Lemon Curd

There comes a point in late winter when the kitchen feels grey and you want something the colour of a daffodil. Citrus is at its best now, oddly, just when nothing else is. Crates of lemons turn up at the market looking heavy and bright, and a jar of curd is the easiest way I know to put a bit of sun on the table.

Lemon curd has a reputation for being fiddly, which it isn't really. It's just unforgiving of impatience. You stir it slowly over a gentle heat until the eggs thicken into something glossy and rich, and if you walk away or rush it you'll end up with sweet scrambled eggs that taste of lemon. Stay with the pan. Listen to the radio. It only takes ten minutes of real attention.

A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Some people make it sharper, some sweeter, some with all yolks for a deeper colour. This is the version I keep coming back to, balanced enough to spread on toast in the morning and rich enough to spoon into a tart shell when someone's coming for tea. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: lemons, butter, sugar, eggs, patience. That was the whole entry.

It keeps for a fortnight in the fridge, though in this house it never lasts that long. Someone always finds the jar.