The Botanical Kitchen

SUCH WAS the journey of Stephen Blackpool’s wife to moral ruin in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. Francis Grose, in his Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue from 1796 (what a title!), defines ‘playing old gooseberry’ as using violence or threats to put an end to a disturbance, drawing on a medieval name for the Devil. In modern parlance, though, we tend to use the phrase ‘playing gooseberry’ to mean being the socially awkward third party in the presence of an amorous couple. This has its origins in the nineteenth century, and is seemingly derived from the idea that a discreet chaperone, tasked with supervising a couple against social impropriety, would go off to pick gooseberries or watch butterflies, thus allowing the pair to steal a moment or two together. To me this makes rather a lot of sense: identifying oneself with a fruit that is as culinarily awkward as one feels socially at that moment in time. The gooseberry remains a sadly underrated ingredient in the kitchen, making it the perfect metaphor for uncomfortable isolation or even devilry.

Unlike its more obvious berry cousins, the gooseberry cannot simply be plucked off a vine and enjoyed, but requires the sweet tempering treatment of sugar and gentle heat. The berries are like miniature jade crystal balls, their translucent skins revealing the faintest misty white blooms beneath the surface. Hazardous to harvest – watch out for the thorns – they generously give forth clouds of muscat perfume when cooked, having a particular affinity with other floral flavours. The awkward reputation of the gooseberry is undeserved, as it couples beautifully and harmoniously with many other ingredients: elderflower is the classic pairing, or mackerel (the French actually call gooseberries groseilles à maquereau, or ‘mackerel currants’), or anything heavy with dairy. It also, for me, encapsulates one of the most interesting aspects of this branch of the fruit family. We may think we know our berries, but there is a whole world of novelty and potential beyond the supermarket punnet.

‘Never, ever cook a strawberry’, I once read in a recipe book during my early years of learning to cook. The stern, authoritative warning stuck with me, and I remember dutifully removing the squashed, misshapen strawberries from those economical supermarket packs of frozen berries before baking with them, fearing what hideous result might occur were one of them to slip through the net. (The irony there being that if there is one thing worse than cooking a strawberry, it is freezing one.) I still remember the tragic moment on one episode of The Great British Bake Off where a contestant made the grave and fatal error of attempting to put a layer of strawberries in his steamed pudding. They collapsed into a sad puddle of despair, as did his dreams of winning the contest. A trip to Prague a couple of years after watching this brought about a small revelation, when I discovered strawberries nestled into the crumb of delicious little bublanina, or ‘bubble cakes’, sold at an Easter market stall (you can find the recipe here). Folding strawberries through a vanilla-scented cake batter, or mixing them with other fruits beneath the buttery topping of a crumble or pie, can in fact yield excellent results: their juices mingle deliciously with other fruits, and soak beautifully into the crumb (judicious use of cornflour is advised, though – strawberries produce a lot of juice when cooked).

It pays, therefore, to be a bit experimental with ingredients we tend to take for granted, or for which we have a stockpile of traditional, failsafe uses. We may think the only home for strawberries is alongside a bowl of cream or, at the most, topping a French-style fruit tart, but they are surprisingly good alongside salty or ripe soft cheeses when given a little lift with black pepper and treacly balsamic vinegar. Blueberries tend to be reserved for breakfast muffins, waffles or compote, but try stirring them through earthy grain salads, where they provide a pop of sharpness and colour comparable to that of the now ubiquitous pomegranate seed. Of course, there is no point in experimenting for the sake of it: many of the recipes in this chapter take established, approved flavour combinations and add the tiniest modicum of adventure: a raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake with the grassy tang of goat’s cheese, for example, or a gamey reindeer dish given interest with a whisper of juniper and a tart blackcurrant sauce.

The candy-sweet strawberry aside, I often think of berries as ‘grown-up fruits’. You have to work to get the most out of a gooseberry or currant, and even the tart raspberry proves too sour for some tastes. If you want proper blackberries, as nature intended them, you must wait patiently for them to ripen in hedgerows before heading out with an ice-cream tub or two, ready to come back slightly bloodied and sticky, sore from standing on your tiptoes to reach a particularly juicy specimen. Yet your efforts will be rewarded many times over, as you return clutching a crop infinitely more flavoursome than the tastelessly juicy varieties often shipped in from Mexico, which resemble towering beehive hairdos and are juicily vapid. Blackcurrants, when treated properly, have a gloriously complex bouquet of flavours ranging from floral to grassy and herbal. Over ninety-five per cent of Britain’s blackcurrants go into producing Ribena, which seems to me a colossal waste. With a little kitchen creativity, I hope we can at least put the remaining five per cent to delicious uses, exploiting their particular affinity with dairy and herbs. Whitecurrants, if you can find them, are perhaps the most beautiful of the lot, resembling strings of vintage pearls, while redcurrants have a versatility that goes well beyond jelly – try them as a substitute for pomegranate seeds in Middle Eastern dishes.

The Nordic countries are, to my mind, rulers of the berry world. Their temperate climes provide excellent growing conditions for wild blueberries or bilberries, which are much more flavoursome than the swollen, tasteless imports we often find on our supermarket shelves, and guaranteed to turn your tongue purple after a couple of mouthfuls. Up to a fifth of the entire land area of Sweden contains bilberry bushes, but don’t despair if you can’t make it over there for late summer – I have foraged for them on the North York Moors with delicious results. You can also buy them frozen or preserved in jars in many parts of Europe and some supermarkets: try them in place of blueberries when baking. The northern regions also give forth wild raspberries, tiny alpine strawberries and a few other sought-after fruits that still seem rather exotic to our British tastes. Lingonberries have something of the tang and colour of cranberries, and similar savoury uses: they are popular served with elk and reindeer in Norway, Finland and Sweden, but are also used in cordials, syrups and desserts. If you are lucky enough to find some, they freeze well, and you can use them in the baked Brie or reindeer recipes, respectively.

Sea buckthorn, as its name suggests, is often found close to the coast. Its fragile berries are tricky to harvest – I remember attempting to pinch a few off the thorny vine in northern Denmark and just ending up with splattered orange fingers – but their sourness and high vitamin content sees them used in a variety of jams, lotions, syrups and juices throughout the Nordic countries, and they are becoming more widespread in British fine-dining, perhaps owing to their dramatic saffron hue. Even more significant in the world of orange berries is the cloudberry, which you’ll find growing wild only in marshland, and whose fragility also makes it tricky to harvest. Secret knowledge of good cloudberry spots is often handed down throughout the generations – there is an urban legend of a woman in Finnmark, northern Norway, who broke her leg while picking cloudberries and staggered several kilometres away before she would call an ambulance, lest she risk giving away her prized location. Resembling peachy-orange raspberries, these fruits are high in nutrients and intriguing in flavour, with a tart, musky taste popularly used to adorn cakes and waffles. They are rippled through whipped cream and eaten in delicate wafers as part of the Norwegian Christmas meal, and can be bought year-round in frozen or preserved form, albeit with a high price tag (a kilo tub of frozen cloudberries currently sells in my local shop in Oslo for £30). Should you ever be lucky enough to get your hands on them, I recommend trying them out instead of the blackcurrant compote in the cheesecake.

As the elusive cloudberry illustrates, berries are also some of the few fruits that remain immune to the perils of foreign cultivation and air-freighting, and thus require us to put a little effort into sourcing and utilizing them. Try as you might, you will not find gooseberries or blackcurrants in the shops outside an all-too-brief window around June and July, and in my masochistic eyes this just makes them even more special. They are jewels to be hoarded, celebrated, and consumed in abundance for a tiny period of the year, reminding us of just how much we take for granted in modern food production.

Tips & tricks

*Fresh berries can be expensive, especially out of season. For recipes involving cooked berries, frozen packets from the supermarket are often much better value (and you now know that you don’t have to pick out the strawberries – you’re welcome).

*If you end up with a glut of fresh berries in the summer, freeze them for use later – you can rinse the firmer berries like gooseberries and blackcurrants and leave them to dry before freezing, but don’t attempt to wash ripe raspberries or you’ll end up with mush. You can freeze strawberries, but they will be fit only for blitzing into a smoothie (they’re very good with blood orange juice and a drop of orange-blossom water) or for making cakes, jams or compotes. Gooseberries are actually easier to top and tail when slightly frozen, so don’t bother doing this before freezing.

*Transform disappointing strawberries into a palatable dessert using a trickle of balsamic vinegar, a couple of teaspoons of sugar and a drop of lemon juice. Leave the fruit to macerate for a few minutes – the difference in flavour is astounding. If you’re feeling adventurous, add a grinding of black pepper to the mixture, too.

*The best berries come from pick-your-own farms, farm shops and farmers’ markets during the summer. I defy you to get them all home without snacking on a few. The best blackberries are nature’s gift to us in early autumn – all you need is a bag or a box, and perhaps a pair of gloves to guard against the thorns.

*For a useful guide to some of the more unusual berries, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s Fruit book contains a brief overview of mulberries, Worcesterberries, loganberries, tayberries, bilberries, blueberries and whortleberries.

Here it is: your new go-to dinner party starter. It looks incredibly impressive but takes about two minutes to prepare, and the combination of molten, honeyed cheese with tangy blackcurrant, buttery pecan and fragrant herbs is both unusual and utterly addictive. Simply bring it to the table in its oven dish and let your guests dive in. I like to serve it with Scandinavian-style rye crackers, but a good, crusty baguette is also an excellent vehicle for transporting cheese to mouth. I highly recommend seeking out blackcurrant vinegar (I get it from demijohn.co.uk), but you could replace it with the more common raspberry vinegar, or a good, syrupy balsamic. Feel free to double the recipe to use a 500g wheel of Brie (or a Camembert), but adjust the cooking time to make it slightly longer. Redcurrants or whitecurrants would also work here.

Put the pecans in a small oven dish and place in the oven for 8 minutes, until toasted. Remove (leave the oven on), set aside to cool, then roughly chop.

Take a small baking dish, the right size to fit the piece of Brie snugly. Slice the Brie horizontally in half (so you have two flat triangles). Put one half in the dish, cut side up. Take half the toasted pecans and press them gently into the cheese. Do the same with the blackcurrants (some will fall off the sides into the dish – that’s fine, but try to get as many as possible on the cheese). Sprinkle over half the thyme or rosemary, then drizzle over half the vinegar and half the honey.

Put the other piece of Brie on top, rind side upwards (so you have essentially sandwiched the cheese back together as the wedge it was). Press the remaining pecans and blackcurrants onto the top of the cheese (again, some will fall off). Drizzle over the remaining vinegar and honey and sprinkle with the remaining thyme or rosemary.

Bake for 10–15 minutes, or until the cheese has melted and spread out a little in the dish. Remove from the oven, leave for 5 minutes, then dive in with crackers or good crusty bread.

Somewhere between a salad and a dip, this is best served with slices of grilled halloumi (or crumbled feta) and some flatbread for scooping it up. It is perfect for outdoor cooking – you can grill the aubergines on the barbecue – and goes well as a side with all manner of meat and cheese dishes, and even oily fish. Redcurrants and aubergines are obviously not natural bedfellows, but pomegranate seeds are often paired with aubergines and it occurred to me that redcurrants have a very similar jewel-like appearance and burst sharply on the tongue in the same way. The combination works well, but you can use pomegranate seeds as a substitute for redcurrants outside of the currant season.

Pre-heat the grill to high. Line an oven tray with foil and lay the aubergines on top, side by side. Place under the grill and cook, turning occasionally, for 25–45 minutes (depending on the size of your aubergines), until the skin is blackened and crispy and the flesh inside is completely soft and smoky. Alternatively, you can do this on a barbecue. Set the aubergines aside to cool.

Meanwhile, turn the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6, place the walnuts in a small oven tray and bake them for 10 minutes, until toasted. Set aside to cool, then roughly chop.

Heat the rapeseed or olive oil in a large frying pan over a medium-high heat. Add the onions and the pinch of salt and cook, stirring regularly, for 5–10 minutes, until they start to soften and turn slightly golden. Lower the heat and cook for 15–20 minutes, until totally soft and caramelised – you may need to add a drop of water to stop them sticking. Stir in the balsamic vinegar and set aside to cool slightly.

When the aubergines are ready, scoop out the flesh, discarding the skin and stalks. Place the flesh in a large bowl and add the caramelised onions, along with the lemon juice, pomegranate molasses and good-quality olive oil. Mash everything together gently with a fork. Season well with salt and pepper, then taste, adjusting with a little more lemon juice or molasses accordingly.

Stir in the toasted walnuts, along with the mint leaves and watercress, then gently fold in the redcurrants. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Blueberries are one of those fruits that seem destined to be used only for baking muffins or scattering atop a bowl of muesli, but their sharp juiciness actually makes them perfect in hearty salads, in the same way you might use pomegranate seeds. I learned from Niki Segnit’s invaluable Flavour Thesaurus that coriander seeds contain a flavour compound called linalool, which is also a key component of synthetic blueberry flavour. The woody, citrus notes of the seeds add greater depth to this salad, packed with good-for-you nuts and grains.

Put the red onion in a large bowl with the lemon juice and pinches of salt and sugar. Toss well and leave while you prepare the rest of the salad.

Meanwhile, put the quinoa in a medium saucepan and place over a medium heat. Toss the pan occasionally to toast the quinoa evenly. When it starts to pop (about 5 minutes), add the hot vegetable stock, bring to the boil, then lower the heat to a simmer. Cover the pan and cook for 12 minutes, until nearly all the water has been absorbed. Turn off the heat and leave the quinoa to steam for another 5 minutes, then fluff up with a fork and set aside to cool while making the dressing.

Whisk all the dressing ingredients together, adjusting with a little more lemon juice or maple syrup, and seasoning to suit your taste. The dressing should be quite assertive, as quinoa can take a lot of flavour. Pour the dressing over the cooked quinoa, then add the celery and prepared red onion and mix well.

In a small saucepan or frying pan, melt the butter over a medium heat. Add the coriander seeds, paprika and almonds. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring regularly, until the almonds are golden and smelling wonderful. Season with salt and pepper, turn off the heat and leave to cool.

Add the blueberries, parsley and baby spinach to the quinoa and toss gently. Divide the salad between two plates and top with the crumbled feta and the almonds. Serve immediately.

This is rather different to your standard cheesecake – the addition of goat’s cheese gives it a gentle tang and slightly crumbly texture, setting off the fragrant juice of the berries and resulting in a complex flavour that is not overly sweet. Blueberries or blackberries also work in place of raspberries. I recommend serving this with some passionfruit coulis and a few extra fresh berries. If you don’t like the taste of goat’s cheese – though it is very subtle here – simply replace it with the same amount of cream cheese (though I feel that is rather missing the point!).

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease and line a 23cm springform cake tin.

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over a medium heat, then stir in the blitzed biscuits and the oats. Press the biscuit mixture into the bottom of the cake tin, using the back of a spoon to flatten gently – don’t press too hard – to form a crust. Bake the crust for 12 minutes, until golden, then remove from the oven and set aside to cool while you make the filling.

Melt the white chocolate in a heatproof bowl suspended over a pan of simmering water (don’t let the base of the bowl touch the water), stirring regularly to help the chocolate melt. Remove the bowl from the heat and leave to cool slightly, then whisk in the soured cream.

Using a food processor or electric hand whisk, combine the white chocolate and soured cream mixture with the cream cheese, goat’s cheese, eggs and lemon zest. Gently fold in the berries using a spatula or large spoon. Pour the mixture into the cake tin over the biscuit base.

Bake the cheesecake for 40–45 minutes. The best way to tell when it is done is to use a digital probe thermometer – the centre should reach 65°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, watch for the point where the cake is lightly golden around the edges and just set on top, but still has a generous wobble in the middle if you shake it gently – it will continue to set as it cools. Turn the oven off with the cake inside, and, using the handle of a wooden spoon, prop open the oven door slightly. Leave the cake to cool in the oven for 1–2 hours (this helps to prevent it from cracking). Once cool, refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving.

An ode to autumn if ever there was one: creamy mushrooms, resinous rosemary and the musky sharpness of blackberries. This makes an unusual and impressive main course – you can make the blackberry salsa in advance to speed up the process. If you can find some wild mushrooms, such as chanterelles, they would make this even more special. You could also use chicken breasts instead of pork, although they will take slightly longer to cook.

First, get started with the salsa. Put the red onion in a medium bowl with the sugar, salt, vinegars and lemon juice. Stir well to mix and set aside for 1 hour, stirring occasionally.

Next, marinate the pork. Put the lemon zest and juice, garlic and chopped rosemary, along with a generous seasoning of salt and pepper, in a shallow, non-reactive dish or bowl. Add the pork chops or escalopes and rub the marinade over them using a spoon or your hands. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes.

Tip the walnuts for the salsa into a small baking dish and toast in the oven for 10 minutes, until slightly darker and fragrant. Set aside to cool. Turn down the oven to a low heat (about 90°C/70°C fan/gas mark ¼). Once the walnuts are cool, finely chop.

When the red onion has been macerating for 1 hour, add the walnuts, along with the blackberries, honey and parsley. Stir well and set aside.

Finish the pork. Heat half the rapeseed or olive oil in a medium frying pan over a medium-high heat. Add the pork, then cook for about 5 minutes (depending on thickness) on each side, until fully cooked through (the chops or escalopes should reach 70°C on a meat thermometer). Once cooked, place the pork on a baking sheet and keep warm in the low oven while you make the sauce.

In the same pan in which you cooked the pork, heat the remaining rapeseed or olive oil over a high heat. Remove any very burnt bits of pork marinade from the pan (a few sticky brown bits are fine – they will add flavour). Add the mushrooms and the rosemary sprigs and sauté, stirring regularly, for about 5 minutes, until the mushrooms have shrunk and turned golden and almost sticky. Lower the heat slightly, add the shallots and cook for another couple of minutes.

Pour the white wine into the pan and let it bubble away until reduced by slightly over half. Add the goat’s cheese or curd and crème fraîche and stir well, simmering gently for 1–2 minutes, until you have a creamy sauce. Taste, and adjust the seasoning, if necessary.

Serve the pork with the cream sauce and a spoonful of the salsa alongside. I like to serve this with boiled new potatoes.

Living in Norway, I have fairly easy access to reindeer meat (which I highly recommend for its deep, ferrous richness), but venison makes a good substitute, or even some very good, aged beef. The cleansing freshness of juniper perfectly accentuates the grassy notes in blackcurrants, and together they make a powerful, sharp sauce that cuts through the bosky richness of game. I add a little double cream to soften the sourness, but if you like your sauces very tangy, leave it out. This dish is excellent with buttery mash for those slightly chillier, late-summer evenings.

Spread out the flour on a plate and season well with salt and pepper. Lay the steaks on the flour to coat on one side, then flip over to coat the other.

In a medium frying pan, melt the butter over a medium-high heat. Cook the steaks for about 5 minutes on each side, depending on their thickness and how rare you want the meat (I recommend serving it rare, as reindeer and venison are very lean). A meat thermometer should read 52°C.

Once the steaks are cooked to your liking, set them aside on a plate under some foil to keep warm. Throw the bay leaf into the frying pan and add the white wine. Let the wine bubble and reduce, scraping the pan with a wooden spoon to release any sticky bits, then once it has reduced by about half, add the blackcurrants, beef stock, juniper berries and quince or redcurrant jelly. Let the whole thing simmer vigorously for about 3–4 minutes, until reduced and slightly syrupy, then taste to check the seasoning – add a little more jelly if you want it sweeter. Lower the heat, then stir in the double cream, if using.

Thickly slice the steaks and serve with the sauce poured over and the parsley sprinkled on the top. Buttery mashed potato, or Dauphinoise potatoes if you are feeling extravagant, are the best accompaniments.

This recipe is the reason I hoard kilos of gooseberries in my freezer, stocking up in huge quantities during their very fleeting season. Their musky sourness and hint of floral perfume marry perfectly with the buttery flesh of ripe pear and the sweetness of elderflower. The combination works as a normal dessert crumble, too, but I like to make this slightly healthier oat-based variation, so I can justify enjoying it for breakfast. Fragrant syrup, spiced oats and a big scoop of thick, Greek yoghurt make this my desert-island morning meal. Start making room in your freezer: once you try this recipe, you too will obsessively stockpile those elusive, fuzzy berries. Incidentally, this keeps well in the fridge for a few days and reheats excellently in a microwave or oven, so you can enjoy taking time over it at the weekend and still have some left for the weekday breakfast rush.

3 ripe pears (Conference or Comice works well), cored, quartered and cut into 2.5cm dice

Put the gooseberries in a medium baking dish with the elderflower cordial and toss together. Add the pears and cornflour and mix to combine.

In a small bowl, mix together the oats, flour, ginger, mixed spice, salt and flaked almonds. In a measuring jug or mug, whisk together the olive oil, maple syrup and almond extract, along with 2 tablespoons of water. Stir this into the oat mixture until the mixture is moist and starts to clump together.

Tip the oat mixture over the gooseberries and pears, then give it a couple of nudges with a wooden spoon to roughly combine with the fruit – you still want most of it over the top, though.

Bake for 40 minutes, until the oats have turned crunchy and golden and the fruit has softened. (Check it halfway through cooking, and if it looks like it’s a bit dry, add a splash of water to the dish.) Allow the oat crumble to rest for a couple of minutes, then serve with a scoop of thick, Greek yoghurt and perhaps some fresh raspberries or blackberries alongside.

The combination of berries, flowers and a good amount of butter and sugar makes for a truly elegant preserve. You could use almost any berries here but I love the grassy sharpness of blackcurrant. It takes a little patience to keep whisking the curd, but the results are worth it. Try to use the best butter and eggs you can afford – with so few ingredients, quality makes all the difference. I love this curd simply slathered over toast (or, to be really decadent, brioche). However, it also makes a glorious filling for a Victoria sponge, a fabulous topping for a scone, or a delightful breakfast rippled through Greek yoghurt with granola.

1 tablespoon lavender buds, crushed rose petals or finely shredded lemon verbena (optional)

First, sterilise your jars. 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 25 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 curd. You can alternatively run the jars through a hot dishwasher cycle, then pot the curd while they are still warm.

Zest two of the lemons and place the zest in a large saucepan. Juice all three lemons into the saucepan.

Next, make a berry purée. Put the blackcurrants and the flowers or herbs (if using) into the saucepan with the lemon zest and juice over a medium-high heat. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 10 minutes or so, until the fruit starts to collapse and everything is juicy and fragrant.

Pour this mixture into a sieve set over a heatproof bowl, then use a stiff spatula or ladle to push the mixture through the sieve until only the seeds and pulp remain (this takes a few minutes and a bit of muscle). Discard the contents of the sieve.

Add the butter and sugar to the berry purée. Suspend the bowl over a pan of simmering water (the water shouldn’t touch the base of the bowl), and whisk until the butter has melted. Remove the bowl from the heat and let the mixture cool for a few minutes before adding the eggs (if it is too hot, they will scramble).

Put the bowl back over the simmering water and whisk the mixture as it heats up until it thickens and reaches the ‘ribbon stage’ (when a dollop dropped from the whisk forms a ribbon on the surface of the mixture). The temperature should reach 76°C on a sugar thermometer. For this curd, the process can take anything from 20 minutes to over 1 hour. Have patience – it will thicken eventually; and remember to keep whisking so you don’t end up with scrambled eggs.

When the curd is thick, allow it to cool a little in the bowl, whisking occasionally, then pour into the warm jars and seal. The curd will keep in the fridge for about 1 month, and freezes well, too.

Having ordered a delightful-sounding blackcurrant and lemon verbena cheesecake in a London restaurant a couple of years ago, I was not thrilled when eventually presented with a bowl containing a dollop of cream cheese, a glossy trickle of blackcurrant compote and a disc of buttery pastry perched vertiginously on top, as if provocatively celebrating the anarchic deconstruction of this traditional dessert. The flavours were remarkable, the herbal tang of the lemon verbena bringing out the intense, grassy sourness of fresh blackcurrant, but I maintain that prising the elements of a cheesecake apart makes the whole thing too clinical. So, here is my improved version of a truly astounding flavour combination. It’s a simple ode to the bold flavours of late summer, its colour reminiscent of lavender and peppered with curling wisps of aromatic verbena. There is no gelatine, simply the thickness of the yoghurt and cheese to hold the cake together, so it slices messily and eats in a hedonistic, creamy, tangy frenzy. This is best eaten on the day it is made, as the base can become soggy after more than a day in the fridge.

You’ll need to make the strained yoghurt the night before you intend to make the cheesecake.

The night before you intend to make the cheesecake, line a colander or sieve with muslin or cheesecloth and pour the yoghurt into it. Put the sieve or colander over a bowl, giving at least 5cm between the bowl and the bottom of the sieve, then leave overnight in the fridge or a cool place. The liquid will drain from the yoghurt and leave a thick, cheese-like consistency in the muslin.

Make the blackcurrant compote. Put the blackcurrants in a small saucepan with the caster sugar and 1 tablespoon of water. Place over a high heat and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to low and simmer very gently until the berries start to burst and release their juice. Remove the pan from the heat and leave the compote to cool.

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Make the cheesecake base. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over a low heat, then stir in the biscuit crumbs. Spread the biscuit mixture evenly over the bottom of the cake tin, pressing it down with the back of a spoon. Bake for 10 minutes, until golden, then set aside to cool.

When the base is cool, rub a little butter (or flavourless oil) around the inside of the tin without dislodging the biscuit base (this will help to release the cheesecake later).

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the cream cheese, icing sugar, vanilla paste and strained yoghurt (discard its liquid, or use to make the soda bread here). Add three-quarters of the blackcurrant compote to the cheese mixture and swirl it through with a spoon, but don’t mix it in completely. Pour the mixture into the cake tin and put it in the fridge for at least 8 hours to set. Chill the remaining blackcurrant compote.

When you’re ready to serve, dollop the remaining blackcurrant compote over the surface of the cheesecake, then scatter over the lemon verbena leaves. Run a knife around the edge of the cake to loosen it, then release the sides of the tin (leave the cheesecake on the tin base for stability). Slice and serve – this can be a little messy, as the set isn’t very firm, but it will taste great!

I discovered this cake at a food market in Prague. The Czech name is bublanina, probably because of the way the batter bubbles up around the fruit. It is wonderfully versatile – you can make it with any mixture of berries, even strawberries, which we are typically told not to bake with as they turn watery. A few strawberries in the mixture of berries won’t hurt here, though; in fact, they perfume the crumb delightfully. This makes it a very economical cake, as you can use those handy bags of frozen mixed berries available in supermarkets. Cherries or plums (stoned and sliced) work well, too.

Pre-heat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Grease and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Make the topping. In a small bowl, rub the cold butter into the flour with your fingertips until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar and set aside.

Next, make the cake. Using a stand mixer or an electric hand whisk, beat the sugar and butter at a high speed until fluffy and pale. Add the eggs a little at a time, mixing well between each addition. Stir in the almond extract and the yoghurt.

In a small bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder and salt and then fold it gently into the egg and butter mixture until you have a thick batter.

Pour the batter into the tin. Scatter the berries over the top and press down gently. Tip the crumble topping evenly over the berries. Bake the cake for 50–60 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. Serve warm, topped with a few berries and a scoop of crème fraîche, Greek yoghurt or ice cream.

This is a variation on a cheesecake I made for a cooking TV show, Food Glorious Food, several years ago. After the stress of the competition – low points included having to transport two cheesecakes in a giant coolbag on a six-hour journey across the country, negotiating three changes of train and two taxis, and having to re-bake said cheesecakes at 4am that morning because I’d forgotten a crucial ingredient the first time around – it took many years before I could bring myself to make it again. I’m glad I did, though, because this mash-up of my two favourite desserts, incorporating one of my favourite underrated berries, is certainly worth bringing to a wider audience, and encapsulates everything that is wonderful about British puddings. The original version used rhubarb, which is also definitely worth trying – see the variation at the end of the recipe.

Put the gooseberries, elderflower and sugar in a small saucepan over a medium heat, and heat gently for 5–10 minutes, until the berries start to burst and release their juice. Bring to a simmer and allow to simmer gently for a couple of minutes, until the gooseberries have softened and become juicy but are mostly still holding their shape. Remove the pan from the heat.

Set aside about a third of this gooseberry mixture in a bowl. Allow to cool, then place in the fridge to chill. Leave the remaining gooseberries in the pan. Mix the arrowroot with 1–2 teaspoons water to form a loose paste, then stir the paste into the gooseberries in the pan to thicken them. Set the pan aside to cool.

Pre-heat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Grease and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over a medium heat, then stir in the blitzed biscuits. Press the biscuit mixture gently into the bottom of the cake tin, using the back of a spoon to flatten gently – don’t press too hard – to form a crust. Bake the crust for 10 minutes, until golden, then remove from the oven and set aside to cool while you make the filling.

In a large bowl, whisk together the ricotta, crème fraîche, honey, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Add the gooseberry and arrowroot mixture from the pan and fold in gently with a spatula or large spoon, but don’t over-mix – you should still see pale streaks of green. Pour the mixture into the cake tin over the biscuit base. Bake for 35 minutes, until the edges of the cake start to set but there is still a lot of wobble in the centre.

While the cheesecake is baking, prepare the crumble. Put the butter and flour into a mixing bowl or food processor and rub them together using your fingertips, or use a processor, until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar, ginger, nutmeg and almonds. Add the water and mix gently so the mixture turns ‘pebbly’.

Remove the cheesecake from the oven after 35 minutes. Scatter the crumble mixture evenly over the top (gently, so as not to mess up the cake, which is still only partially cooked). Return the cheesecake to the oven and increase the temperature to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Bake for a further 20–25 minutes, until the crumble is golden and the cheesecake is mostly set, with a generous wobble in the centre. The best way to check that the cheesecake is done is to use a digital thermometer – the inside should reach 65°C.

Turn off the oven with the cheesecake inside, and, using the handle of a wooden spoon, prop open the oven door slightly. Leave the cake to cool for 1–2 hours. Once cool, refrigerate for at least 4 hours (it will firm up as it chills), before serving dusted with icing sugar with spoonfuls of the chilled gooseberry compote. I also like to decorate the cake with mint sprigs and/or edible flowers.

This is a deceptively easy dessert, but one with a substantial wow factor from the fragrant basil sugar strewn across the top. If you haven’t yet tried strawberries with basil, I urge you to take the plunge: rather like a tomato-and-basil combo, they bring out the best in each other. This is the perfect make-ahead dessert for high summer, when the fresh ingredients are both at their best (although the basil sugar will liven up even lacklustre berries at other times of year, too).

Make the crust. Using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk, cream the butter, sugar and cinnamon together on high speed for about 3–4 minutes, until pale and creamy. Add the flour, ground almonds, semolina and salt and mix briefly with a wooden spoon to make a soft, crumbly dough.

Tip the dough into a loose-bottomed tart tin (20–23cm in diameter – the smaller the tin, the thicker the crust). Press the dough up the sides of the tin and evenly along the bottom using your fingers or the back of a spoon. Once done, put the tin in the fridge for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, pre-heat the oven to 180°C/160°C fan/gas mark 4.

Bake the crust for 20–30 minutes, until lightly golden, then remove it and leave it to cool completely.

Meanwhile, whisk together the mascarpone, vanilla and icing sugar. Chill the mixture until needed.

When the crust is completely cool, and when you’re ready to serve, spoon the mascarpone filling into it and level it roughly with the back of a spoon.

Hull and quarter the strawberries. Place them in a bowl with the lemon juice and toss together (do this at the last minute, or the strawberries will turn soggy).

Put the sugar and basil leaves in a mini food processor or blender and pulse briefly, until the sugar becomes light green and flecked with basil – don’t overprocess, or you will end up with something more like pesto! You could also use a mortar and pestle, but be careful not to over-mix.

Arrange the strawberries over the mascarpone, then sprinkle the basil sugar over the top. Decorate the tart with basil leaves (the small ones look best) and serve immediately.

I have the wonderful Heidi Swanson to thank for this. The baked oatmeal with blueberries and banana from her book Super Natural Every Day has become almost legendary among food bloggers, and although I’ve made the original countless times, I’ve also experimented over the seasons with different fruits and flavours. This is a perfect way to celebrate early season forced rhubarb, with its candy-pink stalks and sweet tanginess – I wanted to find a way to incorporate it into every meal, not just dessert. This recipe makes a wonderfully nourishing and unusual breakfast or brunch – one for lazy weekend mornings, although it also reheats well in the oven or microwave for slightly more frenetic breakfasting. Do try the rhubarb, strawberry and coconut version below, too – strawberries and rhubarb complement each other perfectly, and their colours can’t fail to cheer you up as you wait for spring to come.

Pre-heat the oven to 210°C/190°C fan/gas mark 6–7. Grease a medium baking dish with butter. Scatter the rhubarb pieces evenly over the bottom and add the caster sugar and the cornflour. Toss to coat the rhubarb. Add 130g of the blueberries and mix gently.

In a medium bowl, mix together the oats and 40g of the almonds, along with the brown sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, cardamom and salt.

In a large jug, whisk together the melted butter, milk, egg and the almond and vanilla extracts.

Sprinkle the oat mixture on top of the rhubarb and spread it out so it forms an even layer. Pour the milk mixture evenly over the oats, and give the dish a couple of (gentle!) bashes on the worktop to make sure the milk is evenly distributed. Sprinkle the reserved blueberries and flaked almonds over. Bake for 40 minutes, until the oat mixture has set and turned crunchy on top and the fruit is bubbling up around it. Leave to cool for 5 minutes before serving.