Cranachan

August raspberries have a smell that supermarket ones never quite manage. You press a thumb gently against one and it gives, warm from the punnet, and the scent is something between a rose garden and a summer hedge. That's the moment for cranachan. Not before.

It's a Scottish pudding, and I won't pretend otherwise. The whisky, the oats, the heather honey, they belong to a landscape that isn't mine. But I make it every year when the raspberries come in, and again at Burns Night if someone's in the mood, because it's one of the most honest puddings I know. Toast some oats in a dry pan. Whip some cream. Fold in whisky and honey. Layer it with fruit in a glass. That's the whole thing.

There's nothing to it and everything to it. The oats need to smell of warm toast before they come off the heat, a second longer and they turn bitter. The cream should be loose enough to fall from a spoon in soft ribbons, not stiff and stubborn. The whisky should be something you'd actually drink, because you'll taste every drop. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one is really more of a suggestion than a set of steps.

I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I made it properly: raspberries, oats, cream, whisky, honey. Five things. One evening. Enough.