One of the first things I purchased when I came to Canada was a glass Bodum teapot. I loved watching the water turn from translucent to a glimmering green. Like most Brits, I grew up drinking tea; always sugary and with lots of milk. At my Dad’s house we drank loose leaf Earl Grey poured through silver strainers into porcelain Wedgewood cups. At my Mum’s house, we dipped Digestives into mismatched mugs of boiling hot Tetley’s. My parents chose to live in very different worlds. Tea tasted wonderful in both. Once I settled in Toronto, I used to walk up to Summerhill to buy loose leaf Ceylon, Assam and Rooibos from the lovely Marisha at House of Tea. And when I started making friends I invited them over for a cuppa. My neighbour, Alison would often pop in with oat biscuits to dunk in the lemon ginger tea we both liked. There are few things more comforting then sharing a pot of tea with a friend. As my children got older and life got busier, teatime lost its sense of ritual. My Bodum teapot cracked and I stopped buying loose leaf teas. A few weeks ago, a friend popped in for an impromptu visit and all I had to offer her was a sad old chamomile tea bag. I didn’t even have decent honey to tart it up with. What kind of an Anglo-Greek has no tea and honey in the pantry? And then rather wonderfully a handmade, red clay teapot appeared under the tree from my husband this Christmas morning. With at least six or seven parts that all have to work together, the teapot poses all kinds of challenges for a potter. This one –– humble and refined –– is among the nicest I’ve ever seen. I’ve since stocked up on a variety of teas (from red rose to a fancy darjeeling) and teatime is starting to feel ceremeonious again. Of course, a pot of tea tastes best when shared so I hope you’ll visit soon. And bring biscuits.

There are certain foods, baklava springs to mind, that several countries claim as their own. Armenia, Greece, Turkey, Serbia, Syria, they all have variations of the syrup-ey, phyllo-ey dessert. As a child, I ate baklava the way American kids eat jello or Venezuelans eat Papitas de leche. We had as slice with every meal, three, four bites was always enough. And until recently, I’d never eaten Baklava as good as the baklava I eat in Greece. In April, my Bosnian friend, Ksenija hosted a beautiful fundraiser dinner for Turkish families affected by the earthquake and served a baklava made by her parents that was, and will forever be, the best I have tasted. I love that we are connected, among other things, by baklava. I love it when I visit my Turkish friend, Buket and she serves Dolma in her home, the same vine stuffed rice bites I grew up eating. My friend, Diana who’s Armenian, looks at our children, eyes as big as Kalamata olives, and says, “they all come from the same place.” It’s true, we do. And it’s the little things that remind us. A slice of Baklava, a taste so familiar, you could cry with every bite. Dolmades, just like you ate as a child. Eyes so big you could swim in them.

Given how many school lunches I consumed it’s funny that all I remember were the fish fingers. For pudding there was semolina, or a jam and coconut sponge cake. You’d think that something you do everyday for fifteen years would yield more memories than a fish stick and tepid custard. I suppose our brains only have room for so many memories, and when it’s something as constant as lunch, we likely distill the experience down to a handful of images, feelings and flavours. Once I was in high school, lunch was either a Twix and five cigarettes or milky tea and buttered toast from the local greasy spoon. I just signed my kids up to the hot lunch program at school in the hopes that their memories are more refined than mine. Although something tells me that no matter how good the food is, all they’ll remember are the sloppy mortadella sandwiches and browning apples they brought from home.

With two out of three children home all week with yet another virus, my brain is blancmange. Milk, rice flour, gelatin, corn starch, sugar, mix it all together, and yep, that’s my brain. As a child, I remember a very wobbly blancmange, pink as ballet slippers, arriving at the dinner table and doing my best to muster enthusiasm for it. I think that may have been the one and only time I have ever eaten blancmange. Creamy puddings aren’t my thing, and the thought of gelatin makes my tummy turn,. But if forced (like, with a machete) I may consider Panna Cotta. Everything sounds better in Italian. Even cooked cream.

I’m not sure that it gets better than this. Giant artichokes, mounds of pillowy burrata, crispy zucchini flowers, handmade agnolotti, olives, plump tomatoes and a crisp white. The Italians sure know how to eat. It’s the simplicity in the ingredients and techniques that set them apart. With food this fresh, what more do you need than the artichoke itself? Maybe a little sale e pepe? In Stanley Tucci’s warm, charming and funny memoir, Taste it’s the 4-ingredient zucchini pasta dish that he first ate at Lo Scoglio on the Amalifi Coast that appealed to my taste buds the most. “The simple but poignant spaghetti con zucchine alla Nerano, born from a quartet of oil, basil, cheese, and humble squash, points once again to the Italian ability to discover riches where others might find very little,” he writes. If you’re deliberating on dinner tonight, may I suggest this dish.

If I had to choose a favourite dessert, it would be some form of tart. Lemon is a front-runner, but I also love Raspberry. This recipe by Angela Hartnett for apple tart looks delicious. Apple tart or an apple galette is a popular topper to English Sunday lunches. Served piping hot, with vanilla ice cream, there are few puddings yummier. Serve it on parchment paper, or on a large wooden cutting board.