Olivia Potts

Chess pie was, in one sense, new to me when I started learning about it a few months ago. I’d never heard of this favourite of the American South until I came across it in a pie-centric cookery book. But in another sense, it’s extremely familiar – both to me and to anyone who’s ever eaten a pie or a tart before. Chess pie is a bit like an ur-pie, made with the most simple, most essential of pie ingredients. That’s possibly where its name comes from: the story goes that in the 1800s in Alabama, where nuts and other common pie fillings were expensive, a freed slave made a pie with the most basic of ingredients – eggs, sugar, butter, cream. When asked about it, she replied: ‘Oh it’s jes’ pie.’ And, lo, thanks to a mishearing, chess pie was born.

For a while now, we’ve been living through a renaissance of classical British cooking: a whole host of restaurants have been embracing the joy of the old school, the pies and puddings, the traditional and the retro. But there’s something missing. Bring back the savoury! An Edwardian favourite, a ‘savoury’ was an extra course that came towards the end of the meal, either just before or after pudding, or as an alternative to it. A savoury should be small – a ‘morsel’ – and strongly flavoured. To this end, the main ingredients are usually cheese, smoked or salted fish, bacon, or spice in the form of devilling. It is often served on toast or with a small pastry croute, and with something creamy as a foil.

Yeast scares even some of the most proficient cooks. I know home cooks and professionals alike, food writers and fanatics, who wouldn’t think twice about deboning a duck or rustling up a feast for 14, who quail the moment they hear the word ‘yeast’. I understand the trepidation: yeast is a living thing and, as such, capricious and unpredictable. Its behaviour is influenced by the season, the warmth, the humidity and how it is handled. Put like that, it sounds quite relatable, doesn’t it? Despite its intimidating reputation, yeast is actually pretty good at showing us what’s going on: it visibly inflates the dough or batter before cooking. And if the mixture hasn’t yet grown, it often just needs more time. This is an exercise in patience and trust.

Chicken tikka masala has become something of a joke. When, in the late 2000s, it was topping lists of the nation’s favourite dishes, its popularity was seen as an indictment of British cuisine: we nick stuff from other cultures, strip out its character and call it our own. This is all deeply unfair: chicken tikka masala is a fantastic, aromatic dish that has earned its place in British culinary history. But there is an element of truth to some of the accusations. Chicken tikka masala is indeed a curry which probably was invented in the UK to appeal to British palates. It is mild and creamy, much more so than most authentically Indian curries.

A confession: I don’t like being messy. I think this is something of a failing in a home baker, but I can’t deny it. I can’t stand dough on my hands. I don’t like getting buttercream on myself when I ice a cake. I love arancini, but my God, the mess! I might as well breadcrumb my own hands. It’s not that I’m a neat freak (I wish), I just don’t like being sticky. So in some ways, lamingtons are my worst nightmare. Because, as I have learned, there is no way of making these cakes without getting a bit messy. Lamingtons, the (unofficial) national cake of Australia, are little cubes of sponge cake coated in a thin chocolate sauce and tossed in desiccated coconut until they look like shag cushions.

I always feel pulled toward citrus at the start of the year. Initially it was subconscious: I’d just find myself in the kitchen making a lemon drizzle cake. But now I actively plan my citrusy January. As Christmas recedes, I make notes of recipes that I’m craving, and almost all of them call for a whack of lemon or grapefruit or orange. It doesn’t take much analysis, does it? It’s a bit like having a dream about doing an exam unprepared – what could it possibly mean?! The literal brightness of the fruit and the figurative brightness of the flavour – its zinginess – bring you back to life; it is the perfect ingredient for fresh starts, for leaves turned over. This is so much more than a lemony sauced pud.