This risotto is sort of Nigel Slater, and sort of me, and sings absolute unfathomable comfort in every grain of soft and oozy rice. I found it in a book at my grandparents’ house, near the Peak District, and I folded myself up on their sofa and thought about making it, back in London. It is wonderful.
This crumble is either distressing because the idea of nectarines in a crumble is inherently wrong; or because it was written in a hospital waiting room. Really, though, like hospitals, nectarines in crumble are brilliant. This crumble has nectarines, and walnuts, and whiskey, and marzipan, and it may be the best thing I’ve ever invented.