Every time one of my kids stabs through ice with a stick, it makes me think of cracking a crème brulee with a fork. It was one of my favourite things to do as a child, crushing that beautiful, super fine layer of caramelized sugar on the top. My Mum’s boyfriend of many years loved crème brulee. And he’d always let me crack the surface. It’s such a small, and yet satisfying pleasure in life. Like stabbing ice with a wooden stick.

It’s funny that they’re called English muffins because the only place we ever ate them was in Florida and Bermuda when we visited our grandparents. My grandmother ate a lightly buttered English muffin for breakfast most days. And on days when she drove my grandfather into work (he was blind as a bat) she’d stay in town for a croissant. She was a creature of habit, my grandmother –– white shirts, Van Cleef Arpels perfume, Pinot Grigio with a glass of ice on the side –– and incredibly disciplined. Punctuality was so important. We never brought our bare feet to the dinner table or licked a finger to pick up breadcrumbs off a plate. Denim was for daytime. Decorum and discretion were cornerstones. She and my grandfather had a 17-year age gap. The sun rose and set with one another. I wonder how much of her discipline was a way of coping with his deteriorating health, caring for a man for as many years as she did, and knowing that she would spend a decent chunk of life without him. As it happens, it was more of a soupçon than a chunk. She was diagnosed with lung cancer a few years after he died. In the years in between, my grandmother para-glided off an Alpine cliff, drove her convertible along sandy beaches, took skating lessons, sang 60s ballads at karaoke, air ballooned around Dijon, wore sweat pants, ate a lot of cheese (my grandfather had an intolerance for any kind) and threw herself a big party. “Athinoula, I was in the Meatpacking district today, and I wore jeans,” she’d call to tell me. “Did you get a door for your bathroom yet? I won’t visit you until you do.” Her emails were the same. “Just arrived back an hour ago from new York with Jane and Pary and another Jane Saw Spamelot and DonQuito performed by the Bolshoi which doesnt get better than that. Yiayia.” You’d think she knew all along that her time was up.

I’ve stumbled upon Aimee Twigger‘s exquisite flower pressed pastas many times, and thought, these are just too beautiful to send into a boil. Think ribbons of handmade pappardelle with corn flower petals pressed into them. If the kitchen is your creative place, here is Triggers’s guide to making fresh pasta, and here is her step-by-step tutorial to adding herbs and petals. I love this kind of dedication to something so beautiful, something that will be gobbled up in minutes. It reminds me of land art, mandalas and sand castles; all beautiful, noble and transient endeavours.

“In times of great uncertainty, knowing how to make your own bread and thereby feed your family, is palpably reassuring,” wrote Dale Berning Sarwa in the Guardian last spring. “The very act of kneading dough is calming, like Play-Doh for adults.” While I’ve personally had no yearnings to bake bread this year, I’ve admired all of those around me baking baguettes, brioches and sourdough challahs by the loaf. It made so much sense. Few things are as comforting as bread and butter. Both the act of making and eating bread is humbling and reassuring. Linda Sofia Ring’s artful sourdoughs are a true labour of love, adorned with Picasso doves, vases and faces. But for something a little less laborious, Berning Sarwa’s article is filled with suggestions. No knead? No bake? Sign me up.

Apple crumble is one of my brother’s favourite desserts. It was a Saturday staple growing up, served hot with heaps of Bramley apples. Alex used to fully submerge his crumble in piping hot English custard. The custard was never my thing. I’ve attempted the odd crumble myself over the years, but it’s never been as good as the ones I grew up eating. I came across this recipe from James Rich, a British food writer with apple juice running through his veins, (Rich’s family grows apples and owns a cider farm in Somerset) and I thought I might try it. It sounds pretty classic, no doubt Alex would approve.

What turns me off slaw is the mayo. I’m not a fan of mayonnaise. But this lovely recipe from Aussie cook and author, Julia Busuttil Nishimura uses parmesan to capture the creaminess of mayo. I can’t think of a more heavenly dinner, than a piece of fish or steak on the barbecue served with this crisp and crunchy salad.

My kids have been baking cakes this week, the ones that comes straight out of a box. There’s something so sweet and nostalgic about a box cake. I used to make Angel Food Cake all the time. Even as I write the words I can taste it, all sweet and fluffy. My Auntie Polyxene made the best Betty Crocker Swirl Cake. You just knew it would taste the same every time. That’s the thing about box cakes, they’re reliable.

Just look at these charming, little baskets of berries. Have you ever seen a prettier display of fruit? The pastry looks like it’s woven from willow. The image is from a croissanterie in Melbourne, Australia. According to the New York Times, Lune makes the best croissants in the world. In Toronto, Pain Perdu makes perfect croissants. A guest brought us a box of them today. I’ve always had a soft spot for the croissants from Harbord Bakery, even though they’re not nearly flaky enough to be French. I love to slather salty butter on a warm croissant, you know, for buere on buere.