproof dish, then placing them in the oven counts as cooking. However exquisite the outcome. The most challenging aspect of the whole affair is peeling the pears. Hardly strenuous. And finding things to entertain you at home, while the house slowly fills with the intoxicating aroma of bubbling sweet wine. To be fair, if you have more pressing engagements, you needn’t be held under utter house arrest by your pears. You can switch off the oven – leaving the oven door closed to preserve as much heat in there as possible – and leave the dish unattended while you pop out. Then, upon your return, simply switch the oven back on. The pears will still taste fabulous.

And fabulous they do indeed taste. On a cold winter’s night, there is little to compare with this rich, sumptuous dish and its sweet, ever so slightly alcoholic aftertaste. Particularly exquisite when served with either a dollop of cream or a drizzle of custard. You can eat the pears warm and straight out of the oven. Or if you find it more convenient, they taste great chilled too. And will, in fact, keep in the fridge for several days.

Above all, however, they look fantastic. To me, a plate of these gleaming dark red pears just speaks of autumn and winter. I like to present them on this cake stand by Sophie Conran which is absolutely perfect: suitably rustic – but not too much so – and with a slight lip around its edge to catches those precious sweet red juices.

To make red wine pears…

I have adapted this recipe from Elizabeth David’s excellent book. I cooked twelve pears, which should generously feed 8-10 greedy people, but of course you can modify the proportions to cook for fewer – or more – guests.

• 12 pears, peeled
• 550g sugar
• 1.5l red wine

Preheat the oven to 150 degrees. Place the peeled pears in a heatproof dish and sprinkle the sugar liberally over them. Cover with wine and then fill the dish to the top with water. Set in the oven for something between 5 to 7 hours. Periodically check on the pears as they cook in the oven, and turn them over. When ready to serve, slice the bottom of the pears off so that they can stand on a dish and cover with their juice. Serve with a dollop of cream or a drizzle of custard.

I fully accept the naff-ness of annual Valentines Day celebrations – hence, husband and I will be spending tomorrow night curled up at home with a good movie. Nonetheless I can’t quite bring myself to miss out on this unique opportunity to legitimately and fully embrace everything pink and heart shaped. So this year I’m making valentines for dear friends and family too. I’ve baked hundreds of chocolate heart shaped biscuits: wrapped up in celophane with a red ribbon they make for the perfect treat for my many, many valentines.

The recipe for these wafer thin and crumbly shortbread biscuits was inspired by Charbonnel and Walker’s classic rose cream chocolates. And, indeed, if you were very pushed for time, you could just buy a box of those. They too are utterly delicious. Rich dark chocolate on the outside and a delicately rose scented rose fondant in the centre, topped with a crystalised rose petal. Presented in a divinely old fashioned box. Old fashioned in a charming way.

But for the homemade touch, the inimitable made-just-for-you touch these biscuits are very hard to match. Simple to make – just a matter of combining the ingredients into a dough, rolling it out and cutting it with a cookie cutter – there are no complex baking skills involved. Scrumptious. Heart shaped, naturally. And made with love. The perfect Valentines treat. Frankly, the perfect treat at any time of the year: they really do taste good.

I used the same recipe for chocolate shortcrust pastry – rolled a touch more finely – as for this chocolate raspberry tart, with the simple addition of a teaspoon of rose water. Upon baking a number of batches, I resolved that one teaspoon is the perfect amount, although you may want to tweak the proportions to your own tastes. You could decorate the biscuits with fondant icing – perhaps pink and rose scented too? – but I preferred to leave them plain, as I didn’t want to compromise their divinely delicate flavour.

These are heavenly biscuits, so make them for your Valentine tonight. Live a cliche`. And do something sweet for your loved one on Valentines Day.

Then make them again tomorrow.

To make chocolate rose biscuits…

• 250g plain flour
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 50g cocoa powder
• 100g icing sugar
• 250g unsalted butter, softened and diced
• 1 tsp rose water

Combine the ingredients in a freestanding mixer with a flat paddle and mix until a dough starts to form. If you do not have a freestanding mixer, combine the dry ingredients in a mixing bowl and then gradually rub in the butter until – likewise – it eventually reaches a dough like consistency. Shape your dough into a flat disc, wrap it in clingfilm and place in the fridge to chill for 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 180 degrees and line a tray with greaseproof paper. Once the pastry has chilled, roll it out thinly and use a cookie cutter to make heart shapes. Place in the oven and bake for 10-15 minutes or until lightly crisped. Be careful not to let the biscuits burn – they look ever so slightly underdone when you take them out of the oven, but they will harden up as they cool.

Traditionally, husband’s primary contribution to our home cooked meals is one of severe critique. And postprandial cups of tea. He is the master of tea making. Husband, in fact – although skilled in the kitchen – doesn’t often cook. He prefers to style himself as a harsh, but fair – as in I would say harsh, he would say fair – critic. His role is to offer ‘constructive’ criticism. Unfortunately, usually past the point when it can actually be construed as such. For example, he will happily observe that ‘the beef is overdone’ just before I serve it. And then look at me expectantly, as if to say ‘off you go: hop in your time machine, go back half an hour and roast it just a smidgen less’. Domestics inevitably ensue. Frequently.

Recently, however, husband broke a habit off a lifetime. While I was on holiday in Australia, he let his culinary imagination loose in our kitchen, and created this show-stopping dish of stuffed crespelle. Which I – in my turn – attempted to replicate, as best I could, last Friday evening. A triumph.

Crespelle are essentially an Italian savoury pancake, traditionally served rolled – rather like cannelloni – stuffed with a creamy bechamel sauce, prosciutto and an abundance of melted cheese, then baked until piping hot. This variation predilects a lighter filling – we opted for spinach and ricotta, but the possibilities are endless – and then presents the crespelle in delightful little bundles.  An absolute pleasure to eat: a delicate dish which nonetheless tastes divine.

An exceedingly chic and tasty first course at any dinner party. Moreover, the fact that it can be prepared a day in advance and then simply reheated in the oven when required allows you to enjoy your evening with friends rather than fret in the kitchen. Inspired. I am in awe. Husband, you are amazing.

You could use any filling, although simple flavours will always work best. For occasions of pure indulgence – such as the upcoming Valentine’s Day celebrations – a mere dollop of burrata, that creamy, almost buttery mozzarella, and a drizzle of white truffle oil would be pretty close to perfect. Or when in season, I do not doubt that steamed pumpkin and a dash of pecorino would also prove utterly delightful. On Friday, I opted for a classic spinach and ricotta filling. Scrumptious. With a pinch of nutmeg. I was – I will admit – dubious about the nutmeg, but husband insisted on its necessity. I believe ‘canonical’ was the exact word that he used. He was – of course – right. Canonical or otherwise, there is no doubt that the nutmeg adds an exquisite touch of sweet to balance out the sometimes bitter flavour of the spinach.

I am utterly enchanted by this dish: by its simplicity to prepare, by its enticing blend of flavours and by its utterly seductive appearance. I will certainly be making it again. Husband, I’m a big fan…

To make crespelle with a spinach and ricotta filling…

Makes roughly 14-16 crespelle. Allowing for some – inevitable – wastage with the pancakes.

For the pancakes:

• 4 eggs, lightly beaten
• 200g plain flour
• 500ml milk
• a dollop of butter, for greasing the pan

For the filing:

• 500g packet of frozen spinach
• 270g fresh ricotta
• 1 tsp ground nutmeg
• 50g melted butter, for cooking
• 50g melted butter, for topping
• generous amounts of parmesan, for topping

Combine the flour, eggs and milk for the pancakes and beat vigorously until you have a smooth pancake batter. Then set to one side and rest for 30 minutes or so, allowing any clumps of flour to settle. Now, get on with your filling. Cook the spinach in a pan; then combine in a bowl with the ricotta and nutmeg; mix thoroughly and set to one side until needed. Grease a small saucepan – or two, for greater efficiency – with butter, place on a medium heat and then spoon the pancake batter onto the heated surface. When the bottom side of the pancake is cooked – the best way to tell is when the top side starts to bubble slightly – flip over and cook the second side. Make all your pancakes this way and stack high on a plate. Then, take each pancake, place a dollop of the filling in its centre – approximately a heaped teaspoon, depending on how big the pancakes are – and tie in a little bundle with kitchen string.  You can store these bundles for a day or so in the fridge, if you like, without compromising their flavour. When ready to cook, preheat the oven to 180 degrees and place the crespelle in a a baking dish, allowing a little room between each bundle. Melt the butter and drizzle a little over the crespelle, place in the oven for 15-20 minutes or until they are warmed through. The best way to test this is, of course, to taste one. Shame. When ready to eat, remove the little parcels from the baking tray and place on a large dish, drizzle with more melted butter and sprinkle liberally with shavings of parmesan. Divine.