Crumpets

It's the middle of January. The light goes by four and the kettle is on more or less constantly. This is crumpet weather. Not the bag from the supermarket, useful as it sometimes is, but a proper homemade crumpet, soft and a little tangy and full of those small holes that exist for the sole purpose of holding butter.

Making them yourself is one of those things that sounds harder than it is. A yeasted batter, an hour on the side of the kitchen, a heavy pan over a low heat, some metal rings to keep the batter in shape. That's it. The first batch will probably go wrong in some small way: too thick, too thin, too hot a pan. The second batch will be better. By the third you'll wonder why you ever bought them.

Watching the holes appear is the best bit. The batter goes into the ring glossy and silent, and then the bubbles start to rise, slowly at first and then in a quiet rush, bursting at the surface and leaving their record behind. When the top has gone from wet to matte, you know you've done it. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I got it right: "Crumpets. January. Holes all the way through." That was enough.

Serve them toasted, with cold butter. Honey if you must. Marmite if you're that way inclined. We're only making dinner. Or breakfast. Or the small ceremony that gets you through a Tuesday afternoon in February.