Rhubarb and blood orange macarons

 Although it is still, at least at times, bitterly cold it does feel like spring has at last raised its head out of the frigid depths of winter. The garden is beginning to come into bloom and the heady scent of springtime blossom seems on the cusp of arrival. The hawthorn has been the first tree to blossom, its delicate white flowers slowly filling the hedgerows and filling the air with their heady springtime perfume as the month progresses.

They were pretty enough that I went out to photograph some this afternoon, though by the end my hands were stingingly cold which reminded me that it does feel unseasonably cold for this time of year, particularly so with the heating having broken down (any thoughts of a short-sleeve shirt coming out of the wardrobe is off limits for now) and so I do feel impatient for a spell of warm weather.

At this time of year, there is still very little growing in the garden, especially for fruit, with the first early strawberries and cherries only coming into season in late May, so the crimson crown of rhubarb looks even more prominent. The tart rhubarb here is combined with blood orange in a crisp and chewy almond macaron.

Macarons actually aren't that hard; sure, they may be difficult to perfect but even the worst, most ugly batch I've made, looks aside, actually tasted delicious. I'm not an expert, nor claim to be, however here are some tips for perfect macarons:

1. Give it a bash

For a long time I made my macarons as the recipes stated, even letting them rest, yet they always came out cracked on top and I couldn't work out why. Then one day, I was looking up tips for macarons and it said to hit the baking tray to remove excess air bubbles. So, I made another batch and dutifully did as it said and, although still not perfect, the macarons didn't crack on the top - just by hitting the tray.

2. Not too stiff, not to loose
The consistency of the macaron batter should be just right: not too stiff and not too loose. I've heard it described as 'magma', you'll know it's there when if the batter is dropped from a spatula it can sink back into the mixture in 10 seconds. You should err on the side of too stiff: too thin and it will just spread out like a pancake.

3. Spread it out
When piping the macarons, make sure they are far enough apart that they won't spread into each other, 1-2 cm is about right: there's is nothing more annoying than an otherwise perfectly good batch of macarons which has merged into one.

Carrot cake

Spring is supposedly soon upon us and, although the hawthorn and wild cherry seem on the brink of coming into blossom, I think there is still some way to go. This week has rained and poured and, well, more rain (at one point there were even a few out-of-place flurries of snow) until the ground was sodden and puddles abound. I feel like I spent the most of the week staring at the rhythmic puttering of rain drops on the window sill, watching them slowly form into miniature streams running down the pane.

The last withered echinaceas

I guess because although it seems like months of cold and wet weather, most of it has only been a kind of cold, miserable drizzle with the little actually rain. So for all this I think it did the garden good, with everything feeling decidedly more verdant and refreshed.

A first attempt at 'chiaroscuro' photography

For the photography, I did some usual shots and then, for the overhead photo I tried 'chiaroscuro' style. Basically this (I am told) involves using a much darker shot with a few highlights to give emphasis on things. I was trying to emulate the style of photographs on Desserts for Breakfast, particularly the over-head shots, although in comparison they seem much... lighter. I quite like the shot but I think I need to angle the light better, which is surprisingly difficult to do with the lack of it, but it was fun giving it a go (and also trying to balance a black sheet and a reflector at the same time as holding the tripod steady).

Rain droplets on a leek

So, not quite ready to open-armedly welcome spring, and ice creams and fruit tarts and chilled soups, I decided to stick with a comforting and ever so slightly stodgy cake. Unlike a traditional carrot cake this is much lighter and without a cream cheese frosting, taking inspiration from Scandinavian style spice cakes. Serve it warm with a dollop of crème fraiche as a dessert or have it cold as a cake.

Spiced persimmon upside-down cake

 It's funny: I've always though of persimmons (also known as 'sharon fruit') as somehow faintly exotic. It's not that persimmons are particularly uncommon - they're not, maybe it's just seeing their tangerine hued skin and heart shaped-fruit in bleak February that seems to call of warmer climes.

So when I saw some persimmons in the shops (ashamedly not a local farmer's market) I thought I'd try some. Although I have had them before, I wasn't sure what they tasted like, although I remember them being quite sweet. So before I did any baking or photography, I sat down and ate one, cutting it into quarters and thoughtfully ate it. As it happened, it tasted somewhat like a spicy, honeyed apricot with sweet, delicate flesh with a slightly waxy skin.

Apparently, there are two main varieties of persimmon: the Fuyu and Hachiya. Fuyu have the appearance of a slightly 'squashed' tomato and can be eaten whilst still slightly firm, like an apple; whereas the heart-shaped Hachiya must be ripened until soft and can be simply halved and eaten with a spoon. For the cake, I used the firmer Fuyu since it had to be sliced fairly thinly and I didn't want it to turn to mush.

The cake itself is a twist on the retro upside-down cake, with fresh persimmons in place of pineapple rings and those gaudy glacé cherries. The almond sponge is spiced with cloves, ginger and cinnamon and has a tender persimmon topping - serve warm with a generous scoop on ice cream.

Chocolate hazelnut bundt cake with nutella glaze

Usually, I don't know what I'm going to bake at first: normally I start with an ingredient then think about what I'm going to make with it later. I get out all the cook books, spreading them out across the table and flick through their glossy pages looking for inspiration. By the end they've inevitably sprawled out across the whole kitchen and there's already a mess before I've even got out the measuring scales.

Flicking through the cook books I went through a lot of hazelnut recipes: a hazelnut truffle torte (River cafe) - too rich I thought, spelt and cobnut fairy cakes (short and sweet) - too dainty maybe, and a gianduja gelato (the perfect scoop) - which would have been perfect, but I didn't have any cream on hand unfortunately. In another cookbook I also saw a bundt cake and, taking the idea of the gianduja (a chocolate and hazelnut paste like an Italian nutella) from the ice cream recipe, I thought I'd make a chocolate and hazelnut bundt cake. The cake is nicely moist from the ground and chopped hazelnuts, though still light and fluffy, with just a hint of chocolate from a little cocoa and drizzled with a smooth nutella chocolate glaze. The cake has quite a long baking time (1 hour 15 minutes) but stick with it - it's worth it.

I actually have a hazelnut tree (although for some reason I've always known it as a cobnut) in the corner of the garden. It's quite a pretty tree, with slightly furry lime green leaves and tall, slender stems, holding delicate catkins at this time the year, coppiced into a crude circle.

 Though it's not bearing any nuts at this time of the year, in the autumn, around early October, we go out to pick the hazelnuts - hopefully before the squirrels have got to them. Then we spend an afternoon on ladders and buckets trying to pick as many as we can, which becomes increasinlgy difficlt as the low branches are picked and only the just-out-of-reach branches are left. You actually pick the hazelnuts when they're still a pastel green because they have to be matured,until they turn an ochre brown, before they can be used. Once matured they just have to be cracked open, by which time you begin to suspect that it would have been easier to just buy a pack of hazelnuts from the shops. They don't last long though, with most being eaten as they are and only a few actually making it to the kitchen. Those that do are used simply so not to lose the subtle hazelnut flavour that was worked so hard for.

Ginger, chocolate and pear streusel muffins

I'm very particular about pears, they have to be just ripe. More often than not, bought from the shops they're rock hard. Although some people like them like this, with their crisp, granular texture like a tear-shaped apple; I prefer them when they're melting soft and so juicy that they weep their honeyed juice at the slightest bruise. However, there is a fine line between perfectly ripe and over, at which point they start to become ever so slightly fermented and have a slightly alcoholic whiff (which could be a good or bad thing) which could be as short as just a day or two.

Pears come in an array of shapes and varieties: from the tall and slender Conference to the more bulbous, round Comice but they all have the characteristic sweetly floral and juicy flesh, though some have a noticeably more grainy texture. Here, I've used the rocha variety, though I admit that they were chosen more for the merits of their small round size rather than anything else.

If I'm prepared, I'll leave them out to ripen in a fruit bowl on a sunny window sill for a few days until they're ripened to my liking (putting them in a bag with bananas apparently also speeds this up). If I'm not prepared though (or too impatient to wait) baking or poaching them brings out their juicy sweetness too. Just sprinkle halved pears with a little brown sugar or honey and bake in a moderate oven or poach in a light syrup until soft and tender. I poached the pears in the muffin recipe for this reason, but if your pears are softer then simply omit this step.

I first had pears tinned with (instant) chocolate custard as a treat for dessert as a child, and although I like to think I've grown up a bit now (though I'm still partial to custard powder on occasion) the combination of rich, slightly bitter chocolate and sweet, buttery pear still holds. These muffins carry on the pairing of chocolate and pear, with the addition of warming ginger and topped with a spicy streusel and are wonderful, warm for breakfast.