Meyer lemon shortbread tart

I really didn't want to start this post with a 'when life gives you lemons' remark. However, these are no ordinary lemons. So I'll soften the cliché blow and alter the old adage thus:

"When Tesco unexpectedly offers you a four-pack of elusive and infamous Meyer lemons from California, the kind you read wonderful things about on American food blogs but had never expected to be able to try, you eagerly snap them up. Then, after a lengthy thought process about what possibly to do with this golden bounty, you end up making this tart."

Meyer lemons, as I have read many a time on said American food blogs, are a very different thing to the pale yellow, firm, mouth-puckeringly sour variety we are used to finding in supermarkets. They are thought to be a cross between a lemon and a mandarin or orange, which explains their colour - more marigold than yellow. Their skin is thinner than a normal lemon, and they have a much sweeter, more fragrant flavour than their regular cousins, which generally just offer a hit of tartness rather than any distinct flavour to speak of. I couldn't wait to try them.

It was difficult to know where to begin when coming up with a recipe for my little gold beauties, harmoniously nestled in their grey cardboard tray. As soon as I brought them into the kitchen, they spoke of sunshine, a radiant presence on the otherwise dark kitchen table, cast in flat winter light. I know I always talk about how generous mother nature is at this time of year, bestowing such colourful, flavoursome fruit on us when we need it most (champagne rhubarb, blood oranges, lychees, persimmon...), but it really is true, and this is another classic example. 

(Of course, this argument would suggest that mother nature had anticipated the invention of air travel, knowing that we in the cold, grey UK would have access to the bounty of the Caribbean, Asia, or Peru, but let's not focus too much on that...)

After a quick google, I found a great article on the LA Times: 100 things to do with a Meyer lemon. Aside from some strange, non-culinary uses (put slices in your bath, anyone?), it was fascinating, and suddenly made me realise how useful and versatile the humble lemon can be. Frequently a back note in a recipe - a hit of acidity in a dressing, a subtle fragrance imparted to the cavity of a roast chicken - lemons rarely become the star. 

I do have a couple of recipes that bring the lemon into prominence. One is an incredible roast chicken recipe from Ottolenghi, where chicken pieces are marinated in lemon juice, red onion, spices and olive oil before being roasted with thinly sliced lemons on top. The lemons soak up the fatty chickeny juices and turn crispy, meaning you can eat the whole thing. The combination of sharp, gooey roasted lemon with the deep savoury chicken skin is incredible. Another is a simple lemon drizzle cake that I found on the BBC Good Food website and which is devastatingly delicious. I also tuck lemon slices into a whole trout before baking it in a foil parcel, which is delicious, as is a hit of lemon juice and zest added to a sort of broccoli pesto sauce for pasta.

I didn't want to bake the lemons like this, though, for fear of losing their subtle fragrance and aroma. I wanted a recipe that would capture the pure essence of the Meyer lemon in all its glory, as simple and unadulterated as possible.

You can't get much more lemon-centric than a good lemon tart.

Shockingly, I've never actually baked this classic dessert before. I love a good lemon tart, indulgent yet refreshing after a meal, but for some reason I've always thought it would be tricky to make, and have steered clear. There are things that can go wrong: a soggy pastry bottom, a curdled lemon filling, an overbaked and rubbery lemon filling, too much sugar so it cloys or too little so it leaves your mouth numb. However, always keen to try new things in the kitchen, and convinced that a simple lemon tart would be the best way to showcase the Meyer lemons, I went with it.

I found the recipe on the excellent food site Food 52. It seemed very simple, perfectly in keeping with what I was after. The slightly unusual part is that instead of a pastry crust, it uses a shortbread mixture that is pressed into a tart tin to line it. This is good for three reasons: one, it dispenses with the faff of making pastry; two, no risk of a soggy bottom here; and three, it tastes damn delicious.

How could it not taste delicious? You beat softened butter and sugar with a wooden spoon until creamy and fluffy (good exercise for the biceps - means you can eat more of the finished product). You then beat in semolina and flour, to make pale golden crumbs that smell warm and buttery. It's exactly like making shortbread, but you press it into the tin in a hollow crust shape, rather than a solid round.

After pressing the shortbread crumbs into the tin, you make lemon curd. Not nearly as scary or difficult as it sounds. This was great fun to make: squeezing my precious lemons into a bowl along with an indecent number of golden egg yolks, a pile of sugar, and the zest of the fruit. Whisking this pale yellow liquid over a low heat until suddenly, like magic, it had transformed into the most lusciously thick, marigold, glossy lemon curd. It's a bit like making custard or crême patisserie - you're standing there for ages stirring, stirring, stirring, bored...and then suddenly it turns, thickens, becomes shiny and wonderful. 

Then you whisk in cubes of butter, which is the fun part - watching it melting under the pressure of the whisk and turning the curd even thicker and glossier. Naturally, I had to taste-test some. It had the perfect balance of sweet and tart, with a lovely fragrant zestiness from the Meyer lemons. It inspired me to make my own lemon curd more often, to eat for breakfast.

The curd goes into the baked shortbread crust and into the oven for a very brief bake, to just set it while allowing it to still have a little quivering wobble. It comes out perfectly smooth, translucent, glorious yellow - the colour of sunshine, citrus, and fat, globular egg yolks.

Once I tasted this, I knew I'd never make another lemon tart recipe again. The shortbread base, short and buttery and slightly crispy with the addition of semolina, is ridiculously fabulous. Couple this buttery richness with a smooth, sticky, deeply sweet and tart lemon curd, and you just have the most glorious dessert. If you don't have Meyer lemons, I'm sure you could use normal lemons and just up the sugar content a little to make up for their sourness. This is a recipe that should be on everyone's list of regular desserts. It is honestly one of the best desserts I've ever made. 

More than that, it provides a welcome burst of citrus sunshine during the depths of winter. Sitting there on my kitchen table while I faffed around taking photos, the mere sight of it cheered me up. It sat there, almost glowing, as if I'd just turned a light on. Its buttery, fresh citrus taste is a welcome presence after the dark, sticky, alcohol- and dried fruit-laden puddings of Christmas. It slices gloriously into a perfect wedges of sunshine, sweet gelatinous curd on its toasty biscuit base.

So now you have your answer. When life gives you Meyer lemons, you make this lemon tart. There's really no other option.

The Meyer lemon shortbread tart recipe can be found here, on the Food 52 site. 

Incidentally, I've made this twice now. The first time I served it with a scoop of crème fraîche, which was lovely, but the second time I made my own Earl Grey ice cream to accompany it. As lemon and Earl Grey is such a classic combination, I'd recommend trying this out if you have the time to make your own ice cream - it really is a delicious pairing. 

Yorkshire curd tart

Sometimes, it is the least spectacular-looking foods that pack the biggest flavour punch, and deliver the most reward in terms of eating. Think beef stew, a mass of dark brown homogenous sludge that delivers rich, sticky umami flavours with every mouthful. In the same vein, beef rendang, that fabulous Malaysian curry whose uniform brown appearance gives no hint of the flavour explosion within: a riot of coconut, ginger, lemongrass and garlic. Banana bread - not exactly sporting oodles of frivolous decoration, yet - for me - infinitely more rewarding than any fancily decorated piece of patisserie. Lentil dhal - if made correctly, a gorgeous blend of buttery richness and warming spices, but definitely never a contender for prettiest dish of the year.

In Syria, I once took a bite from a loaf of bread that looked distinctly normal and unpromising, only to find the most incredible soft, buttery brioche texture underneath its sweet, glazed crust. In Vietnam, the homely appearance of a bowl of pho gives very little hint of the depth of flavour promised by that clear broth. In Sicily, you'd be forgiven for turning your nose up at a bowl of caponata, a sweet-sour aubergine stew, but perseverance would reward you with an incredible medley of flavours: punchy vinegar, smoky aubergine, salty capers. Curries are, by and large, mostly indistinguishable in appearance, but what a range of hot/sweet/sharp/spicy combinations lies hidden by that homogeneity.

This Yorkshire curd tart may not win any prizes for prettiness. It has no sexily oozing ganache coating, no whipped cream swirls, no sugar paste roses. There are no glacé cherries, edible flowers or decadent spirals of buttercream. It doesn't even boast a glorious colourful simplicity about it, like a lemon tart or a rhubarb crumble. 

However, this is all a cunning ploy on the part of the Yorkshire curd tart. It likes to maintain a sense of exclusivity, you see. It only wants to be familiar to that privileged and select group who are 'in the know'. It doesn't want to be adopted by the plebs, cheapened by mass production that provides barely edible, over-processed, over-sugared versions to satisfy the sweet tooths of the general public. Look what happened to its good friend Bakewell Tart, or Mince Pie. It's barely worth thinking about the poor fate of Fondant Fancy. The Yorkshire curd tart never wants to find itself in the overzealous hands of that dentist's nemesis, Mr Kipling.

In order to maintain this status quo, the Yorkshire curd tart hides its fabulous nature under a cunningly-fashioned cloak of beige. It conceals its utter deliciousness beneath a cleverly uniform, nondescript crust. Even when you cut into it (be gentle, please), it gives little away, revealing nothing more than a few uncontroversial currants peppering what is otherwise a homogenous, unremarkable interior.

Ah, I can see it's fooled you too. You weren't that amazed by the photos. They're certainly not a patch on that luscious chocolate ganache cake with the glossy strawberries I made about a year ago. You're thinking, 'meh, looks a bit bland. Beige. Click away'.

Perhaps you should, because I'm not sure the Yorkshire curd tart will be very happy about me revealing its secret to the world.

Because the truth is, you see, that this is an utterly delicious piece of baking. You start with a pastry crust, which is always a good sign. You fill this with a mixture of creamed butter and sugar, blended with pale curd cheese - a little like ricotta, but firmer. This you brighten with a few aromatic spices - nutmeg, mostly - and sweet little currants, which provide a beautiful burst of flavour within the comforting, custard-like filling. 

It's hard to describe the flavour of this wonderful creation. I first tried it, at the insistence of my mother, a Yorkshire lass, at Betty's tearoom (a northern institution). I was sceptical, just like you. I probably wanted to go for the shiny fruit tarts sitting next to it. The Yorkshire curd tart is unfazed by these. It is not jealous of their flouncy airs and graces - it doesn't want to attract the attention of just anyone.

However, since my first bite, I've been hooked on the glorious combination of crunchy pastry and the soft, yielding interior. Its texture is reminiscent of a cross between treacle tart and custard tart - not too sweet and sticky, but not gooey either. It's probably best described as a more dense, crumbly version of a cheesecake. Apparently it originated on farms as a way of frugally using up the curds that are by-products of the cheesemaking process. I can't think of a better way to rescue them than by combining them with butter, sugar, spices and fruit. 

Having long enjoyed the occasional curt tart from Betty's (a major factor in my decision to attend York University), I decided to have a go at making my own. It seems fitting that I mark my transition to the north of England by ensuring a Yorkshire speciality lies firmly within my cooking repertoire. 

While you can sometimes find curd cheese in specialist delis and cheese shops, it's incredibly easy to make - you just heat whole milk, add a little lemon juice, allow it to separate into curds and whey, then drain the curds in a sieve overnight through a cloth so they turn a little more solid and creamy. After your cheese is ready, you just make a quick pastry, line a tart tin, then beat the cheese with the butter, sugar, currants and an egg.

I decided to add a few spices to enrich mine: nutmeg is a given, but I also put in a little ground ginger, and some orange peel powder. The slight hint of warm citrus that it lends to the crumbly, creamy filling is perfect. It's not too sweet a tart, instead possessing a delicious buttery creaminess, without actually containing much butter. It's rich and comforting without being heavy, a perfect late afternoon pick-me-up, or a delicious dessert with some ice cream.

I'm sure you're all intrigued. Get into the kitchen, make this delicious and underrated creation, and enjoy the unusually moreish combination of ingredients.

Then promptly forget it ever happened. Forget all about the curd tart. Definitely don't tell your friends. Let's keep it a little-known secret.

Yorkshire curd tart (serves 6-8):

For the curd cheese:

• 1.2 litres whole milk (a 2 pint bottle is fine)
• Juice of 1 lemon
• For the pastry:
• 140g plain flour
• 85g cold butter, cubed
• 1 tsp caster sugar
• Pinch of salt
• Ice cold water

For the filling:

• 50g butter, softened
• 50g caster sugar
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
• 1/4 tsp ground ginger
• 1/2 tsp orange peel powder
• Curd cheese (see above)
• 35g currants

The night before you want to bake the tart, make the curd cheese. Bring the milk to a gentle simmer in a large saucepan, then add the lemon juice. Lower the heat and stir gently, and watch the milk separate into curds (white lumps) and whey (pale liquid). Remove from the heat and leave to cool, then pour the mixture into a sieve lined with muslin or a teatowel/clean cloth, resting over a pan or bowl. Leave to drain overnight. In the morning, scrape the curd cheese (it will look a bit like ricotta) from out of the cloth and refrigerate. You can use the leftover liquid (the whey) for making scones or soda bread - use it instead of buttermilk.

For the pastry, put the flour, butter, sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add 1tbsp of cold water, pulse again, then continue to add water a little bit at a time until the mixture just starts to come together - you'll need around 2-3tbsp. Turn the pastry out onto a floured work surface and knead until it just forms a ball, then wrap in clingfilm and chill for at least 30 minutes in the fridge.

When ready to bake, pre-heat the oven to 180C. Roll out the pastry on a floured work surface and use to line a 20cm tart tin or pie dish with a removable base. Don't trim the sides of the pastry yet, as they will shrink when baking. Put some greaseproof paper in the pastry case and fill with baking beans, then bake for 10 minutes. Remove the beans and paper and bake for a further 10 minutes, until the case is golden.

Meanwhile, make the filling. Beat together the butter and sugar using an electric mixer until pale and fluffy. Gradually add the egg, beating in between additions. Add the nutmeg, ginger and orange peel powder, then add the curd cheese. Whisk gently to incorporate it into the mixture, then whisk in the currants.

When the pastry case has baked, pour the curd filling into it and bake for 35-40 minutes until golden and set - it should still have a slight wobble to it, though. Allow to cool, then dust with icing sugar and serve.

Apple and quince almond crumble tart

The street is a soothing, nondescript muddle of brickwork and grey cobbles, glistening slightly in the aftermath of the morning rain. The sombre wares of the shop windows merge into a blur; dusty vintage clothing, old leather-bound books, pens of various shapes, sizes and degrees of antiquity. Everything has an air of tiredness to it, of weary age yearning to be invigorated with new life. It's calming, easy to walk down the street in a daze as everything blends into the background.

But there they are. Sitting there in their little wicker basket. Great orbs of primrose-coloured sunshine, their vivid yellow blazing out like a flame amidst their drab surroundings. Their voluptuous curves whisper seductively of hotter, more exotic and carefree climes, yet the soft down that clings to their skin like cobwebs suggests light snowflakes, or a vain attempt to wrap up warm for the winter. They are firm in the hand; heavy, satisfying. They feel sturdy, promising robust, heady flavours; whispering of brightness both to look at and to eat. I pick up two, cradling them gently against my stomach, leaving the rest to their quiet yellow repose.

I am, of course, talking about the first quinces of the year. Always a happy moment, the arrival of quinces in the markets promises delicious culinary joy for the coming months. It's like Mother Nature's way of making up for the cold, dreary weather that starts to grate and sadden at this time of year. You can't refuse to be cheered up by the bright spectacle of a quince, and you definitely can't refuse to be made happier by eating one.

Okay, so maybe all that was a little over-the-top and wannabe-poetic. But I really do love these fruits, which seem so modern and exotic despite dating back thousands of years. We still haven't quite figured them out as a nation - they're pretty tricky to track down, and currently the only place I can find them in York is a lovely little deli called the Hairy Fig, which is where I spied the aforementioned glowing yellow basket. None of my new friends at university have ever heard of, let alone eaten, a quince.

I'm not quite mean enough to try the 'Oh, just bite into it - it's really nice, like an apple!' trick, though. Damn my good nature, getting in the way of hilarious practical jokes.

To celebrate the first quinces of the year, I've made a rather wonderful little tart. While I love using quinces in savoury recipes, sometimes their fragrant perfumed flesh just yearns to be coupled with a liberal amount of butter, either in the form of pastry or crumble. This tart does both, in that half the crumble is pressed down to form a rough pastry, onto which the fruit is spread, while the remaining half is scattered over the top, to bake into a rough, crunchy, buttery mass. This was inspired by a Dan Lepard recipe that uses plums and cobnuts, but I figured it would work with quinces and almonds (and, dare I suggest that it might be even tastier?)

It's very common to pair quinces with apples - sometimes pears - in baking. This is, I think, because their strong flavour can rather overwhelm when left to its own devices. I don't agree, loving the taste of quince pure and unadulterated, but this is the first time I've tempered it with apples and I rather liked the result. I used cooking apples from the tree in my garden, which are rather tart, and take the edge off the cloying sweetness of the quince. The result is a gorgeous marriage; it tastes homely, somehow, like going back to basics - you can't beat the purity of stewed fruit, enhanced only with a little sugar.

There's also something rather texturally appealing about cooking apples with quinces - the quinces don't soften as much, remaining delectable, tender morsels, while the apples dissolve into a froth. The combination is delicious, and the perfect filling for this crumble tart. It's basically apple crumble, but in sliceable form, and improved with the delectable fragrance of quince. I added some flaked almonds to the crumble mixture, which give a lovely nutty crunch, and sprinkled some demerara sugar over the top for the same reason.

One of the reasons behind this dessert, apart from my passionate love for the quince, is that I was recently sent some lovely wines from South West France to sample (I know, it's a hard life being a food blogger). Home to around twenty indigenous grape varieties and the point of origin for grapes like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Malbec, the South West is a wonderful region for wine diversity (there are 16 PDO wine denominations). Even more excitingly, wines from this region have the highest procyanidin content of any in the world - the chemical that means wine can have positive effects on cardiovascular health.

I haven't noticed any immediate benefits yet, so I guess I'll just have to keep drinking it until I am fully conscious of my arteries expanding.

My first taste was of the PDO Gaillac, Domaine Rotier, 2008. This is a beautiful dessert wine. I don't know that much about wine, so I won't be a fraudulent bore and start waxing lyrical about bouquets and body and finish. Instead, I will tell you that this wine is like drinking liquid honey. It warms you from the inside, and is gorgeously sweet and aromatic. It has, according to the bottle, notes of apricot, fig and quince, which makes it the perfect partner for this dessert.

I made the dessert with the inkling that it would go well with the wine. In fact, it was an even better match than I could have hoped.

It's quite hard to pair wine with dessert, because very sweet or tart things tend to make the wine taste overly sour and acidic. The best way is to ensure there is a rich, buttery component to said dessert, to mellow out any assertive fruit flavours. This crumble, then, is the ideal way to go. It provides a rich, buttery base for the sweet, fragrant wine, which perfectly reflects the quince flavours in the fruit filling.

It's a way of putting a proper autumnal pudding on the table without the heaviness of crumble (not that I'd ever turn down crumble, but sometimes you want something a bit lighter and more refined). You can serve it in elegant slices. It looks far more effort than it actually is. It's exotic and will make people say 'Ooh, what's quince?' It's an amalgam of two very traditional British ingredients: quince and crumble. It breathes sweet and tasty life into a much misunderstood fruit.

Then you have the taste, which is just wonderful. Serve it with lots of vanilla ice cream, while it's still a little warm from the oven. There's rich buttery pastry, the crunch of toasted almonds, and the soft, unctuous collapsed autumnal fruit inside; sweet, yet tart, standing up robustly to its crumbly trappings.

Buttery crumble, a sweet fruit filling and a glass of ambrosial dessert wine - the absolute best way to end a meal.

Quince and apple crumble tart (serves 6):

(Adapted from a recipe from Dan Lepard's Short and Sweet)

• 1 medium quince
• 3-4 tbsp brown sugar
• Water
• Squeeze of lemon juice
• 3 medium cooking apples
• 2 tsp cornflour
• 3 tsp water
• 100g plain flour
• 75g wholemeal flour
• 100g cold butter, cubed
• 50g brown sugar
• 50g flaked almonds, toasted, plus 1 tbsp to garnish
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 2 tbsp milk
• 1 tbsp demerara sugar

First, make the fruit filling. Peel and quarter the quince. Remove the core. Cut into 2cm cubes and put in a medium saucepan with the brown sugar, lemon juice and enough water to just cover it. Cover the pan and bring to the boil, then simmer gently for 10 minutes or so until almost tender. Peel, core and chop the apples into similar sized pieces, then add to the quince and simmer for another 10-15 minutes, uncovered, until the fruit has mostly collapsed. Taste and check the sweetness - add a little more sugar if it's too tart (but you want it fairly tart to contrast with the crumble).  Mix the cornflour with the water then stir into the fruit to thicken it. Set aside to cool.

Grease a 20cm tart tin with a removable base. Pre-heat the oven to 190C.

For the pastry, rub the butter into the flours using your fingers or a food processor. Stir in the sugar. Finely chop the toasted almonds (except the ones for the garnish) then stir these in too along with the baking powder. Stir in the milk. Press half of this mixture into the tart tin, along the bottom and up around the sides too, to make a crust. Spoon in the fruit filling, then scatter the rest of the pastry mixture evenly over the top, but don't press down. Sprinkle over the demerara sugar and reserved flaked almonds.

Bake for 45-50 minutes, until the top is golden brown. Check it halfway through to make sure it isn't burning - if so, cover with foil and turn the oven down slightly. Leave to cool in the tin before dusting with icing sugar, removing and slicing to serve (preferably with ice cream).

Cardamom treacle tart with poached rhubarb

Now, I'm a firm believer in not messing around with the classics. The saddest thing I have ever eaten was a 'deconstructed rhubarb cheesecake'. I had actually awaited it with great anticipation. Quite naturally, I thought this 'deconstructed' business would essentially mean 'more biscuit base', so I was definitely game for that. In fact, I was basically imagining a huge bowl full of biscuits mixed with butter, and maybe some creamy concoction alongside. There may have been a bit of salivation occurring.

Imagine my utter horror when I was presented with a shotglass full of rhubarb juice, and another containing a bland white creamy substance with a few stray biscuit crumbs strewn across the top.

I feed the birds in my garden more crumbs than that.

It was utterly, utterly vile. It must have been, because I am still sickened by it eighteen months later, and I told everyone who would listen (i.e. no one) for weeks after the dinner about my horrifying experience.

If you are going to deconstruct something as wonderful as cheesecake, why in heaven's name would you take the BEST BITS and diminish them? Cheesecake should not be presented in a shotglass. The clue is in the name: cake is something that, generally, does not often find itself encased in glass. A bit like...oh yes, cheese. Cheese is also something that should not be found in this sorry state.

A few weeks ago, Tom from Masterchef tried to present a 'deconstructed lemon tart'. It was met with widespread condemnation and ridicule, drawing such comments as "it looks like he made a lemon tart then dropped it on the floor". In fact, I don't understand how it could have looked like it did without being dropped on the floor. Does 'deconstructed' translate as 'poorly and unsubtly rescued'?

Or just 'guaranteed to dismay'?

I once watched Raymond Blanc, my husband-to-be (apparently he's also quite good at cooking and some people have heard of him) make a deconstructed crumble on his Kitchen Secrets show. It is a mark of how strongly I feel about deconstructed desserts (and about crumble) that even this wonderful man could not tempt me with his bowl full of summer fruits topped with a circular biscuity thing.

That, my friends, is not crumble. Crumble is not a biscuit. Crumble is like a biscuit that you've taken a sledgehammer to, and then baked. On fruit. So it oozes up sumptuous sticky juice around the edges. Bubbling voluptuously. Calling out to be eaten with a scoop of ice cream. Begging to be returned to for seconds, and possibly thirds, and then that thing that I like to call 'fourths' that is generally best eaten with a teaspoon, straight from the pot, pan or dish, after the meal has ostensibly finished and you're just 'clearing up'. With your mouth.

The gist of all this being that classics are classics for a reason. They're awesome. Don't mess with them. Don't put cake in a glass. Don't try and make geometric art out of a crumble. Don't drop your lemon tart and then add some weird coulis and other rubbish to make up for it.

But then what do I go and do?

I put cardamom in a treacle tart. 

Except I didn't put the tart in a glass. I didn't drop it, nor did I cut it out into a circle. I left it well alone. Apart from that teeny tiny little addition, I stuck with the classic.

And oh, my god. I can't understand why no one has ever done this before. 

My thought process for this recipe was as follows:

I really, really, bloody want a piece of treacle tart. Like, now. Sticky and oozing and gooey and dentally suicidal and cringeworthily full of golden syrup. Ooh, I made breadcrumbs the other day and stashed them in the freezer. Definitely an excuse to make a treacle tart - frugality is my middle name. Oh no, wait, it's Frances. Close enough. I also have some awesome rhubarb in the fridge. I reckon they'd go really well together - the sharpness of the rhubarb will cut through that intense syrupy sweetness and also look very pretty on the plate. Hmm...what else could I add? I like to think in trios of flavours, for neatness. Rhubarb and cardamom go well. Would cardamom work in the tart? It could either be sublime or a total failure. But then if you think about it, some of the sweetest desserts and pastries I can think of, namely baklava and other syrup-drenched Middle Eastern sweets, use cardamom liberally, and that combination of intense sugar and citrussy spice is heavenly. Surely it should work. We will see. Time to buy a whole tin of golden syrup, empty it into a bowl of breadcrumbs, add some eggs, put the whole lot in a pastry case, then ring my dentist and arrange for either a filling or false teeth depending on how much of this tart I eat.

I love the look and feel of a treacle tart fresh out of the oven. It's gorgeously golden and satisfyingly spongy, with a lovely burnished rim of caramelised sugar around the edge. It's rustic in the extreme and promises total joy with every mouthful. I would like to sleep on it, occasionally rolling over and taking small bites to soothe me when I have nightmares.

It's also catastrophically bad for you, seeing as it contains an entire can of golden syrup. But you're hardly going to be eating it every day, so who cares. Embrace the syrup. Not literally - it's a nightmare to clean. My camera is covered in the stuff. As, probably, is the lining of my stomach.

Anyway, my gamble paid off. This is the best treacle tart I've ever had.

The addition of cardamom is, I have to say, a stroke of genius. Plus I scoured the internet and I've never seen cardamom added to a treacle tart before, so dare I even venture that this might be an original idea?

Surely not. But I like to dream, so humour me.

It's sticky and sweet, but the filling doesn't adhere to your teeth because of the eggs beaten into it, which keep it light and almost fluffy. There's the juice of a lemon which, coupled with the citrussy, fragrant cardamom lifts the whole thing into that gorgeous sweet-slightly sour territory that is just so addictive. The pastry is light, crumbly and buttery, balancing everything perfectly.

Add some poached rhubarb on top (not, I should add, served from a shot glass) for a sweet tang and a contrast in texture, and you have one of the best desserts I've ever made, or even eaten for that matter. You don't have to include the rhubarb - the tart on its own is incredible and is perfect eaten with some cold cold vanilla ice cream to counteract its chewy sweetness.

Seriously, I cannot get over how good a treacle tart is with cardamom in it. I want to make it again, just to check I wasn't hallucinating and that it is actually as amazing as I think it is. Actually no, I want to make it again so I can eat the entire thing. It's reminiscent of all those syrupy Middle Eastern pastries, but even better.

I'm a firm believer in not messing with the classics...with this small and sublime exception. At least I didn't drop it and put it back on the plate.

Cardamom treacle tart with poached rhubarb (serves 8):

(Adapted from a BBC recipe here)

• 225g plain flour
• 110g very cold butter, cubed
• Cold water
• 450g can golden syrup
• 90g fresh breadcrumbs
• 2 eggs, beaten
• Zest and juice of 1 lemon
• 1 heaped tsp ground ginger
• 10 cardamom pods, seeds crushed and ground to a powder
• 200g rhubarb
• 4 tbsp caster sugar

First, make the pastry. Blitz the flour and butter together in a blender (or rub together with your fingertips) until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add the cold water, 1 tbsp at a time, until the dough just comes together. Tip out onto a floured work surface, form into a ball, then roll out to a thickness of 0.5cm. Line a 23cm tart tin with the pastry, letting it overhang the edges a little (you can trim them after cooking - it'll shrink otherwise). Chill for 30 minutes in the fridge.

Pre-heat the oven to 190C. Prick the bottom of the pastry case with a fork and line with greaseproof paper. Fill with baking beans/dried pulses to weigh it down, then bake for 15 minutes until turning golden. Remove the beans and paper and bake for another 5-10 mins until crispy.

For the filling, mix together the syrup, breadcrumbs, eggs, lemon juice, ginger and cardamom. Pour into the case then bake for 30 minutes until golden and slightly brown around the edges. Leave to cool before dusting with icing sugar.

For the rhubarb, slice it into 1-inch lengths and place in a small pan with the sugar and a tiny splash of water. Simmer until it just starts to disintegrate. Check the sugar - you might want a little more if your rhubarb is very acidic.

To serve, slice the tart using a very sharp knife, spoon over a little of the rhubarb compote, and serve with vanilla ice cream.

Quince tarte tatin

But what I am of opinion the governor should eat now in order to preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his stomach and help his digestion ~ Don Quixote

I'm a firm believer of less being more in the dessert world, that the simplest creations often far outshine the intricate, fiddly ones. I'd far rather tuck into a piece of treacle tart, a crumble or a sticky toffee pudding than any kind of fancy French patisserie, smothered in ganache and spun sugar and delicately piped cream. Where many cooks and bloggers see macarons as the ultimate in culinary challenges, the Everest that simply must be scaled, I see them as encapsulating everything I hate about that type of baking: fussy, fiddly, cutesy, overdecorated. I admit that I've never tasted a macaron, but I have no need to - I know that it would never match up to even an average sticky toffee pudding.

The simple marriage of butter, flour, sugar and perhaps a few other choice flavourings - spices, fruit, nuts - is one that will last me a lifetime of enjoyment. No need for anything fancier.

Note, however, that I am not condemning French desserts with the above. In fact, I am about to sing the praises of one: the humble tarte tatin.

I can't actually say 'tarte tatin' any more, after watching Masterchef. Every time I open my mouth to say the words, all I hear is Gregg Wallace's interesting interpretation of its pronunciation: "TATTATTAN" (spoken at top booming volume and preferably with a mouth full of pudding). I then lose all faith in my own ability to pronounce French, and come out with something along the lines of "taahhtattan".

No matter, though, because even if you can't pronounce it, you can still enjoy what has to be one of the greatest culinary inventions known to man.

The best tarte tatin I have ever eaten was at a little bistro in Nice. It was deservedly popular, packed with French people spilling out onto its streetside tables in the balmy August evening. It was everything that the ghastly Cafe Rouge restaurant chain pretends to be: local, authentic, quaint, unmistakably French. I remember eating sardine escabeche, crunching my way accidentally through the heads of the sardines, as they were hidden by the thick red sweet-sour sauce.

But it is the tart that really stands out in my memory. It was served piping hot from the oven, a very thin layer of pastry absolutely saturated with gorgeous sharp-sweet caramel. It was the apples, though, that struck me - huge great billowing pieces of apple, not like the thinly sliced, neatly arranged pieces you get on a classic French apple tart. These were giant segments, stained a deep burnished gold by the sugar and butter in which they had been bathed. They were juicy, fluffy, sweet and simply wonderful. I would go all the way back to that bistro for another taste of that tarte tatin.

Fortunately, however, last night I came up with something almost as good.

I've had a bowl of glossy, curvaceous quinces in my kitchen for weeks now - I stocked up on them before Christmas, as they last for months and I knew I'd want to cook with them long after they've disappeared from the market. They've been sitting there begging me to use them, and I've been mulling over various quince creations in my mind as possibilities. I still intend to bring those ideas to fruition (pardon the pun), but suddenly I had an overwhelming urge to make a quince tarte tatin.

This was mainly because all my other ideas involved cakes, and I've made a lot of cakes recently. In fact, most dessert recipes that appear on this blog are either cakes, cheesecakes or cobblers, and I thought I should branch out a bit. Plus I've been having a craving for tarte tatin ever since I watched a friend of mine presented with one in a French restaurant when we were skiing in the Alps in December. I sat there eating my ice cream, which paled in comparison to his gorgeous plate of steaming hot apples, pastry and caramel. There's something about this alchemy of ingredients that is just irresistible.

The way the caramel soaks into the pastry, leaving it sodden and sweet on the top and still crunchy and flaky underneath. The contrast between the yielding juicy flesh of the cooked apples and the crunch of the buttery pastry. It really is up there with crumble and sticky toffee pudding in my all-time favourite desserts, and I can't think why I haven't made it more often.

This version is made with quinces, adapted from a recipe by the excellent David Lebovitz. I thought about using half quince and half apple, worried that the perfumed flavour of the quince would be too powerful, but I needn't have worried (in fact my mum, who normally hates quince, loved this).

This is an absolutely incredible dessert, all the better for the sweet, mysterious aroma of quinces. The quince segments are poached to rosy perfection in a syrup of sugar, water, clove, lemon and cinnamon. There's a simple pastry dough that is so easy to make, yet tastes as complex and wonderful as puff pastry, but without the faff. It is buttery, crumbly, crunchy and flaky all at the same time - amazing for something made in under 5 minutes in the food processor.

Instead of making a caramel for the quinces, their poaching syrup is reduced in the tarte tatin pan (you can buy special ones for this purpose, but I just used a frying pan with a removable handle) until it has the consistency of honey. I added a couple of spoonfuls of homemade quince paste to thicken it a little and add an extra intense quince flavour. I was amazed at how buttery and caramelly this tasted when it had soaked into the pastry in the finished tart.

In short: this was fabulous. The sweet, juicy segments of quince with their syrupy coating; the buttery, flaky pastry base...I think this could give that Nicoise tarte tatin a run for its money. Please make it if you find yourself with quinces to use up.

Quince tarte tatin (serves 6):

Adapted from David Lebovitz's recipe, here.

• 3 large quinces (you might end up with a bit left over - eat them for breakfast on porridge/muesli!)
• Half a lemon
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 3 cloves
• 900ml water
• 100g sugar
• 140g flour
• 2 tsp brown sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 85g cold butter, cubed
• 3-4 tbsp very cold water
• 2 tsp quince paste (membrillo) or jelly (optional)
• You will also need a suitable pan - an ovenproof frying pan around 18-22cm in diameter is ideal

First, poach the quinces. Put the water, sugar, lemon, cinnamon stick and cloves in a large saucepan and bring slowly to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Peel, core and quarter the quinces, then halve each quarter to get eight segments per quince. Drop them into the poaching liquid. Lower the heat to barely a simmer, and place a circle of greaseproof paper with a 1-inch hole in the middle over the water. Cook on a very low heat for an hour or so, until the liquid has turned pink and the quinces are tender. Turn off the heat and leave the quinces in the syrup until you need them.

Next, make the pastry. Put the flour, sugar, salt and butter in a food processor and pulse until you have fine crumbs (or rub the butter in with your fingers, trying to touch it for as little a time as possible). Add the water a tablespoon at a time, until the dough just comes together and looks like little pebbles. You will have to squash it together with your hands. Form a ball and wrap it in cling film. Chill in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.

When ready to assemble the tart, put about 250ml of the quince poaching liquid along with the quince jelly or paste, if using, in your chosen pan and simmer until it has reduced to a thick syrup (you want a layer about 5mm deep on the base of the pan). Pre-heat the oven to 190C.

Lay the quince segments, drained, over the bottom of the pan, curved side down in a circle. Try and squish them together as much as possible so there are no gaps. You may not need all the quince segments. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface to a circle slightly bigger than the pan, and lay it over the quinces, tucking it in all around the edges (this will be the best bit of the whole dessert, where the pastry edges are saturated in caramel!)

Bake in the oven for about 45 minutes, until the pastry is crisp and golden and the caramel is bubbling around the sides. Remove and allow to cool for about 15-20 minutes before putting a plate over the top of the pan and turning it upside down to release the finished tart (you might have to shake it a bit to loosen it).

Serve warm with ice cream, creme fraiche or cream.

Fig and raspberry galette

I was pretty excited to find my name in the Guardian this week. Food and wine writer Fiona Beckett, who also wrote the student cookbook 'Beyond Baked Beans' and has a website of the same name devoted to student cooking, featured me and Nutmegs, seven in the article 'A new generation of student cooks?' You can read it here if you're interested. 

I enjoyed both the article and - even more so - reading the comments underneath, to hear about others' experiences of the world of student cookery. Some of them sounded truly disastrous, and make my minor incidents (freezer left open, pan left full of used oil for days on end, rancid rotten fish smell coming from my sodden teatowel, washing up never done) pale in comparison.

Actually no. Nothing pales in comparison to that towel incident. Lord only knows what hideous atrocities were inflicted upon my poor teatowel to make it smell like that. Had it been left inside the festering innards of a dead whale for three months?

I always kind of forget that I learned most of my cooking skills as a student. I didn't think student food bloggers were few and far between, and certainly never thought of myself as special because I was both a student and could cook. I think I was just incredibly lucky to have had several like-minded friends, whose interest in food went beyond the kebab van and the tub of microwaveable Dolmio sauce. Like the friend who spattered the kitchen in mammalian blood while attempting jugged hare. Or the friend who actually suggested we go to a farmers' market together (most students never having contemplated such a thing, and certainly not prepared to cycle across town for farm-fresh eggs and smoked rapeseed oil). I'm pretty sure all of my friends knew how to boil an egg. Although that may not just be coincidence - if they hadn't been able to boil an egg, they probably wouldn't have passed my stringent friendship vetting process.

Because I can barely remember pre-student life, I feel like I've always been a student. I keep forgetting that I'm not any more. Today I bought some pears off a man at the market, and he looked at me earnestly and said "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you a student by any chance?" It took me a few seconds of sad contemplation before I had to admit "No, no I'm not". Desperately trying to make myself still feel young and cool, I added "any more". As if, from those two words, he'd know that I am practically still a student - it's only three months since I handed in my Masters dissertation, and technically term hasn't started yet so I could still be a student, just waiting to go back to university.

It's kind of tragic, really, that I am now desperate for total strangers to perceive me as a fresh-faced graduate, barely out of university, still in touch with that hip student lifestyle.

As if. I don't think I was ever your typical cool student (I just used the word 'hip', for example). The last time I went clubbing was in my first year. I can count on one hand the number of times I've been drunk at university. Instead of an alcohol budget, I had a budget for fruit and fresh flowers. Yes, really. (Lilies are my favourite, though I do like a nice bunch of tulips. Preferably a reddish pink colour with yellow tips.) I rarely went to bed after 1am, I rarely lay in past 9am. I never ate a single kebab, ready meal or takeaway pizza. My idea of heaven was an evening in with a cup of tea, some chocolate and some food TV on iPlayer. I spent more time in the kitchen than I did in the pub. I spent more time in the swimming pool than I did in the pub.

I kind of feel I need a disclaimer at this point announcing that I did, in fact, have some friends. Maybe if they're reading this, they could leave a comment. Just to prove their existence.

Er...please?

It's interesting to look at those comments on Fiona's article. I do think the image of students who can't even make toast is horribly outdated now. At least, I really like to think it is, because the idea of anyone not being able to effect the most basic of kitchen skills makes me a bit depressed. I suppose I just assume that everyone knows how to cook pasta, eggs, toast, stews, stir-fries, bacon sandwiches (no, you don't put the raw bacon between the slices of bread and then chuck the whole thing in a sandwich toaster). To me it just seems like common sense. But I suppose if you've never had anyone teach you those things, nor have never needed to learn because your parents did it all for you, then why would you know?

I also assume that everyone knows not to put metal in the microwave. However, this was sadly disproven to me when I witnessed my housemate last year standing by calmly while the metal takeaway tray she'd put in the microwave sizzled and sparked like a bolt of lightning. I leapt up from the table and turned the microwave off, and she looked most displeased. "Don't you know you can't put metal in a microwave?!" I asked in disbelief. "Really? Oh...I've been doing it for weeks and it's been fine..."

Readers, you are very lucky that I am actually alive, and was not burned in my bed some time over the past year.

What nobody seems to realise is that the enemy of student cooking is not money. It is logistics. Cooking for yourself is, as has been said time and time again, usually cheaper than buying ready meals or takeaways in the long run, especially if you cook in bulk and freeze it for later meals, or cook for large groups and share the cost. Most students have been given this advice on repeat; I'm pretty sure they're aware of the benefits.

Yet you may have all these good intentions about cooking for yourself, making your own bread, whipping up vast quantities of homemade pasta sauces and soups for the freezer, learning how to stir-fry...but if you share a tiny kitchenette comprising two hob rings and a microwave with twenty other students, as is a common scenario, then you may as well kiss those dreams goodbye. I struggled to share a perfectly decent and well-equipped kitchen with only eight other people in my second and third years. There just isn't enough space, it's impossible to have more than two people cooking at the same time, and there are bound to be fights for space at the six-chaired dinner table, especially if two people have both invited friends over.

I was lucky with my last kitchen as a graduate, because in our house of six I was the only person who used it. I think I had to share the kitchen twice in my entire year, and even then my boisterous, spoon-wielding, apron-clad presence was apparently so intimidating to one of my housemates that he felt the need to approach me timidly and ask in a tiny voice, "Is it OK for me to use your kitchen?" (in the same sort of way you might ask Lord Voldemort if it would be OK to throw a Harry Potter appreciation party) before daring to even take a pan out of the cupboard.

If universities really are serious about wanting students to cook, they need to give them better facilities. But that is unlikely to happen, especially at Oxford, because the colleges want the students to eat in hall and thereby increase their profits. I was lucky to have had a kitchen at all; there are several colleges who don't offer any in their accommodation. While to most students, at Oxford at least, this seems to be the norm, now that I think about it it's really quite shocking. Obviously I feel this way because food is my entire life, but being deprived of a kitchen seems to me akin to being deprived of running water or access to daylight; it's a basic human necessity and it seems outrageous that some students can't even make themselves a piece of toast if they've missed dinner in hall, or don't fancy the menu that night.

We can lament the state of student cooking until we're blue in the face, but until students are provided with decent facilities in which to cook, I can't see how we can expect them to start whipping up gourmet feasts. A George Foreman grill, toaster and microwave do not a kitchen make, though I've seen such set-ups described as "fully-equipped kitchen" in accommodation blurbs. Outrageous.

If that was all I was given to cook with, I'd damn well go to the kebab van too.

Off my soapbox and back to the things that really matter: crumbly buttery pastry; sticky warm figs; sweet tart raspberries; crunchy demerara sugar. I've never made a galette before but have always loved the idea: it's pie or tart for the lazy person. You make pastry, roll it out into a pleasingly uneven circle, stick some fruit in the middle, fold the edges up to partially enclose the fruit, sprinkle on some sugar and bake in the oven. The pastry turns golden and crisp, the fruit cooks down to a delightful warm juiciness, and the end result is mouthwateringly delicious.

I love the rusticity of the galette (or crostata, as I think they call them in Italy): the uneven folds of the pastry over the filling, the action of tucking your precious fruity treasure inside its little blanket of butter and flour, to slumber peacefully in the oven for thirty minutes. I love the versatility; almost any fruit would work in this recipe, and still look delightful. The problem with pie is that, until you slice it, you have no idea what's in it. It doesn't have that wow factor. Here, the fruit is boldly on display, to be marvelled at and salivated over.

The combination of figs and raspberries is heavenly. I've never tried it before, but there's something about the aroma of a cooked raspberry that is just irresistible. They smell like a sweet shop, somehow, taking on a wonderful candied scent as they emerge from the oven. The flavour is heightened, the sweetness intensified, and they make an excellent partner to the subtle flavour of a ripe fig. The combination just works. Add to that a pastry made from spelt flour, which tastes gorgeously nutty and is as buttery and crumbly as you could possibly desire, and you have a really easy but sublime dessert. The best part is the crispy pastry crust with its scattering of sugar, where the fruit has melted into it slightly and softened it. Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and devour the whole lot with a big smile on your face. It really is wonderful.

Fig and raspberry galette (serves 4 - recipe easily doubled):

• 125g spelt flour (or normal flour)
• 75g very cold butter, cubed
• 25g light brown sugar
• Very cold water
• 5 figs, quartered
• A handful of raspberries
• 1 tbsp demerara sugar
• Icing sugar

Put the flour, butter and sugar in a food processor and blitz until it resembles fine breadcrumbs (don't overblend it though, as this will make it too hot). Pour in a little water and blitz again until the mixture just starts to come together - I used about 2 tbsp water. Bring the pastry into a ball and wrap in clingfilm. Chill for an hour in the fridge.

Pre-heat the oven to 160C. Dust a worktop with icing sugar and roll the pastry out into a rough circle, about 5mm thick. Place on a piece of baking parchment on a baking tray.

Arrange the figs and raspberries in the centre of the circle, then bring the pastry edges up around the fruit and fold over each other in a sort of pleated fashion. Sprinkle the crust with demerara sugar, then bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes until the pastry is crispy and golden, and the fruit soft. Allow to cool slightly, then dust with icing sugar and serve with vanilla ice cream.

Apricot and amaretti cake

Scales are a bit of a contentious issue for me and my family. Before you start thinking that any of us are cold-blooded and reptilian, I should probably clarify that I mean weighing scales, the kind you use to measure things for cooking. Until a few years ago, the only scales I knew were the huge, old fashioned ones we have in our kitchen at home, made of heavy black metal with a big brass bowl and a plate that you balance brass weights on. If you wanted to weigh out any quantity of anything, you first had to pile up the right weights and then pour whatever it was into the brass bowl until the scales tipped into a tentative balance.

This is all well and good, until you need to do the opposite - find out how much something weighs. For this, you have to play a ridiculous balancing game, slowly piling up weights until the scales start to level out. It can be done, but it is a bit of a faff. As is weighing out different quantities of ingredients, switching and swapping the piles of weights for every different amount of something. If you're baking a fruit cake, this can be a little bit of a nightmare. Especially if you drop one of the weights on your bare foot or - worse, as far as my mother is concerned - on the wooden kitchen floor.

My first electric kitchen scales, then, were a revelation. You could just balance a big bowl on top of the glass plate, reset the digital display, weigh out your first ingredient, then keep resetting it as you added all the others. No heavy weights to store and fiddle with, and the best part was the accuracy. You could weigh out three grams of flour if you wanted to. You probably never would, but for making something like macarons, where you - apparently - need to weigh out very precise quantities of egg white, they would have been perfect. I've never tried to make macarons, though, because I quite like my blood pressure on the low side, and also I can't really imagine they'd be particularly tasty. I'd much rather have a good wedge of cake than a silly, fussy little egg white biscuity thing. I really don't understand the appeal. Does that make me deeply untrendy, culinarily speaking?

Those halcyon days of digital scales were short-lived, however. Returning to my student house after the Christmas holidays, I discovered someone had stolen them, along with my salt and pepper mills. I never got them back (though my lovely boyfriend was kind enough to buy me some brand new, rather posh salt and pepper mills - who says money can't buy love?) and since then have been making do with some £2 Tesco plastic scales which I finally broke a few months ago by dropping them. On my foot, actually. Oh, the irony.

The reason there was a spot of familial contention regarding the scales related to our new house in Yorkshire which my parents have pretty much built from scratch. My mum has kitted out the kitchen with all sorts of nice china and utensils (including a Kenwood mixer). The scales in the huge utensil cupboard once belonged to my nanna, and are also the type requiring a balancing act involving heavy weights. My dad and I both think we need to get a pair of the digital or mechanical ones to go with them, for the precise reason mentioned above - they're completely impractical for weighing out small quantities, and they also make it difficult if you just want to, for example, weigh an opened bag of pasta to find out if there's enough left in there for two people. My parents let the house out as a holiday cottage, and my mum thinks that we should keep the old-fashioned scales, and the old-fashioned scales alone, because "people like that sort of thing when they're on holiday". I don't agree - yes, they look all quaint and from a bygone age, but I think the guests would appreciate them far more if they were simply a display item, while the utensil cupboard also contained a pair of scales they could actually use in a practical context.

Mum doesn't agree, and the battle rages on. This, of course, is a total hyperbole, and I think that if that's the only big subject of controversy and argument in our family, we're probably doing quite well. But that didn't make me any less excited when these new ProCook mechanical scales arrived in the post the other day. I'm quite fond of ProCook's products. They're a British company, which appeals to my sense of culinary patriotism, and their products do seem genuinely crafted to be useful and lasting.

There's something rather retro about these scales, with their big round measurement dial and wide weighing bowl. They're made from stainless steel which is wipe-clean, a big improvement on our brass weighing bowl that goes a funny colour if you weigh something like cream cheese in it, because it reacts with the metal, or that goes a very funny colour if my dad forgets that it isn't dishwasher-safe and puts it in anyway. The weighing bowl is nice and big, too (21cm diameter) - I always struggled with my tiny Tesco plastic scales at university because the 'bowl' was actually a sort of box shape, and it could only fit about 100g of flour in it - useless for making bread or large cakes (which form about 80% of my cooking).

The scales have an adjustment button, so you can keep turning the reading back to zero if you need to, and the measurements are in both imperial and metric (they weigh quantities up to 5kg/11lb). They look great on the kitchen counter, unlike my little plastic version - maybe not as quaint as mother's huge brass scales, but still aesthetically pleasing enough to stand proudly on a kitchen worktop (they have little rubber feet, too, to stop them scratching anything or moving around while you try and weigh things).

What better way to test scales than to bake a cake? Well, actually, I could easily have just picked up and weighed random household objects to "test" them, and let's be honest, weighing scales don't really need "testing", but I love any excuse to bake a cake.

This may look familiar - it's essentially an apricot version of my delightful greengage and almond cake from a couple of weeks ago, but with a few extras added and the recipe tweaked slightly. My favourite part of the greengage cake was the delicious crunchiness of the top, with its demerara sugar and flaked almond crust. To make this even more crispy, and to bring out the almond flavour a little more, I thought some crumbled amaretti biscuits would be perfect sprinkled over the top. Apricots will start to disappear from the market stalls soon, and so I thought I'd make the most of them while they're still around and still cheap - a sort of last hurrah for the humble apricot, if you will. They go so well with almonds, and I've never actually tried them in a cake before, but thought their delightful sharp tartness and beautiful marigold colouring would look and taste delicious strewn through a dense, nutty, moist cake.

My only problem with the greengage cake last time was that, because all the fruit was on top, the actual cake mixture was a little dry underneath. I thought I'd address that minor issue by putting half the apricots on the bottom of the cake tin, and half on top of the cake batter. Unfortunately, this still didn't improve the cake as much as I'd hoped, because the mixture rises quite a lot so you have a vast expanse of unfruited cakey desert in between the two apricot layers - I can only conclude that the solution is to stir half the fruit through the cake batter and scatter the rest on top, so I've altered the recipe below to suggest that instead.

Apart from that, this cake is just wonderful. It has a delicious nutty flavour from the spelt flour, a freshness from lemon zest, a lovely moisture from the inclusion of buttermilk, tart bursts of juicy apricots throughout, and finally that delightful crunchy almond topping. Next time I make it I'm going to use more amaretti biscuits and flaked almonds to make it even crunchier.

As expected, the ProCook scales make baking this a lot easier than the balancing variety, although in an ideal world I'd probably use ProCook's other digital scales, simply because then you can just put the bowl on top and add everything in at once, zeroing the scales in between. While I like the appearance and the big bowl of the mechanical variety, the only problem is the measuring dial - because they're designed to weigh up to 5kg, it's very hard to accurately weigh out quantities under 100g. Which doesn't really matter if you're making big cakes or loaves of bread, but for something more fiddly - like the dreaded macarons - I'd recommend the digital version for accuracy.

What I love about this cake is that it's a great blueprint for numerous variations. You could use peaches, plums, raspberries, blueberries, pears, apples - pretty much any fruit whatsoever instead of the apricots. You could swap the almond flavouring for vanilla, or orange flower, or rosewater, or lemon, or cinnamon. Just thinking about all these makes me want to start trying them out, but I still have a third of this version left to be devoured.

Whatever you try, you will be rewarded with a substantial, satisfyingly rustic cake, delicious warm as a pudding with ice cream, or equally good served for afternoon tea with a hot beverage.

Do you, like my mother, have a fondness for a particular piece of archaic kitchen equipment? Or do you prefer modern gadgets as a rule?

Apricot and amaretti cake (serves 8-10):

• 10 apricots, stone removed
• 60g butter
• 2 eggs
• 300ml buttermilk or natural yoghurt
• Zest of 1 lemon
• 70g light muscovado sugar
• A generous pinch of salt
• 1 tsp almond essence
• 300g spelt flour
• 1 tbsp baking powder
• 6 amaretti biscuits
• 2 tbsp demerara sugar
• 3 tbsp flaked almonds

Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Grease a 28cm tart or quiche tin (you could also make this in a 22cm cake tin) and line the bottom with baking parchment. 

Melt the butter in a large bowl and allow to cool a little. Whisk in the eggs, buttermilk, muscovado sugar, lemon zest, almond essence and salt. Sift in the flour and baking powder, then mix until just combined.

Roughly chop half the apricots and mix them gently into the cake batter until evenly dispersed.

Pour the cake batter over the apricots in the tin, then thinly slice the remaining apricots and scatter them over the top (you can be neat and arrange them in concentric circles, or you can just throw them on randomly). Crumble the amaretti biscuits (you can blitz them in a food processor or just roughly crumble them using your fingers) and scatter over the top of the fruit, along with the flaked almonds and demerara sugar.

Bake for 40 minutes or until golden brown and firm on top, and a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean.

Honey mango tartlets with basil sugar

I was amazed by the number of responses to a recent Facebook status of mine. I simply updated the world with the fact that "Elly McCausland may have just purchased twenty mangoes", and an hour or so later there were 24 comments. I usually think of this blog as pure self-indulgence, a way of reminding myself that perhaps I'm not completely useless in life and can at least throw together a decent meal and take a half-decent photo. I still think that no one actually reads my posts or cares about the super-delicious cake I baked yesterday or my plans for this season's fruit. Yet I'm constantly surprised by the rate at which my readers are growing (I don't mean literally, though if they are also cooking from this blog as well as reading it, they may well be growing physically too!) Every time I receive a comment on a blog post it feels like an exciting novelty. Few things have made me happier than the time a friend made my fruit cheesecake recipe and posted pictures of the success on Facebook, or when another friend of mine informed me that her mum had been using recipes from my blog, because "it's such a good cooking resource!" I appreciate every single comment, whether from friends who are my avid followers and seem to read about everything I make, or from people I don't know who have just stumbled across this blog and found they rather liked it (they were probably looking for Jamie Oliver's fish recipe or Nigella's teriyaki chicken, which is how most people find this site...but I'm sure it's only a matter of time before a quick google of 'Elly McCausland's sheer gastronomic genius' is the most popular referral for this blog).

So thank you, everyone who reads and/or says nice things about Nutmegs, Seven. It's lovely to know that there are so many people out there who not only condone but actively support my greed.

It seemed everyone cared about my purchase of twenty mangoes, which was good in that it made me feel a little less tragic for being the food equivalent of a bag lady, buying bulk quantities of fruit in season and hoarding it like a mad thing. I couldn't resist; the boxes were three for £10 and I still feel like there is so much culinary potential inherent in these golden beauties that just has to be tried out now before they disappear until next year.

Incidentally, I wanted to share an anecdote with my avid readers. It has long been a suspicion of mine that mass-produced supermarket fruit and veg just doesn't taste as good as that you either pick yourself or get from markets and smaller producers. However, I have often told myself that this is just snobbery, and that I need to make my peace with Tesco because, fundamentally, fruit is fruit. However, the other week I received nigh-categorical proof that I am actually correct. You know these Pakistani mangoes I've been raving about for weeks? I've probably bought about eight boxes now, all from the Indian grocers down Cowley Road in Oxford. That's nearly 40 mangoes. They're not always in the same packaging, so I suspect they're from different suppliers, but the quality has been consistent and the mangoes always have the same addictive, ambrosial, slightly musky sweetness and beautiful golden flesh. They're miles off anything I've ever had from a supermarket; even the best supermarket mangoes, compared to these, are watery, underripe, and lacking in complexity, flavour-wise.

Imagine my surprise when I saw my local Tesco, one of those small metro ones you get in city centres, stocking boxes of Pakistani mangoes for £5 each (four large mangoes per box). I was very surprised; usually Pakistani and Indian mangoes are a well-kept secret, something that the supermarkets can't be bothered with, probably due to the faff of transporting perfectly ripe fruit on a huge scale. I've certainly never seen them in mainstream stores, but here they were. Intrigued to compare them to the mangoes I'd already gorged myself on, I bought a box. The best way to judge whether to get a box of mangoes is if you can smell their ripe scent from a foot away. Unfortunately these were wrapped in plastic so I couldn't judge, but they felt fairly ripe (again, a first for a supermarket mango).

Can you guess which is which? (The smaller one is from the Indian grocer, the oblong giant in the background is Tesco's offering).

And guess what, dear readers? They weren't the same. Firstly, they were larger and more uniformly shaped than the other variety. Secondly, they didn't have that seductive aroma. Thirdly, they tasted different. Texturally, they were similar to the mangoes I'd got in Cowley; the flesh did have that buttery ripeness, but it was slightly paler, without that shocking marigold hue, and slightly firmer to bite into. Somehow, the flavour just wasn't the same. It was more reminiscent of your average supermarket mango; not as sweet, more tart, without that intense, sugary hit of nectar I was so enamoured of. They were definitely nice, and definitely better than normal stringy mangoes from Tesco, but they were very different and slightly inferior to the others. I'd say they were a perfected version of the supermarket mango breed, but the supermarket mango is fundamentally inferior. Interestingly, a week or so later, the Tesco mangoes are in much better condition than the other ones, which have started to crinkle and go a bit black, which again makes me wonder what kind of weird things Tesco do to their produce to give it a longer shelf life.

Being a bit sad, I thought this was really interesting - it seems to prove my point that the supermarkets do seem to get hold of the more bland and unexciting produce, and taint it with their obsessive desire for uniformity and a pristine though flavourless product. Even though these mangoes were also Pakistani, and looked similar to the ones I was used to, they did not match up on quality. Maybe there is something in my hunch that fruit really does taste better when it's been nowhere near the soulless, sterile confines of a supermarket.

Back to my twenty mangoes, then (some of which were these Tesco ones). I had several suggestions on Facebook as to how to use them: sorbet, grilled, in a guacamole, mashed in a cake like banana, in a tart, in a curd...my mind was racing with possibilities. I tried a couple of savoury recipes, like the smoked chicken and mango rice salad, but it was the dessert potential that excited me more (because, let's face it, I love dessert). Since my mango cheesecake had been such a success, I decided to further explore the combination of ripe mango with creamy dairy. Initially I was going to make a tart with a coconut and biscuit crust, filled with coconut-scented pastry cream and topped with sliced mango and raspberries. Now that I've just typed that, I cannot for the life of me remember why I didn't make it...am I mad?!

I think reality got in the way; we didn't get home until late and the last thing I wanted to do was faff around making pastry cream (in my head it's always really simple...but it involves a lot of different bowls, pans and general mess, as well as patience to sit and stir a mixture that is apparently never going to thicken). However, there was a pack of filo pastry that needed using, as well as half a tub of ricotta. Ricotta is now my preferred filling for fruit tarts; I can't believe it doesn't seem to be more widely used. All you need to do is stir in a little icing sugar and you have an instant foil for a topping of ripe, juicy fruit. You retain that slight dairy tang, which is a beautiful match for sweetness of any kind, and it has more texture against the fruit than pastry cream. It's basically a sort of lazy person's cheesecake.

I made little filo tart shells and filled them with ricotta. In this case I didn't actually sweeten it at all, because the mangoes are so sweet. Instead, I grated in the zest of a lime and a little juice. The ricotta still had a subtle cheese flavour but also the wonderful zestiness of citrus. Seeing no point in messing with such a wonderful raw material, I just sliced the mangoes into strips and laid them atop the creamy filling.

The basil sugar was a last-minute thought. We have four basil plants sitting in the kitchen now, after I brought two home from Oxford, and I guess they caught my eye as I was making these tarts. I'm a big believer in the sweet uses of basil, churned in ice cream or torn roughly over strawberries or peaches. I just had a hunch that it would work well with the mango, its sharp fragrance tempering the intense sweetness of the golden flesh. Basil is also excellent with lime, so it seemed a possibility worth exploring.

Rather than chop it and stir it into the ricotta, which I thought might end up with the unpleasant sensation of big bits of herb in your teeth, I whizzed it in the food processor with some granulated sugar. Again, I have no idea where this idea came from. I'm sure the combination is stored deep in my long-term gastronomic memory; maybe I read a recipe for it once or ate it in a restaurant (though the latter is unlikely, as I can remember pretty much any meal I've ever eaten in a restaurant). I was sure it would be a success as soon as I tasted a little of the green, fragrant crystals: like the first time I tasted my homemade basil ice cream, I was amazed at the magic a little sugar can work on an ingredient as basic as basil. It's almost as if it belongs with sugar just as much as it belongs with tomatoes.

I scattered the sugar over the tarts, and that was it. They were totally and utterly delicious. The filo was wafer-thin, turning from crispy to meltingly soft in the mouth. The ricotta was zesty from the lime but still thick, creamy and crumbly, an ideal blanket for the mangoes, whose sugary juice and unctuous flesh was gorgeous against the cheese and pastry. Finally, the fragrant crunch of the basil sugar balanced all the flavours and added an intriguing herbal note. I never would have put mango and basil together in a sweet dish before; now I can't wait to experiment with the combination again.

These tarts are incredibly easy to put together, and they're a perfect way to show off the quality of some really good mangoes (so I'd recommend you don't use Tesco ones!)

So tell me, dear readers - have you noticed a real difference between supermarket and non-supermarket produce? Or is it just me? And, most importantly, what would you do with twenty mangoes? 

Honey mango tartlets with basil sugar (makes 4):

• 2 sheets filo pastry
• Melted butter
• Half a tub of ricotta cheese
• Zest of a lime and 2 tsp juice
• 1-2 honey mangoes
• 2 tbsp granulated sugar
• About 10 leaves of basil

Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Brush one of the filo sheets with the melted butter and layer the other over the top. Brush four mini tart tins with melted butter. Cut the filo sheet into squares large enough to fill each tart tin - my filo cut into nine, but if your sheets are bigger you might manage twelve. Place one square inside each tart tin, then brush it with melted butter and layer over another, tucking the edges in neatly. You will have one square left - either add it to one of the tins or throw it away.

Brush the pastry cases with melted butter, prick the bases with a fork and bake in the oven for 10 minutes until golden and crisp. Remove and leave to cool, then take out of the tins and line up on a plate.

Mix the ricotta with the lime zest and juice - taste, you might want more lime juice. Spoon it into the cooled pastry cases. Peel and slice or cube the mangoes - I only used one, but if you want more mango on the tarts then use two - and arrange the fruit on top of the ricotta.

For the basil sugar, place the sugar and basil in a blender and whizz until blended, fragrant and green. Sprinkle over the tarts to serve.

Poached apricot tartlets with Chai tea ice cream

The sight of the season's first apricots never fails to fill me with joy. It's probably more of a novelty thing than anything else, because apricots are one of the few fruits you don't find all year round. If I remember correctly they seem to have two seasons here in the UK; early winter, and summer - it depends on where in the world they're being shipped from. In the winter it's usually Africa, but now the Spanish and French varieties are starting to appear, and I couldn't be more excited about their culinary potential. I say culinary, rather than gastronomic, because I rarely use or consume apricots raw. There always has to be a modicum of cookery involved, because otherwise I find they are often woolly and bland inside - highly disappointing given the promise heralded by their gorgeous blushing skins. Once heat has been applied, however, the humble apricot transforms into something ethereal; sweet, tart, tender, and beautiful to behold.

I either roast or poach apricots. When they're in the shops, I will eat them for breakfast for weeks on end, dolloped generously atop a huge bowl of steaming porridge into which I've mixed chopped dates, sultanas, and ground cinnamon. It's probably my all-time favourite breakfast; the chewy, caramelly dates go so well with the tartness of the fruit. When the apricots aren't very ripe, as the early ones in the season often aren't, my preference is for poaching them. No matter how underripe your fruit, if you treat it in this way it is bound to be glorious. I just put the halved and stoned apricots in a pan with a splash of orange flower water, a few crushed cardamom pods, a few cloves, a cinnamon stick and a star anise, pour in enough water to half cover the fruit, put the lid on the pan and let it simmer away on a low heat for 20-30 minutes. The resulting elixir is amazing; some of the apricots stay whole and tender, while others dissolve into a gorgeous orange puree. The orange flower water lifts the flavour to new dimensions altogether; I think it was in a Nigel Slater book where I first read about using this ingredient with apricots, and it's a marriage made in heaven.

I have to say, though, despite having just gone on and on about how exciting the new season apricots are, they were actually more of an afterthought in this dessert. It originally started with a vehement desire to make Chai tea ice cream. Impressed with the success of my Earl Grey ice cream, and various herbal/floral ice creams I've made recently (bay leaf was particularly good) I thought the spices of Chai tea would be incredible in frozen form. A dessert combining my favourite things: tea, spices, and ice cream? Definitely.

I love Chai tea. I prefer to drink it black, rather than in the form of Chai tea lattes, simply because I find them a bit too cloying after a few mouthfuls. I have fond memories of Starbucks dates with a good friend of mine, in which he'd always order a Chai latte and I'd order a cappuccino (and then douse it in all the available sprinkles - the presence of shakeable nutmeg never failed to send me into a frenzy of delight), and then sit there inhaling the sweet aroma of the Chai spices and wishing I'd ordered one too. I do have a bit of an obsession with fragrant spices, which I suppose is what draws me to Middle Eastern cuisine so much, and the mixture of cardamom, cloves, fennel seeds, pepper, ginger, cinnamon and tea promised an amazing ice cream.

I used some Chai tea from a little tea caddy sitting on my windowsill, but supplemented it with a few extra spices for maximum flavour: a cinnamon stick, a piece of fresh ginger, some crushed cardamom pods, and some cloves. The mixture sat happily atop the milk and cream base for an hour or so to infuse. When I first made tea ice cream, I didn't really consider the fact that, of course, black tea stains liquid, and you end up with a pale beige colour. I rather like this effect; it makes the ice cream look much more interesting and also the colour has a hint of caramel about it. I whisked egg yolks with sugar, added them to the milk and cream base, stirred it over heat to form a custard, then put it in the fridge.

Incidentally, I'm not sure if this is normal, but my ice cream bases always separate when I chill them in the fridge overnight. I end up with a thick, set layer of mousse on top of a layer of cream. It doesn't seem to be detrimental in any way, and I just mix it up again with a spatula before putting it in the ice cream machine...though if any keen ice cream makers are reading this, I'd be interested to know if that happens to everyone. Maybe it's just my ineptitude at making custard (or, more likely, my impatience when making custard, so I stop before it's properly thickened).

For the tarts, I used filo. I was going to make a proper sweet pastry, but I decided the papery, melt-in-the-mouth texture of filo would be better with the sharp apricots and the Chai spices. I made the cases by just layering a few filo sheets with butter and pressing them into some mini tart tins. The effect is very rustic; definitely not the neat, French-patisserie style tart case you'd get with proper pastry, but I quite like the feather-lightness of these tart shells.

To fill them, apricots poached as I described above. They were an incredible vivid orange colour once they'd softened; I think it must have been a particular batch I got from the market, because a recent purchase didn't nearly compare in colour. These were bordering on neon orange. I spooned the jammy, tender compote into the baked tart cases, dusted with a little icing sugar, and garnished with a scoop of Chai tea ice cream. I now think that some toasted almonds or pistachios would have made the tarts look even better, but in the frenzy of plating up nine desserts my presentation skills tend to slip a little.

The flavour combination in this dessert is fantastic. The sweet spices from the ice cream perfectly complement the tart fruit (I never add any sugar when poaching apricots; I don't feel they need it and I like my fruit with a sour edge). The compote and ice cream would actually be perfect without the filo, but it adds a lovely crunch and it also looks pretty. The ice cream is difficult to describe; when I served it, everyone asked me what it was, and I told them to guess. "Toffee" and "praline" were the first guesses, though that was before anyone tried it and so down to the lovely tea colouring. After that, we had "lapsang souchong", "coffee", "cinnamon", "ginger", "green tea" and a few more ridiculous speculations until I finally told them what it was. I suppose it's because there are so many different spices involved, it's hard to pinpoint just one. And that is the beauty of this ice cream; every mouthful, I think, tastes slightly different. It would be wonderful just on its own on a hot summer day, or with most fruit-based desserts (I am very keen to try it with mangoes, given the Indian link).

Poached apricot tartlets with Chai tea ice cream (serves 8; easily adapted for smaller numbers):

• 300ml whipping cream
• 300ml whole milk
• 2 tbsp Chai tea
• 4 cardamom pods, crushed
• 3 cloves
• A slice of fresh ginger
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 star anise
• 5 egg yolks
• 130g caster sugar
• A generous pinch of salt

(You could re-use the spices for the apricot compote below if you don't have enough - just wash and dry them in between uses).

• 6 sheets filo pastry
• Melted butter, for brushing
• 500g fresh apricots, halved and stoned
• Water
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2 cardamom pods, crushed
• 2 tsp orange flower water
• 2 cloves
• 1 star anise
• 1 cinnamon stick

First, make the ice cream. Place the milk and cream in a pan, add the tea and spices, bring to the boil and turn off the heat. Leave to infuse for at least an hour - keep tasting, and leave until it's strong enough for you. Strain into a jug and either discard the spices or reserve for the compote.

Whisk the egg yolks with the caster sugar until doubled in volume, thick and creamy. Gradually add the milk and cream, whisking to incorporate, then pour it all into a pan. Gently heat, stirring continuously, until the mixture thickens like custard. This will take 10 minutes or more. Add the salt to taste - it will bring out the flavour of the spices. Put in the fridge and chill overnight, then churn in an ice cream machine and put in the freezer to set.

For the apricot compote, place the halved apricots in a pan and half cover with water. Add the spices and flower water, bring to the boil, then put a lid on and simmer very gently for about 20-30 minutes. You want the fruit to be tender, but some of the apricots to still keep their shape.

For the tart cases, pre-heat the oven to 180C. Take one filo sheet, brush with melted butter, and place another on top, then do the same with a third layer. Cut into four squares (or rectangles, depending on the dimension of your filo sheets), and press each into a small buttered tart tin or ramekin to make a rough cup shape. Brush with melted butter, then repeat with the other three filo sheets to make eight cases.

Bake for about 5 minutes, until golden brown. Remove to a cooling rack. When cool, spoon in the apricot compote. Dust with icing sugar and serve with the Chai ice cream.

A dessert for the Royal Wedding

I immensely enjoyed watching the royal wedding today. I think this is very much due to the fact that I am an ardent lover of Disney princess films. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I think the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton possesses an astonishing number of characteristics reminiscent of this iconic genre. It's essentially the plot of Beauty and the Beast. The part where she walked out onto the balcony to be greeted by thousands of screaming patriots? Almost exactly like the part in Aladdin where Jasmine thrusts the future king out onto a balcony in front of the entire population of Agrabah, and he's not entirely sure how to cope with such attention. I loved it. I hadn't really been bothered until it actually came up on the television, and I am not ashamed to admit I had to get my boyfriend to fetch me a piece of kitchen roll to dry my eyes. (Kitchen roll, not a tissue - that would have required going upstairs and possibly missing priceless nuptial action).

I tend to express my feelings best through the medium of food, so naturally I thought it would be appropriate to bake something in celebration of this great event. The result is a hazelnut, white chocolate and summer berry tart that incorporates the red, white and blue of our national flag. It's a twist on the traditional French fruit tarts you find in bakeries everywhere, the hazelnut pastry and white chocolate filling making it something rather special, just like the occasion itself. I like to think it's a perfect piece of confectionary for today's event: a mixture of classic, time-honoured tradition, and modernity.

I decided on a hazelnut pastry because I wanted something crunchy and rich to contrast with the very sweet white chocolate filling and the tartness of the berries. I deliberated between hazelnuts and almonds, but the former won, because they have more depth of flavour. I roasted them and ground them before mixing them with butter, flour, sugar and egg yolk. It's a very rich pastry, almost impossible to roll out without it crumbling everywhere. In the end I just put it all in the tart tin and pressed it into shape, which worked perfectly well. You end up with the most delicious crust, rather like the base of a cheesecake but better. It tastes like a digestive biscuit with hazelnuts in, and is the perfect crunchy foil to the melting filling.

I blind baked the tart crust before filling it; the smell from the oven was sublime. The pastry was buttery enough that it didn't stick to the tin, and so it was easy to pull away the casing. I put it in the fridge to chill while I made the pastry cream; a gorgeous thick custard, it was the wedding dress of my royal wedding tart.

I've made pastry cream a couple of times before. It's similar to making an ice cream custard base, but it thickens more. I whisked egg yolks and cornflour to a thick, yellow paste before adding warmed milk infused with vanilla, then stirring the whole thing over a low heat until it thickened. Every time I do this, I'm surprised by how quickly the mixture turns: you stir for ages and ages and it still has the consistency of milk, and then suddenly, a few seconds later, it thickens into something unctuous and spoonable. I stirred in some melted white chocolate to sweeten it; normally I'd add sugar to the egg yolks but in this case the chocolate was sweet enough.

Once the pastry cream had chilled in the fridge I spooned it into the tart case, and decorated the top with blueberries, sliced strawberries, and raspberries. Red, white and blue; the Union Jack in tart form. I think it looks rather spectacular, and much more labour-intensive than it actually was. Unlike the royal wedding, which looked effortlessly perfect (apart from that bit where it looked like the ring wasn't going to fit) yet which I'm sure has been years in the rehearsing.

As for the taste, it has all the delicious creaminess and textural contrast of something out of a Parisian bakery, but with a gorgeous nuttiness from the hazelnut crust and a vanilla-scented sweetness from the white chocolate pastry cream. The mixture of pastry, custard and sharp berries is beautiful, and I think the best part is the crust, which is like the kind of fabulous biscuit you might dream about.

I would urge you to try making this tart one day. It's actually quite easy - the only vaguely tricky part is making the pastry cream, but all you have to do is make sure you don't heat it too strongly or it will turn to scrambled egg. Other than that, the pastry can be made in a blender and the assembly of the tart takes no more than about ten minutes.

I've been singing the national anthem all day. I've watched the wedding at least three times, as the TV has been on for several hours and they've recapped the highlights constantly. I feel full of patriotic British spirit; my only regret is that I didn't bring this tart to share with the crowd assembled outside Buckingham Palace. I'm sure it would have made the perfect sustenance for a day celebrating a wonderful moment in British history. I bet Kate would have liked it too. Though the juicy berries would have been hazardous anywhere near that beautiful dress.

Royal Wedding hazelnut and white chocolate fruit tart (serves 8-10):

• 50g hazelnuts, toasted
• 140g plain flour
• 100g cold butter, cubed
• 50g brown sugar
• 1 egg yolk
• 25g cornflour
• 3 egg yolks
• 400ml milk
• 1 vanilla pod, split
• 160g white chocolate, melted
• Summer berries, to decorate

First, make the pastry. Pre-heat the oven to 200C. Put the hazelnuts in a blender and grind fairly finely. Add the flour, sugar and butter and pulse until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk. Tip the mixture out onto a floured work surface and pull together into a ball. 

Grease a tart tin with a removable bottom (mine was about 22cm I think) and press the pastry into it. You can try to roll it out with a rolling pin: it will crack a bit, but just put the pieces into the tin and press together like a jigsaw puzzle. Line the pastry with greaseproof paper and fill with baking beans. Bake for 10 minutes, then remove the paper and beans and bake for another 10. Relish the nutty, buttery scent emerging from your oven.

Meanwhile, heat the milk and vanilla pod until just boiling, then remove from the heat. When the pastry crust is cool, remove from the tin and place on a plate. Chill in the fridge.

For the pastry cream, use an electric whisk to mix together the cornflour and egg yolks; the mixture will be very thick. Add a little of the infused milk (remove the vanilla pod) to the yolks and whisk, then add the rest. Pour it into a saucepan and heat gently, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens. Don't heat it too much, and give it time; mine took over ten minutes to finally thicken, but it will turn eventually. Leave it to cool for about five minutes, then stir in the melted chocolate. Put it in a bowl covered with cling film and chill in the fridge for a few hours.

To assemble the tart, spoon the pastry cream into the hazelnut crust. Top with berries or other fruit as you like, and decorate with sprigs of mint and a dusting of icing sugar. This is best served after it has been out of the fridge for about 15 minutes.