Cornish Saffron Bread

There's a Saturday in early spring when the light starts to feel different. Longer, kinder, with that pale gold quality that promises Easter is coming. That's when I start thinking about saffron bread.

It's a Cornish thing, really, though nobody can quite agree on how it got there. The story goes that Cornish tin made its way to the Mediterranean centuries ago and saffron came back the other way, tucked into the holds of returning ships. Whether that's strictly true or not, the bread is. Vivid yellow from the saffron, rich with butter, studded with currants and candied peel. Half loaf, half cake, entirely its own thing.

The saffron does most of the work, so don't skimp. A proper pinch, steeped in warm milk for as long as you can manage, gives you that astonishing colour and a perfume that's hard to describe: hay, honey, something faintly metallic and old. The rest is just patience. Enriched dough rises slowly. There's no hurrying it. Put the kettle on, find a book, let the kitchen smell start to build.

I wrote it down in the notebook the first year I made it: "Saffron bread. Easter Saturday. Sun out. Worth the wait." I haven't changed the recipe since.