Root Vegetable Gratin

January. The garden is bare and the light goes by four. The market stalls are down to roots and brassicas, everything earthy and solid, packed in wooden crates with soil still clinging. This is when a gratin makes the most sense.

Celeriac, parsnips, potatoes. None of them glamorous, none of them trying to be. Peeled and sliced thin, layered in a dish with cream that's been warmed through with garlic and thyme and nutmeg, then baked slowly until everything goes soft and the top turns the colour of a good afternoon. The cream thickens as it cooks, binding the layers together so that when you cut into it, the whole thing holds, just, before collapsing slightly on the plate. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate of this in front of someone on a dark evening.

I make this when I want something that feels generous without being complicated. The roots do the work. The cream holds them together. The cheese on top is just enough to give you that golden crust that makes everyone lean in when the dish comes out of the oven. Right food, right evening. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract: if you want to swap the celeriac for sweet potato or add a layer of leeks softened in butter, do. Your kitchen, your rules. I wrote it down in the notebook last February: roots, cream, dark evening, seconds.