Spaghetti Bolognese

The kitchen smells of onions and wine and something savoury that's been on the hob long enough to stop being ingredients and start being dinner. It's a Tuesday. It's raining. This is the right food for the right evening.

I should say, before anyone writes in, that this isn't a ragù. It isn't pretending to be. The Italians have their version and it's beautiful, but this is the other one: the one your mum made, the one with a bottle of Worcestershire sauce within reach and cheddar grated over the top in a pile so generous it half-melts into the hot pasta before you pick up your fork. It's a British weeknight institution and I won't apologise for it.

The trick, if there is one, is time. Not technique, not rare ingredients, just the patience to let it simmer until everything softens and deepens and the sauce clings to the spaghetti like it was always meant to be there. You can rush it in thirty minutes and it will be fine. Give it an hour and it will be something you'd write down in a notebook.

I've made this more times than I can count. The recipe hasn't changed in years because it doesn't need to. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Adjust it. Add more wine than I've suggested. Go easy on the garlic or double it. Your kitchen, your rules. We're only making dinner.