English Sherry Trifle

It's dark by four in the afternoon and the kitchen is the only room worth being in. Something else is on in the oven, and you're standing at the hob stirring custard with a wooden spoon, watching for the moment it thickens and coats the back of the spoon. This is the quiet part of Christmas. The part before anyone arrives, when the house is still yours and the windows are steamed up and the radio is on low.

A proper trifle is made in layers, unhurried, over the course of a morning or an afternoon. Sponge spread with good raspberry jam. Enough sherry that the sponge forgets what it was. Raspberries. Proper egg custard, the kind you make with yolks and a vanilla pod and your full attention. Softly whipped cream on top. A scattering of toasted almonds. That's it. No jelly. I know some people swear by it. I'm not one of them.

I make this once a year, always a day ahead, and it lives in the fridge overnight so the sponge can drink up the sherry and the custard can settle into the fruit. By the time we eat it, every layer tastes of the day before. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: trifle, Christmas Eve, cold kitchen, happy. Still true.