The Botanical Kitchen

SUCH ARE the effects of a single meal in Laura Esquivel’s captivating magical realist novel, Like Water for Chocolate. The protagonist Tita has a ‘sixth sense’ about everything concerning food, and her preparation of numerous exotic and seductive dishes is interspersed throughout the narrative with the tale of her emotional life and her fraught romance with her lover, Pedro. On this occasion Tita’s dish of quail in rose petal sauce is so potent that it causes her sister, Gertrudis, to strip naked and elope on horseback with a visiting soldier, lust leaping ‘from her eyes, from her every pore’ and rose-scented sweat dripping from her body. What else could you expect from eating a dish that contains twelve red roses, rose essence, a dragon fruit and several tablespoons of honey?

This isn’t the only time that floral food has been responsible for a moment of madness on the part of a literary character. C. S. Lewis’s Edmund betrays his siblings to the White Witch of Narnia for a taste of Turkish delight, a sweet traditionally flavoured with musk or rose oil. Odysseus’s fellow travellers nearly succumb to the soporific and stultifying powers of the lotus blossom, which makes men ‘long to stay on forever, browsing on/that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland’. Even Proust’s famous madeleines are dipped in a ‘decoction of lime-flowers’. Flowers exert a powerful hold over the literary and the culinary imagination, associated with luxury, excess and lasciviousness. Hardly surprising, given their long-standing connection with the tables of royalty and nobility.

Cooking with flowers is perhaps the closest one can get to the imperial palaces of China, the courts of ancient Persia or the banquet tables of medieval England. Chrysanthemum flowers have been used in east Asian cooking for thousands of years, and Japan’s Edo period, often cited as a high point for the blossoming of Japanese culture, also saw the blossoming of cherry petals in hot water to make sakuracha, cherry blossom tea, believed to bring good fortune. The Romans, Persians, Chinese and Greeks distilled flavoured waters and syrups from the petals of rose, jasmine, geranium, lily, orange and hibiscus flowers. Medieval cooks in England whipped up sweet and savoury dishes using rose and ‘blomes of elren’ (elderflowers), and Elizabeth I ordered that the royal table should never be without a conserve of lavender. There is something unmistakably regal about scattering fragrant petals into your food, and the dishes we associate with floral flavours today are still those of luxury and decadence: Turkish delight, lavender shortbread, candied violets.

Perhaps the most renowned culinary flower is saffron, derived from the stamens of the saffron crocus and famously worth more than its weight in gold. It takes 150,000 crocus flowers to make a kilo of saffron, and the flowers cannot grow wild or reproduce without human nurture, so you can start to understand the fiendishly high price tag. The name saffron derives from the Arabic word for yellow, and it has been valued in both religious and economic terms since at least the Bronze Age. Used as a dye, deodorant, medicine, perfume and cosmetic in addition to its culinary potential, saffron contains the chemicals safranal and picrocrocin which give it an alluring, subtly metallic taste particularly well suited to seafood dishes and baked goods (consider the Cornish saffron cake, made at Easter and Christmas, which is thought to be a legacy of Phoenician traders). Food writer Niki Segnit describes it perfectly as combining ‘the flavours of sea air, sweet dried grass and a hint of rusting metal’. Iranian saffron is some of the best, and most expensive, in the world, but cheaper substitutes are available if you want some of saffron’s potent colour and flavour without the price tag: safflower, a type of thistle often called ‘bastard saffron’, is good at replicating the colour and ferric tang of the real deal, while Norwegian brand Aukrust markets dried calendula flowers as ‘the saffron of the North’. I’m not sure how well this marketing would have gone down in the fifteenth century, where traders of fake saffron were often burned alive on funeral pyres built out of sacks of their fraudulent produce, but if these substitutes enable you to get a taste of the musky magic that saffron can bring to both sweet and savoury dishes, I’m all for them. To make the most out of this expensive luxury, steep strands in hot (but not boiling) liquid and add to dishes towards the end of cooking, so as not to damage the liquid’s delicate aroma. Cleopatra, who reputedly bathed in saffron-scented mare’s milk before sex, used this technique, but I think a good bouillabaisse, braise or bun is probably a better (and more economical) use, if I’m honest.

While there is the very real risk that too much flower power will leave food tasting like your grandmother’s bubble bath (or, as Segnit puts it, make you feel like you are ‘being pressed to your auntie’s perfumed cleavage’), a whisper of floral fragrance goes a long way, and not only when reaching for the sugar bowl. Savoury dishes can benefit from the lightening effect of floral notes: think of the Moroccan habit of including crushed dried rose petals in the fiery, chilli paste harissa and the complex spice blend ras el hanout; or the Indian and Persian tendency to enrich layered rice dishes with a handful of rose. The Spanish call chamomile manzanilla, ‘little apple’, hinting at its potential for inclusion alongside ingredients such as scallops, pork and herbs, although its mellow earthiness is also well suited to dairy-based desserts such as panna cotta and ice cream. It is most commonly used in tea form, but has yet to emerge as a mainstream culinary ingredient.

The herbal, astringent tang of lavender is an excellent counterpoint to stone fruits such as peaches and apricots, but also works well alongside the sweeter meats such as duck and lamb. Its name derives from the Latin lavare, to wash, and it remains a staple of the perfume industry. The plant also has a darker side – it is so rich in volatile oils that they can spontaneously combust in the heat of the summer, triggering a heath fire that causes the seeds to germinate. You can add some of this explosive power to your cooking with just a pinch of the intense dried or fresh buds, whose natural partners include rosemary, lemon, thyme and soft cheeses. Incidentally, bees love lavender, so consider adding a couple of plants to your balcony, windowsill or garden. Dry the buds in summer and you will end up with a supply to last you the year round. If you can get your hands on intensely rich lavender honey, it is well worth experimenting with. Less advisable is using lavender as protection against the plague, as grave robbers did during the seventeenth century.

I have included vanilla in this chapter because, although technically a seed pod, it comes from Vanilla planifolia, the only orchid cultivated for the purpose of flavouring food, and because its status as a highly sought-after and increasingly expensive ingredient is largely to do with the unique properties of its flowers, which are notoriously difficult to pollinate. Outside its native environment (South America), no natural pollinators exist, so the flowers must be meticulously pollinated by hand in its largest growing areas: Mauritius, Tahiti, Madagascar and the Bourbon Islands. Growers can do this only during the 24 hours that the orchid remains in bloom – no wonder vanilla is expensive.

Add to this the need to mature the pods on the vine for six to nine months, to then dry them in the sun and wrap them in blankets to prompt fermentation, and finally to cure them in airtight boxes, and you may also understand why much of the nearly 5.5 million tonnes of vanilla used every year in commercial food production (including ice cream and Coca-Cola) is synthetically derived from coal tar or byproducts of the paper-making process. This vanillin is chemically identical to that of the vanilla bean, so although it is often described as ‘fake’, this is not technically true; however, real vanilla pods contain more than 250 other flavour compounds besides vanillin, so have a much richer taste. Don’t despair if you have to settle for cheaper vanilla flavourings, though – blind tastings often find people unable to tell the difference in baking recipes (but they are more discerning when it comes to custard, so save your precious pods for special custard occasions like the London Fog ice cream.

Cooking with flowers is also a way to capture a fleeting moment of high summer. If you can find them, fresh elderflowers work astoundingly well with ripe, sweet tomatoes, an unlikely combination introduced to me in a Japanese restaurant. However, for a taste of their perfume throughout the rest of the year, sweet elderflower cordial makes an excellent substitute, a way to experience a taste of medieval England in the tart recipe here. Nasturtium flowers, the beloved garnish of every aspiring Michelin-starred chef, do actually have a practical purpose, contributing a sharp, peppery bite to salads. Violets, recommended for consumption in the seventeenth century because they ‘preserveth against Madnesse’, make a delightful edible decoration for a variety of desserts, in both fresh and candied form (I cannot vouch for their effect on your sanity). A legacy of medieval culinary practice, flower waters – rose, orange blossom and geranium – work beautifully to perfume the crumb of sponges, cheesecakes and custards, and are an excellent way to introduce floral intrigue to your cooking outside the season for fresh petals. Flowers are also a good example of the intuitive rule that ‘what grows together goes together’: it simply makes culinary sense to nestle a few bushy sprigs of lavender among a tray of plump baked apricots drizzled with honey, or to perfume an apple compote with a few whiskers of rust-scented saffron.

Just be careful, though, that you don’t take it too far, and find yourself being whisked into the sunset by a semi-naked Mexican warrior on horseback.

Tips & tricks

*If using fresh petals, try to grow your own or buy organic, to ensure you are not consuming harmful pesticides.

*Always err on the side of less when using flowers in the kitchen, especially flower waters: you can add more later, if the floral fragrance isn’t strong enough for your liking, but once you take your dish into bubble bath (or perfumed cleavage) territory, there is no going back.

*You don’t always have to find fresh flowers – although we live in a world of air freighting and mass worldwide agriculture, you are still never going to get fresh elderflowers out of season. Dried petals or flower waters are just as useful in the kitchen: rose, lavender, chamomile and elderflower are all available in dried form, and rose and orange-blossom waters are a convenient way of having those other-worldly perfumes on tap. Just remember that flower waters and dried petals will have a stronger, more concentrated flavour than fresh flowers, so adjust recipes accordingly.

*Nasturtium flowers are very easy to grow in the summer, and you can pickle the seed pods and use them in a similar way to capers.

*Jane Grigson, in her Fruit Book, dares to assume that ‘everyone keeps a jar of caster sugar with four or more vanilla pods embedded in it. And that as the sugar goes down, it is replenished. That as the pods are used, they are washed, dried and replaced, and renewed from time to time.’ I advise you to satisfy her presumption. Storing your expensive pods in this way enables you to maximise their potential. After use infusing ice cream or custard, simply rinse them gently and dry them on kitchen paper before returning to the jar. Waste not, want not. You can use the sugar in baking.

*Dried rose petals are available to buy in Middle Eastern shops, as is rose harissa and ras el hanout, both of which combine spice and petal to delicious effect.

*Leave your own petals on a tray in a warm place to dry, or dry them in a low oven (or the sun, weather permitting). Lavender works particularly well, and you can then store it in an airtight container for later use.

*Steep slit vanilla pods in a small bottle of vodka to make your own vanilla extract. Leave for at least a month before using. I also like to place half a pod in a spice grinder with a good quantity of flaky sea salt and blitz to make a vanilla salt, useful in baking recipes that require ‘a pinch of salt’ (as nearly all mine do).

*Use fresh elderflowers as quickly as possible after picking, before they start to smell like cat urine (apparently – I have never been unfortunate enough to sample this).

If you can find Persian or Amalfi lemons, available in late winter and early spring in specialist shops, I highly recommend using them for this recipe. This is a Mediterranean or Provençal summer in loaf form, perfect for tearing and sharing with a green salad and some chilled rosé. Use a good-quality olive oil and don’t skimp – the oil-drenched crumb is what makes focaccia so irresistible. If you’re not a fan of lavender, halve the quantity or leave it out, substituting for fresh thyme or oregano leaves. Feta would also work in place of the goat’s cheese, but in that case omit the flaky sea salt at the end.

Put the water into a jug and stir in the sugar. If using fresh yeast, crumble in the yeast, stir well to combine, then set aside for 10 minutes. If using dried yeast, don’t add the yeast yet.

Put the flour in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a dough hook, or a large bowl if kneading by hand. Sprinkle the 8g of salt over the flour on one side of the bowl. Make a well in the middle of the flour and add 40ml of the olive oil and 1½ teaspoons of the lavender. Add the lemon zest. If using dried yeast, sprinkle it into the bowl on the opposite side to the salt.

Pour the water, yeast and sugar mixture into the bowl (or the water and sugar mixture if using dried yeast), on the opposite side to where you put the salt. Using the dough hook or your hands, bring the mixture together into a wet dough. You may need slightly more water – it is supposed to be a wet, sticky dough, so avoid the temptation to add more flour. Knead in the mixer for about 10 minutes, or on an oiled work surface if kneading by hand, until you have an elastic, slightly sticky dough.

Grease a 3-litre plastic container with oil. Tip the dough into it, cover with a tea towel and leave to rise, in a warm place if possible, for around 1–2 hours – it should double in size.

Once the dough has doubled in size, lightly grease an oven dish or tray with high sides (measuring about 35 x 26 x 6cm) with oil and line it with baking parchment. Tip the dough from the plastic box into the centre of the oven dish, trying to keep as much air in it as possible. Gently stretch the dough out to the sides, so it just about covers the bottom of the dish or tray. Again, try to leave as much air in it as possible – don’t knock it back.

Top and tail the zested lemons, then slice them as thinly as possible using your sharpest knife. Flick out any seeds from the slices. Cut each slice in half so you have half-moon shapes. Arrange the lemon slices over the surface of the dough in the dish. Cover the dish with a tea towel and leave for a further 1 hour, until the dough has roughly doubled in size again.

Poke your finger into the dough, all the way to the bottom, to make indentations all over. Crumble the goat’s cheese over the dough, sprinkle the remaining lavender over, then drizzle with the remaining olive oil. Sprinkle with the sea salt flakes, then bake for 20 minutes, until the bread is puffed up and golden, with the cheese and lemons becoming slightly charred.

Sprinkle the thyme or lemon thyme leaves over the focaccia once it is out of the oven, and serve warm.

In Laura Esquivel’s novel Like Water for Chocolate, protagonist Tita prepares a dish of quail in rose petal sauce. So powerful are the effects of the meal that she dissolves into a kind of trance, while the aphrodisiac effects of the dish overcome her sister Gertrudis. I can’t guarantee this recipe will produce the same results, but its complex flavours are hopefully a reward in themselves.

The original recipe in the novel calls for chestnuts and dragon fruit, but I’ve adapted it to give it a slightly Persian feel with pomegranate molasses, walnuts and figs, and used chicken rather than the more elusive quail. It is the perfect dish for Valentine’s Day, or whenever you need a bit of extra romance in your life.

First, make a marinade by mixing together the lemon zest and juice, along with the spices, chilli flakes, oil, rosewater and salt in a large, non-reactive bowl (a glass bowl is best). Add the chicken thighs and mix well to coat, then cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, ideally overnight.

Put half the pistachios, along with all the walnuts for the sauce, on separate baking trays (or keep them separate on the same baking tray) and toast them in the oven for 10 minutes, then remove them from the oven and leave to cool.

Once the nuts are cool, mix the toasted pistachios with the remaining (untoasted) pistachios and set them aside. Place the walnuts in a food processor and grind to a fine powder, then set aside until needed.

Make the sauce. Put the stock cube and rosebuds or petals in a medium jug and pour over the boiling water. Set aside for 10–15 minutes while you prepare the rest of the sauce ingredients.

In a medium frying pan, melt the butter over a medium–low heat. Add the onion and sauté for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onion is soft and translucent – do not allow it to brown. Add the garlic and star anise and cook for a further 2 minutes, stirring, then add the ground walnuts and cook for a further 2 minutes, stirring to coat them in the buttery juices. Add the figs, honey, pomegranate molasses, salt and a good grinding of black pepper, and stir well to mix.

Pour the stock and rosebuds through a sieve into a jug to strain out the flowers, then pour the infused stock into the pan with the walnut mixture (you can discard the rosebuds in the sieve). Stir well to mix. Simmer the mixture vigorously over a medium heat for about 10 minutes, until it has reduced by half.

Pour half the walnut sauce into a shallow oven dish, just big enough to fit all the chicken pieces fairly snugly in a single layer. Place the chicken thighs, skin-side upwards, on top of the sauce, pressing them down a little into the sauce. The bottom part of each thigh should be submerged in the sauce, with the skin remaining exposed. Place the dish in the oven and cook the chicken for 25 minutes, until the skin starts to turn golden and the sauce is thick and bubbling. Leave the remaining sauce in the frying pan for now, off the heat.

After the 25 minutes, remove the chicken thighs from the dish with a slotted spoon and place them on a plate. Pour the juices in the oven dish into the remaining walnut sauce in the frying pan. You can use a gravy separator to skim off the fat that will have run out from the chicken, if you have one, otherwise you can skim the sauce towards the end of cooking using a spoon.

Return the chicken to the now empty oven dish, and season the skin with a grinding of salt. Increase the oven temperature to 220°C/200°C fan/gas mark 7. Put the chicken back in the oven for 20–25 minutes to allow the skin to crisp up. The juices should run clear when you pierce the thickest part of the thighs.

Meanwhile, simmer the sauce in the frying pan over a medium heat until fairly thick (about 5 minutes). Taste and adjust the seasoning as necessary – you may want a little more honey, salt or pomegranate molasses. Add rosewater, drop by drop, tasting as you go – it should be noticeable, but fairly subtle. Skim off the layer of chicken fat that rises to the surface using a spoon, if necessary.

Roughly chop the pistachios. Serve the chicken with the sauce spooned over, scattered with pistachios and coriander. This is best served with couscous, but would also be good with brown rice or bulgur wheat. It is also rather nice with the peach bulgur wheat from here, or with a salad of thinly sliced raw fennel.

Lavender works beautifully with lamb, imbuing the meat with a slightly astringent perfume that seems to bring out its own natural sweetness. It makes sense: lavender is not a far cry, in terms of both appearance and flavour profile, from the rosemary we so often turn naturally to when seasoning our lamb. Lemons, garlic and pistachios complete this beautiful, southern Mediterranean tableau. This recipe is incredibly easy – simply stick it in the oven while you get on with other things – but the result is one of the best ways to eat lamb that I have yet come across. This goes rather well with the couscous tabbouleh here (but omit the cucumber).

1.2kg shoulder of lamb, on the bone, cut into large chunks (ask your butcher to do this)

Pre-heat the oven to 160°C/140°C fan/gas mark 2–3. Slice 4 of the garlic cloves into very fine slices. Leave the fifth whole.

Take a large piece of foil (enough to be able to parcel up the lamb) and lay the lamb pieces on top of it. Using a sharp knife, make small incisions in the pieces of lamb (be careful not to cut into the foil!), and insert a sliver of garlic into each incision.

Place the lamb, on the foil, inside a large, lidded casserole dish so that it fits snugly. Tuck the red onion and bay leaves around the lamb pieces, then sprinkle everything with the lavender.

Bring the sides of the foil up around the lamb to form an open parcel. Pour the lemon juice all over the lamb pieces, along with the wine. Sprinkle over the salt flakes and season with a generous amount of pepper. Gather the edges of the foil together to form a rough, sealed parcel around the meat – try to make sure there are no gaps.

Put the lid on the casserole dish and place the lamb parcel in the oven for 3 hours, until the meat is so tender you can cut it using a spoon.

Remove the lamb from the oven and set aside. Increase the heat to 180°C/160°C fan/gas mark 4. Place the pistachios in a small oven tray and toast in the oven for 8 minutes, until slightly toasted. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

Very finely chop the remaining garlic clove on a chopping board, then add the parsley and cooled pistachios. Chop everything finely together, then place in a small bowl and stir in the reserved lemon zest to make a gremolata.

Place the lamb on a large serving platter with any juices, then sprinkle with the pistachio gremolata. Serve with roast potatoes or some hearty grains (barley, bulgur wheat and brown rice all work well) and perhaps a little tzatziki.

I first came across the idea of combining tea with rice in Japan. Chazuke, a popular dish from the Edo period, is made by pouring green tea (or dashi) over cooked rice, and then adding a variety of toppings. As with many Japanese tea traditions, this dish was closely bound up with the complex social etiquette of the time: I remember reading that your host or hostess offering you chazuke was a subtle yet clear signal that you had outstayed your welcome! Hopefully, this recipe won’t have the effect of sending your guests heading for home – in fact, the combination of the delicately floral chamomile rice, tender, umami-rich pork and delightfully crunchy apple salad may well have them hanging around for more.

First, prepare the pork. Mix the soy sauce, sugar, mirin, sake, ginger and sesame oil in a shallow, non-reactive dish or bowl, add the pork strips and toss well to coat. Cover the bowl and marinate the pork in the fridge for at least 2 hours, or even overnight if you want to get ahead with preparation.

Begin the chamomile rice. Put the chamomile tea bags in a jug and pour the boiling water over. Set aside until cool, then remove the tea bags and discard them.

While the tea cools, prepare the salad. Mix the caster sugar and rice vinegar in a medium saucepan over a low heat. Stir continuously until the sugar has dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and leave the syrup to cool.

Put the sesame seeds in a small frying pan over a medium heat. Toast, shaking the pan occasionally, for 2–3 minutes until they start to smell nutty (and, if using white sesame seeds, they should turn golden). Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Slice the cucumber(s) in half lengthways and use a teaspoon to scoop out the seeds. Cut the cucumber into matchsticks and place the matchsticks in a colander. Toss with the teaspoon of salt and set aside (over a bowl or the sink) for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. (This firms up the cucumber and prevents it from being watery.) After 20 minutes, rinse the cucumber with cold water and pat it dry with kitchen paper. Add it to the rice vinegar and sugar mixture in the pan along with the apple. Peel the mooli and cut this into matchsticks, or, if using regular radishes, top and tail them and slice into thin coins. Add to the cucumber and apple, then add the pickled ginger and toasted sesame seeds and toss well. Set aside for about 30 minutes for the flavours to mingle and the vegetables to soften a little.

For the rice, rinse the sushi rice well in cold water until the water runs clear. (I do this in a pan, swishing it around with my hand and pouring off the water. It usually takes around 5–10 changes of water.) Place the rice in a large saucepan and pour the cold chamomile tea over. Place on a high heat and bring to the boil, then immediately reduce the heat to its lowest setting and cover the pan. Cook for 10 minutes, covered, then turn the heat off and leave the pan on the hob for a further 10 minutes. Do not remove the pan lid during this time.

While the rice is cooking, prepare the pork. Heat a splash of sesame oil in a large wok over a high heat. When the oil is hot, use a slotted spoon to remove the pork from its marinade and stir-fry the meat until burnished and slightly caramelised, with no trace of pink in the middle (about 3–5 minutes). It is best to do this in two or three batches (depending on the size of your wok), so the meat fries rather than steams in its own juices. When the pork is just cooked, add any leftover marinade to the pan (it should bubble up immediately) and stir-fry for another couple of minutes to glaze the meat and cook everything through.

A couple of years ago I visited San Francisco’s famous Bi-Rite Creamery, where I joined its equally famous queue (or ‘line’, I should say) for a couple of scoops of – perhaps – California’s best ice cream. I was pleasantly surprised by a delicate chamomile ice, rippled with buttery pebbles of lemon crumble, which managed to transform and showcase an underrated botanical often used only for unpleasantly musty and ‘worthy’ herbal tea blends. This dessert gives you the delights of that memorable ice cream, but without the faff of churning and freezing. Honey and vanilla work beautifully with chamomile, accentuating its meadow-sweet fragrance, and the crumble provides the crunch and depth that is so often missing from this dessert. The recipe makes slightly more crumble than you will need, but don’t consider this a hardship. Scatter it over the little cherry and almond cakes before baking, or use it instead of the crumble topping on the Czech bubble cake. Or (my recommendation) eat any leftovers with a spoon straight from the bowl while none of your guests are looking.

1 tablespoon loose chamomile tea (dried chamomile flowers), or 2 chamomile tea bags

First, prepare the panna cotta. Put the cream, milk, sugar, honey, chamomile and vanilla pod in a medium saucepan over a medium heat and bring the mixture to just below the boil. Take the pan off the heat, cover with a lid and leave the flavours to infuse for 1–2 hours.

After this time, strain the mixture through a fine sieve into a jug, pressing the vanilla pod and chamomile into the sieve with the back of a spoon to extract all of the flavour. (You can rinse the vanilla pod, leave it to dry and use it to scent vanilla sugar – waste not, want not!) Return the mixture to the pan.

Fill a small bowl with cold water. Place the gelatine leaves in the water for 2–3 minutes to soften, then gently squeeze the water out of them with your hands. Put them into the pan with the milk and cream mixture, then heat gently, stirring with a wooden spoon, until the gelatine has dissolved (about 1–2 minutes). Divide the mixture equally between the four moulds or ramekins, then place them in the fridge for at least 2 hours, until the panna cotta has set.

While the panna cotta sets, make the crumble. Pre-heat the oven to 180°C/160°C fan/gas mark 4.

Place the flour and polenta in a medium bowl and add the butter. Rub in the butter with your fingertips until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the poppy seeds. In a separate, small bowl, rub the lemon zest into the caster sugar with your fingertips until the mixture is moist and fragrant. Stir this into the crumble, too. Tip the mixture onto a small baking tray or dish in a fairly thin layer, then bake it in the oven for 20–30 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes or so, until the crumble is lightly golden and crunchy. Remove it from the oven and set it aside to cool.

When you’re ready to serve the panna cottas, briefly dip each mould or ramekin into a bowl of hot water (just for 20–30 seconds – you don’t want to melt the panna cotta!) to loosen the mixture slightly, then turn out each panna cotta onto its own plate. Scatter a generous helping of crumble over and around each panna cotta, then decorate with a few dried calendula petals or edible flowers (if using). Serve immediately with fresh berries.

Inspired by the truly exquisite rosebud and cinnamon infusion they serve at Honey & Co. in London, these delicate biscuits will make you feel like you’re at the Ritz, daintily nibbling a platter of sweetmeats while sipping tea from wafer-thin bone china with your little finger sticking out. The combination of rose and cinnamon feels like eating a fairytale. Enjoy them as they are, with a pot of rose tea, or with London Fog ice cream or chamomile panna cotta. For another delightful floral version, swap the rose for a tablespoon of dried lavender buds.

Pre-heat the oven to 170°C/150°C fan/gas mark 3. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment.

Put the caster sugar in a mini chopper or food processor. If using dried rosebuds, remove the green stalks. Add the buds or petals to the sugar and blitz until flecked evenly with tiny pink rose fragments. Alternatively, you can do this in a mortar and pestle, but it will be a little more time-consuming!

Using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk (or using a bowl, wooden spoon and a lot of muscle power), cream the butter, salt and cinnamon together on high speed for a couple of minutes. Set 1 tablespoon of the rose sugar aside for later, then put the rest in the mixer and beat on high speed to combine with the flavoured butter. Sift in the flour and add the semolina, then mix until just combined and you have a soft dough.

Flour a work surface and roll out the dough to about 5mm thick. Using a scone cutter (or similar cutter; or cut out shapes using a knife – hearts or flowers look lovely), cut rounds out of the dough and place them on the baking sheet with at least 2.5cm between each shortbread. The dough is quite fragile, so move the shortbreads carefully onto the baking sheet.

Bake for 15–20 minutes, until lightly golden, then remove the shortbreads from the oven and place on a cooling rack. While they are still hot, sprinkle them evenly with the remaining rose sugar, then leave to cool completely before eating.

An earlier version of this recipe continues to be the most popular post of all time on my blog. I am pleased to find out that the appetite for medieval confectionery is so great, and more than happy to feed it. This tart is rather loosely based on a fourteenth-century recipe from the court of Richard II, named sambocade after the Latin word for elderflower, sambucus. The original reads thus: ‘Take and make a crust in a trap & take cruddes and wryng out þe wheyze and drawe hem þurgh a straynour and put hit in þe crust. Do þerto sugar the þridde part, & somdel whyte of ayren, & shake þerin blomes of elren; & bake it vp with eurose, & messe it forth.’ It was, unsurprisingly, a struggle to adapt this into a modern dessert, so I had to freestyle a little. Although Richard would probably not condone my version, it is a wonderfully unusual dessert and a fabulous showcase for the subtlety of elderflower, particularly when served with a vibrant rhubarb compote.

First, make the pastry. Put the flour, butter, salt and sugar in a food processor and blitz to fine crumbs. Alternatively, in a bowl, rub the butter into the flour using your fingertips until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs, then stir in the salt and sugar.

Gradually add the cold water until the mixture only just starts to clump together. Press the pastry together with your fingers and quickly shape it into a round disc, then wrap in cling film and refrigerate it for 30 minutes.

While the pastry chills, prepare the rhubarb (you could do this a day in advance, if you like). Pre-heat the oven to 180°C/160°C fan/gas mark 4.

Arrange the rhubarb in a single layer in a medium baking dish and toss with the caster sugar and elderflower cordial. Place in the oven and bake for 25 minutes, or until just tender to the point of a knife. Set aside to cool, then refrigerate while you prepare the tart.

After the pastry has chilled for 30 minutes, turn the oven up to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6.

Roll out the pastry to a circle roughly 5mm thick. Tear off a little bit of the pastry to make a small ball. Use the pastry circle to line a 23cm loose-bottomed tart tin (you could also use a 23cm springform cake tin), pressing it up the sides of the tin. It is quite a fragile pastry, but simply patch up any gaps or tears with excess pastry from the sides – you will have a little left over. Use the small ball of pastry to press the case into all the edges of the tin. Run a rolling pin over the top of the tart tin to trim the pastry case (if using a cake tin you can skip this step – it will look slightly more rustic!), then lightly prick the bottom with a fork.

Line the pastry case with a disc of baking parchment (make sure it’s large enough to come up the sides as well as cover the base) and fill with baking beans. Blind bake for 15 minutes, then remove the paper and baking beans and bake for a further 12 minutes, until golden. Remove the case from the oven and allow it to cool for a couple of minutes.

While the case is baking, make the filling. Put all the filling ingredients in a food processor and blitz until smooth. If you don’t have a food processor, whisk everything together vigorously by hand or using an electric hand whisk. Pour the filling into the blind-baked pastry case, then return it to the oven.

Bake for 30 minutes. The best way to check it is done is to use a digital probe thermometer – the inside temperature should be 65°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, bake it until the filling is starting to turn very slightly golden, and there is still a generous wobble in the middle if you shake the tin slightly. It will continue to set as it cools.

Turn off the oven with the tart inside, and, using the handle of a wooden spoon, prop open the oven door slightly. Leave the tart to cool for 1–2 hours. Once cool, refrigerate for at least 2 hours before removing (carefully) from the tart tin and serving with the rhubarb compote spooned over the top.

Whenever I have found myself in Vienna, I’ve made a beeline for Veganista: an ice-cream parlour that offers some of the best frozen concoctions I’ve ever eaten – better even than flavours I’ve sampled on numerous trips to Italy. I have no idea how they manage to make it vegan, because you’d never know from the taste. I suspect witchcraft. This blueberry and lavender ice cream captivated my heart and taste buds on a recent visit, and I could not rest until I had recreated it (albeit with rather more dairy). It makes sense, if you think about it – we often pair blueberry with lemon, and lemon with lavender, so buds and berries should be natural bedfellows. You could even try making this vegan by using oat cream instead of the double cream. If you’re not a lavender addict like I am, use half a teaspoon instead of the full teaspoon.

Put the berries, lavender, salt, lemon zest and juice and sugar in a saucepan over a high heat and bring to the boil. Lower the heat to medium and simmer for about 10 minutes, until the blueberries have split and released all their juices. Pour the mixture into a large heatproof jug or bowl and stir in the coconut cream. Leave to cool.

Once the berry mixture is cool, use a stick blender or normal blender to blitz it (it will still have some small flecks of fruit in it – it doesn’t need to be completely smooth).

Whip the double cream until it is just holding its shape, then whisk it into the blueberry mixture. Cover and chill the mixture for at least 6 hours or preferably overnight, then churn in an ice-cream maker until thick (about 15–30 minutes). Decant the ice cream into a freezer-safe container and freeze for at least 4 hours, or overnight, before eating, to allow it to firm up. The ice cream is great with a piece of lemon shortbread on the side.

I hate recipes that tell me to scrape the seeds from a vanilla pod and add them to something, because inevitably some seeds always get lost in the process – they stick to the knife, or the bowl, or the spatula, or you just can’t get them all out of the pod. Throwing everything – pod and all – into a vat of jam is an excellent way to assuage this guilt and to capture the sought-after aroma of one of the world’s most expensive ingredients. The citrus perfume of cardamom works exquisitely with the musky scent of vanilla, and both perform admirably to perk up sour rhubarb stalks. This is best with early forced rhubarb – it will make a delightfully pink jam – but I’ve also made it successfully with the thicker, greener summer stalks. It’s important to use whole cardamom pods and grind them yourself – the flavour is infinitely superior to the pre-ground stuff.

This recipe also works beautifully with fresh apricots – simply swap the rhubarb for 1kg of apricots (weighed before stoning), and chop them into quarters.

Put the chopped rhubarb in a large, heavy-based saucepan or preserving pan. Add the sugar and vanilla pod, and heat gently, stirring regularly, until the rhubarb starts to turn juicy and the sugar starts to dissolve. Put a small plate in the freezer (to test for when the jam is set).

Add the ground cardamom and the lemon juice to the rhubarb in the pan, then increase the heat and let the mixture bubble quite vigorously for about 30 minutes, until the jam begins to thicken. (Stir regularly to prevent the mixture catching on the bottom of the pan and burning.)

After 30 minutes, start testing for a set. A sugar thermometer should reach 105°C, or you can test using the plate that you have chilled in the freezer: spoon a small dollop of jam onto it, leave to cool for 1 minute, then run your finger through it – if it wrinkles and parts cleanly, the jam is ready. If not, continue to cook for a few minutes more and test again. As soon as the jam sets, remove it from the heat (don’t overcook as the jam can quickly ‘turn’).

While the jam is cooking, sterilise your jars and lids. I do this by washing them well in soapy water, then putting the jars upside down in an oven at 140°C/120°C fan/gas mark 1 for 20 minutes, adding the lids (also upside down) for the last 10 minutes. Turn off the oven and leave the jars inside until you are ready to bottle the jam. You can alternatively run the jars through a hot dishwasher cycle, then pot the jam while they are still warm.

Decant the jam into the sterilised jars. Cover with wax discs, and seal with the lids. I have kept this jam for several years, unopened, in a cool larder with no problems, but once opened, keep it refrigerated and consume within a month.

To add saffron to a pot of glowing, poached quince is to gild the lily in the best possible way, heightening the sunrise tones while adding a deep, slightly musky fragrance best described as olfactory gold. Combined with bay leaves and lemon, the saffron prevents the perfumed flesh of the quince and apple from cloying. Serve this warm or at room temperature with ice cream as a dessert, or cold with Greek yoghurt or porridge for breakfast. It is lovely topped with some toasted nuts or granola for a little texture.

Put 700ml of water in a large saucepan with the lemon juice and lemon zest. Throw the juiced lemon half in as well. Add the sugar and bay leaves and place over a high heat. Bring to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar, then lower the heat to bring the liquid to a simmer.

Slice each quince quarter in half lengthways, to give you 8 pieces altogether, and add to the pan. Make sure the liquid is only just simmering (it definitely shouldn’t be bubbling violently), then leave to simmer, uncovered, for about 1–1½ hours, or until just tender to the point of a knife – keep the heat very low to avoid them collapsing (the time will depend on the age and size of your quinces).

Once the quinces have become tender, peel the apples, quarter and core them, and cut each quarter in half lengthways. Add to the quinces and cook very gently for 30–40 minutes, until the apples are tender.

Using a slotted spoon, remove the fruit from the syrup and place the pieces in a bowl. Measure how much syrup you have – you should have about 200ml, so if you have more than this, bubble the syrup in the pan until reduced to the right amount and it is thick and golden red.

Turn the heat to a very gentle simmer, add the saffron and cook for 5 minutes for the flavour to infuse. Return the fruit to the pan, stir gently, then leave to cool before using.

In the way that some women are ‘bag ladies’, I am an apricot lady. I regularly impulse-buy and hoard these gorgeous fruits, becoming rather obsessive about them during the summer months. It’s rare to find me without a punnet in my bag, a spontaneous purchase from some market or shop because the fruit just looked too good. No fruit attracts in my gaze quite like the rosy apricot, with its marigold blush, and no fruit proves so versatile in my kitchen during the warmer part of the year. This recipe ensures I can enjoy apricots even for breakfast. Lavender and apricots look beautiful together, the combination of delicate lilac and marigold orange whispering of Provençal sun. The apricots turn jammy and tart in the oven, while the lavender adds a subtle perfume, heightening the tartness of the fruit without tasting like you’ve swallowed a bar of soap. Serve with good Greek yoghurt for breakfast or brunch.

Scatter the apricot wedges evenly over the bottom of a medium baking dish, then add the blueberries, lavender, cinnamon, ginger, honey and 2 tablespoons of water and toss together. Set aside.

Next, make the topping. In a small bowl, mix together the oats, flour, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, salt and almonds. In a small jug, whisk together the olive oil, honey and almond extract with 2 tablespoons of water.

Pour the liquid mixture into the oats and mix well to combine. Tip this mixture over the apricots, combining with the fruit a little but leaving most of it on top.

Bake the crumble for 40 minutes, until the topping is golden and the fruit is bubbling. Leave the crumble to cool for 5 minutes before serving. I like it with a dollop of Greek yoghurt on the side.