Dark chocolate and hazelnut tart with pink peppercorn, crushed meringue and raspberry ripple ice cream

Sometimes, you need a dessert that is pure chocolate indulgence. Not a scattering of chocolate chips here and there, or a bit of cocoa added to a sponge mixture, but a proper mouthful of thick, rich, silky molten chocolate. The kind that envelops your tongue like dark cashmere, and leaves you wanting to bathe in a pool of rippling cocoa. This is that dessert. A layer of smooth, fudgy dark chocolate ganache is baked until just set inside a crunchy, buttery pastry shell, flecked with hazelnuts for that praline hit. It's so thick and smooth you need a hot knife to cut through it, and it's scattered with freeze-dried raspberry pieces for delicious bursts of fruity sharpness in every mouthful. On the side, a glorious ice cream rippled with vanilla, crushed meringues and a tangy raspberry coulis, vibrant with the fragrant heat of pink peppercorns. It's perfect against the silky, complex ganache and the crisp pastry. Head to my post on Great British Chefs for the recipe!

Baked amaretti, ginger & lime papaya with toasted coconut gelato

Recently, I got to thinking about the way we express our appreciation while eating good food. How do you do it? Are you the type to take a mouthful, put down your spoon, lean back, close your eyes and raise your visage to heaven, indulging in a moment of quiet quasi-religious worship of the food gods? Or do you open your mouth, aforementioned mouthful still visible inside it, and make a thick, guttural, primal grunt of 'ommagodatsogood'? Maybe you go for a short and sweet 'mm', delivered with vim and gutso, in the style of Nigella? Or a longer and more voluptuously drawn-out 'mmmmmmmmm'? Do you go all out and emit a rapturous and somewhat inappropriate moan of 'oh my goddddd', or do you eschew such drama altogether and simply express your seal of approval with a restrained 'this is very nice'?

A couple of weeks ago, I had a friend over for dinner. We'd just polished off a delicious (even if I say so myself) main course of Mexican spicy marinaded roast chicken thighs, pineapple and avocado salad and corn on the cob. I'd found a new dessert recipe I wanted to try. I sliced a fat, ripe papaya in half, scooped out the seeds and stuffed it with a mixture of amaretti biscuits, stem ginger in syrup, sultanas, lime zest and juice, yoghurt and pistachios. I baked it in the oven for just under half an hour, let it cool for a few minutes, then tucked in.

We were talking about something, I forget what. Or at least my friend was talking, and I listened intently as I dug my spoon into the soft, gooey papaya centre and placed it in my mouth. Completely involuntarily, I suddenly let out a loud and deeply guttural cry. I forget what the words were - something in the vein of 'Oh my GOD THIS IS INSANE' - but they are, by and large, unimportant. What is important is the tone in which they were conveyed, a tone of wild, primal, unadulterated and lascivious food lust.

I'm pretty sure I have never expressed such deep regard for a single mouthful before. I'm certainly one for conveying my appreciation of food in vocal and often inappropriately loud and involved ways, sometimes with a mouth impolitely half-full, but this was on a whole new level.

I'm just going to go right ahead and say it. All my recipes are delicious, OK? That's why I blog about them, because they taste good and I want to share them. But, to grotesquely mis-quote Animal Farm, some recipes are more delicious than others. This is probably in the top five of all time.

It's not something I can take total credit for. I discovered it in an obscure Asian cookbook of mine that I looked up on Amazon and discovered is now out of print and therefore would cost you hundreds of pounds if you wanted to acquire a copy. I've tweaked it slightly to adjust it more to my taste, and the result is just so ridiculously good that it would be a crime not to make it available to a wider audience.

You've never thought of baking a papaya before, right? Me neither. There are some fruits that beg to be baked into luscious desserts - pears, banana, apples, plums - but there are equally some whose very structure and fruity identity feels ill at ease enveloped in a batter or exposed to the searing heat of oven or pan: mango, for example; strawberries; and, until now, papaya. 

You just wouldn't think it would work. Papaya flesh is quite watery, and possesses such a subtle flavour - surely the oven would just destroy its creamy, slightly grainy, texture and fragrant flesh? Not so. If anything, the flavour is intensified by the oven, the texture firmed up and yet simultaneously made even more meltingly delicious. The sweetness is multiplied tenfold, the orange colouring becomes much more resplendent. 

And the filling is just something else. It's quite a strange assortment of ingredients - or, rather, there are lots of established pairings of ingredients in there, but alongside lots of other pairings, so it's a kind of strange medley. Ginger and raisin, yes; amaretti and pistachio; ginger and pistachio; ginger and amaretti; raisin and amaretti; raisin and pistachio; yoghurt and pistachio...you get the gist. But it all melds together in the heat of the oven to form the most incredible flavour-packed stuffing for the papaya. The top turns crunchy and golden, knobbly with nutty pistachios and biscuit, while the inside is soft and gooey, deeply spiced with ginger and with surprising little bursts of sweetness from the raisins. I added even more ginger to the original recipe, and omitted the extra sugar, because this is a very sweet dessert already (not overly so, and there's actually no added sugar - it all comes from the fruit, raisins and stem ginger). 

I've made this three times already, and the second time I decided to pair it with a homemade ice cream. Specifically, a gelato (a milk base rather than cream) made with toasted coconut. This has a delicious deep, rich, nutty flavour and sweet coconut perfume that marries very well with the papaya - it takes the edge off its sweetness, and the contrast between the cold ice cream and hot, juicy, gooey papaya is fantastic.

It's a bit of a strange ice cream recipe (I adapted it from the excellent online cooking resource, Food52), in that you cook the ice cream base with half the coconut, then strain it out, only adding the toasted coconut once the ice cream is churned. It also doesn't thicken as much as traditional cream-based ice cream custard mixtures. Despite that, you end up with a lovely subtle coconut flavour, enhanced by the addition of a vanilla pod. There's something about vanilla that seems to bring out the flavour of coconut; I wonder if they have some kind of similar chemical flavour component. 

I'm really excited about this recipe, and could hardly wait to share it. It's fabulously unusual, and I think it's one of the prettiest desserts I've ever made, too - the colours both as you prepare it (jade green pistachios, deep sandy biscuits, bright vibrant limes, silky yoghurt) and when you take it out of the oven (that deep marigold colour of the baked papaya, and the burnished golden stuffing) are mouthwateringly beautiful. 

Let us not forget, either, that this tastes so good that - even if this isn't normally your style - you will be forced to throw all caution to the winds, and emit a raucous, guttural moan of delight upon your first mouthful.

Baked amaretti, ginger and lime papaya (serves 4):

(Adapted from The Ultimate Thai and Asian Cookbook by Deh-Ta Hsiung, Becky Johnson and Sallie Morris)

• 2 ripe but firm papaya
• 2 globes stem ginger in syrup
• 8 amaretti biscuits
• 40g pistachio nuts
• 3 tbsp sultanas
• 1 tsp ground ginger
• Zest and juice of one lime
• 4 tbsp yoghurt

Cut the papaya in half lengthways and scoop out the seeds. Place cavity side up on a baking tray. Pre-heat the oven to 200C.

Put the stem ginger, amaretti and two thirds of the pistachios in a blender and pulse briefly to roughly chop - you don't want a powder, but coarse chunks of nut and biscuit. If you don't have a blender, crumble the biscuits, finely chop the ginger and roughly chop the pistachios. Put in a small bowl with the sultanas, ground ginger and lime zest, then stir in the lime juice and yoghurt. Spoon the mixture into the cavities of the papaya, then roughly chop the remaining pistachios and scatter over.

Bake for 25 minutes, then leave to cool for 5 minutes before serving with the coconut gelato.

Toasted coconut gelato (makes around 500ml):

(Adapted from Food 52)

• 190g desiccated coconut
• 4 egg yolks
• 160g caster sugar
• 480ml whole milk
• 1 vanilla pod

In a large wide frying pan, toast half the coconut over a low heat until golden and evenly browned, stirring occasionally (or place it on an oven tray and bake for 10 minutes or so, stirring occasionally). Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, use an electric whisk to beat the sugar and egg yolks together until thick, pale and creamy - about 3-5 minutes.

Place the milk in a saucepan with the vanilla pod and heat gently. Add the sugar and egg mixture, stirring constantly, then the (untoasted) half of the coconut. Continue to cook over a very low heat, stirring regularly, until the mixture has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon (it won't thicken as much as regular ice cream or custard due to the lack of cream). This could take up to half an hour. Pour into a jug and chill in the fridge for at least four hours, preferably overnight.

When ready to churn, strain out the coconut and vanilla pod from the mixture, then discard it. Churn in an ice cream maker until set, then quickly fold in the toasted coconut, pour into a tub and place in the freezer to firm up (preferably for at least six hours).

Lemon balm ice cream

My mother is obsessed with trying to make a gardener out of me. Ignoring my frequent protests - along the lines of 'BUT I KILL EVERYTHING I TOUCH' - she is adopting sneakier and sneakier strategies to turn me into some kind of green-fingered guru. These include: randomly depositing packets of seeds on my desk when she comes to visit; turning up with unrequested surprise armfuls of courgette and tomato plants; constantly steering any conversation round to the potential of my 'lovely little garden'; asking me just to 'come outside and have a look at these plants', a request that then somehow ends with me and my soil-stained fingernails helping to establish said plants in my greenhouse.

Now I have to admit that I do fancy the idea of myself as some kind of Nigel Slater type - a keen cook with a fabulously fertile garden brimming with the raw materials for my culinary exploits. His Tender cookbooks are some of the best in my collection, and I like to live vicariously as I leaf through them, imagining that I too have the wherewithal to train a gooseberry bush up the fence and have oodles of my favourite fruit in the back garden, ripe for the picking come July, or I too am pretending to moan about a gigantic glut of courgettes but am secretly thrilled at my own gardening prowess, or I too can just casually wander through my herb garden, brushing the leaves of chervil, marjoram and lemon verbena with my fingertips and inhaling their fragrant aromas as I pass.

Much as I do love the idea of myself as a gardener, I will always be a cook first and foremost. Nothing illustrates this fact better than this recipe.

You see, there are quite a few weeds in my garden. The poor thing has been pretty unloved for a couple of years and left to run a little bit wild. In particular, there are bright green clusters of leafy weeds sprouting from a small gap between the paving and the garage walls.

A gardener would remove them. Weedkiller, brute force, elbow grease with a blunt knife, whatever - they'd have those unsightly weeds gone in no time.

So what do I do? Obviously, I use them to make ice cream.

Because this is not just any weed. No, it's deliciously scented lemon balm, a herb that looks a bit like mint but with slightly fuzzy leaves and an incredible sharp citrus aroma with a hint of minty freshness about it. It has the same citrus astringency as lemon thyme but is sharper somehow, almost limey. I discovered it when I noticed this aroma floating in the air as I brushed past the plant walking through the garden. I'd never heard of lemon balm before, but its smell was too intoxicating not to think about bringing it into the kitchen.

So this is about as close to the Nigel Slater fantasy as I get. I took some scissors outside, chopped some weeds and made them into dessert. You couldn't make this up. I think I now get why my new friends in York think I'm a bit weird.

Still, it made logical sense to me. Take a thick, rich mixture of milk and double cream, and infuse it with those sharp lemony leaves. Beat egg yolks and sugar until pale, thick and frothy, then transform the lemony dairy into a luscious scented custard, before churning it in the ice cream machine. I've made lemon thyme ice cream before, and it was amazing, so this wasn't too far a step from that. Except for the fact it was made with weeds growing in the garden, of course.

The flavour of the resulting ice cream didn't quite pack the heady citrus punch I'd expected. I think lemon balm has a stronger smell than it does flavour, or maybe it doesn't take well to heat. However, the ice cream is nonetheless delicious - it has a very subtle, herbal tang to it and a moreish flavour you can't quite place. It is sweet and creamy but with a refreshing hint of minty lemon. I think it would be very good served alongside some fresh strawberries, raspberries or cherries, or - as I plan to do later in the week - in scoops to adorn a strawberry and rhubarb crumble pie.

Maybe one day soon my gardening skills will have advanced to the point where I can intentionally grow herbs to make my own ice cream. In the meantime, I'll stick to making dessert out of weeds. Sorry, mum.

Lemon balm ice cream (makes approx 500ml):

• 250ml whole milk
• 250ml double cream
• A pinch of salt
• 40g lemon balm leaves, rinsed and dried
• 4 egg yolks
• 110g caster sugar

Put the milk, cream and salt in a saucepan. Roughly tear the lemon balm leaves and add to the pan. Bring to just below the boil, then turn off the heat and let the mixture infuse for an hour or two.

Using an electric whisk, beat the egg yolks with the sugar in a bowl until thick, pale and creamy. Strain the milk/cream mixture to remove the lemon balm leaves, and add to the eggs and sugar. Whisk well, then return it all to the pan. Place over a low heat, stirring continuously, until the mixture thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon (this could take up to half an hour). When it has thickened, chill in the fridge overnight.

The next day, churn the mixture in an ice cream machine until set, then transfer to the freezer.

Quince tarte tatin

But what I am of opinion the governor should eat now in order to preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his stomach and help his digestion ~ Don Quixote

I'm a firm believer of less being more in the dessert world, that the simplest creations often far outshine the intricate, fiddly ones. I'd far rather tuck into a piece of treacle tart, a crumble or a sticky toffee pudding than any kind of fancy French patisserie, smothered in ganache and spun sugar and delicately piped cream. Where many cooks and bloggers see macarons as the ultimate in culinary challenges, the Everest that simply must be scaled, I see them as encapsulating everything I hate about that type of baking: fussy, fiddly, cutesy, overdecorated. I admit that I've never tasted a macaron, but I have no need to - I know that it would never match up to even an average sticky toffee pudding.

The simple marriage of butter, flour, sugar and perhaps a few other choice flavourings - spices, fruit, nuts - is one that will last me a lifetime of enjoyment. No need for anything fancier.

Note, however, that I am not condemning French desserts with the above. In fact, I am about to sing the praises of one: the humble tarte tatin.

I can't actually say 'tarte tatin' any more, after watching Masterchef. Every time I open my mouth to say the words, all I hear is Gregg Wallace's interesting interpretation of its pronunciation: "TATTATTAN" (spoken at top booming volume and preferably with a mouth full of pudding). I then lose all faith in my own ability to pronounce French, and come out with something along the lines of "taahhtattan".

No matter, though, because even if you can't pronounce it, you can still enjoy what has to be one of the greatest culinary inventions known to man.

The best tarte tatin I have ever eaten was at a little bistro in Nice. It was deservedly popular, packed with French people spilling out onto its streetside tables in the balmy August evening. It was everything that the ghastly Cafe Rouge restaurant chain pretends to be: local, authentic, quaint, unmistakably French. I remember eating sardine escabeche, crunching my way accidentally through the heads of the sardines, as they were hidden by the thick red sweet-sour sauce.

But it is the tart that really stands out in my memory. It was served piping hot from the oven, a very thin layer of pastry absolutely saturated with gorgeous sharp-sweet caramel. It was the apples, though, that struck me - huge great billowing pieces of apple, not like the thinly sliced, neatly arranged pieces you get on a classic French apple tart. These were giant segments, stained a deep burnished gold by the sugar and butter in which they had been bathed. They were juicy, fluffy, sweet and simply wonderful. I would go all the way back to that bistro for another taste of that tarte tatin.

Fortunately, however, last night I came up with something almost as good.

I've had a bowl of glossy, curvaceous quinces in my kitchen for weeks now - I stocked up on them before Christmas, as they last for months and I knew I'd want to cook with them long after they've disappeared from the market. They've been sitting there begging me to use them, and I've been mulling over various quince creations in my mind as possibilities. I still intend to bring those ideas to fruition (pardon the pun), but suddenly I had an overwhelming urge to make a quince tarte tatin.

This was mainly because all my other ideas involved cakes, and I've made a lot of cakes recently. In fact, most dessert recipes that appear on this blog are either cakes, cheesecakes or cobblers, and I thought I should branch out a bit. Plus I've been having a craving for tarte tatin ever since I watched a friend of mine presented with one in a French restaurant when we were skiing in the Alps in December. I sat there eating my ice cream, which paled in comparison to his gorgeous plate of steaming hot apples, pastry and caramel. There's something about this alchemy of ingredients that is just irresistible.

The way the caramel soaks into the pastry, leaving it sodden and sweet on the top and still crunchy and flaky underneath. The contrast between the yielding juicy flesh of the cooked apples and the crunch of the buttery pastry. It really is up there with crumble and sticky toffee pudding in my all-time favourite desserts, and I can't think why I haven't made it more often.

This version is made with quinces, adapted from a recipe by the excellent David Lebovitz. I thought about using half quince and half apple, worried that the perfumed flavour of the quince would be too powerful, but I needn't have worried (in fact my mum, who normally hates quince, loved this).

This is an absolutely incredible dessert, all the better for the sweet, mysterious aroma of quinces. The quince segments are poached to rosy perfection in a syrup of sugar, water, clove, lemon and cinnamon. There's a simple pastry dough that is so easy to make, yet tastes as complex and wonderful as puff pastry, but without the faff. It is buttery, crumbly, crunchy and flaky all at the same time - amazing for something made in under 5 minutes in the food processor.

Instead of making a caramel for the quinces, their poaching syrup is reduced in the tarte tatin pan (you can buy special ones for this purpose, but I just used a frying pan with a removable handle) until it has the consistency of honey. I added a couple of spoonfuls of homemade quince paste to thicken it a little and add an extra intense quince flavour. I was amazed at how buttery and caramelly this tasted when it had soaked into the pastry in the finished tart.

In short: this was fabulous. The sweet, juicy segments of quince with their syrupy coating; the buttery, flaky pastry base...I think this could give that Nicoise tarte tatin a run for its money. Please make it if you find yourself with quinces to use up.

Quince tarte tatin (serves 6):

Adapted from David Lebovitz's recipe, here.

• 3 large quinces (you might end up with a bit left over - eat them for breakfast on porridge/muesli!)
• Half a lemon
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 3 cloves
• 900ml water
• 100g sugar
• 140g flour
• 2 tsp brown sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 85g cold butter, cubed
• 3-4 tbsp very cold water
• 2 tsp quince paste (membrillo) or jelly (optional)
• You will also need a suitable pan - an ovenproof frying pan around 18-22cm in diameter is ideal

First, poach the quinces. Put the water, sugar, lemon, cinnamon stick and cloves in a large saucepan and bring slowly to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Peel, core and quarter the quinces, then halve each quarter to get eight segments per quince. Drop them into the poaching liquid. Lower the heat to barely a simmer, and place a circle of greaseproof paper with a 1-inch hole in the middle over the water. Cook on a very low heat for an hour or so, until the liquid has turned pink and the quinces are tender. Turn off the heat and leave the quinces in the syrup until you need them.

Next, make the pastry. Put the flour, sugar, salt and butter in a food processor and pulse until you have fine crumbs (or rub the butter in with your fingers, trying to touch it for as little a time as possible). Add the water a tablespoon at a time, until the dough just comes together and looks like little pebbles. You will have to squash it together with your hands. Form a ball and wrap it in cling film. Chill in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.

When ready to assemble the tart, put about 250ml of the quince poaching liquid along with the quince jelly or paste, if using, in your chosen pan and simmer until it has reduced to a thick syrup (you want a layer about 5mm deep on the base of the pan). Pre-heat the oven to 190C.

Lay the quince segments, drained, over the bottom of the pan, curved side down in a circle. Try and squish them together as much as possible so there are no gaps. You may not need all the quince segments. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface to a circle slightly bigger than the pan, and lay it over the quinces, tucking it in all around the edges (this will be the best bit of the whole dessert, where the pastry edges are saturated in caramel!)

Bake in the oven for about 45 minutes, until the pastry is crisp and golden and the caramel is bubbling around the sides. Remove and allow to cool for about 15-20 minutes before putting a plate over the top of the pan and turning it upside down to release the finished tart (you might have to shake it a bit to loosen it).

Serve warm with ice cream, creme fraiche or cream.

Avocado mango ripple ice cream

I'm not feeling well. The last couple of days I've been nursing some weird stomach bug, and it has done bizarre things to my appetite. I haven't exactly lost said appetite, which is how I know that this isn't life-threatening. Things are seriously wrong when I can't stomach food. I think the only time it has ever happened was last November when I spent a week in bed with flu. I've now joined the ranks of those who have lost their flu virginity, and will simply not tolerate those ignorant plebs who turn up to work with a slight sniffle and a packet of lemsip complaining that they've "got flu". Chances are, if you've actually got flu, you probably can't even summon up the energy to announce that you've got it, let alone turn up to work or muster the presence of mind to get some lemsip. After my week of flu, I marvelled that I hadn't got bedsores, so much time had I spent rolling around pitifully in my stagnant bed of pain, listening to the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry reading a Harry Potter audiobook on repeat. The book started to seep into my dreams, strange montages of Horcruxes and house-elves and evil Slytherins that dispersed only when I woke for long enough to marvel inwardly at how utterly crap my life was at that moment and how I wished someone would come along and put me into a coma until it was over.

So that was flu. This I can tell is not flu, simply by the fact that I still want to eat. I didn't eat for four days  during that tragic episode; the only thing that passed my lips was some Lucozade, which promptly passed back out of my lips into the bin. Even worse, I didn't want to think about food. How on earth do you imagine I passed my bedridden days? I had simply nothing to occupy my mind. I couldn't even think about what I wanted to cook once it was all over, so nauseous was I feeling at the time. Eventually, however, my appetite returned with a vengeance, although all I wanted to eat were crumpets. Doused in butter, seeping through the little holes onto the plate, rich and salty and saturated in all the calories I'd lost by festering away in a mire of illness. My jeans hung off my legs - I could feel them practically flapping around my calves as I went for my first post-flu foray out of my house into the street. My eyes had gone all sunken, my face was horribly gaunt, and I generally looked a sad, emaciated mess. Perhaps some girls would have been slightly pleased at the loss of several pounds that comes with a week in bed (if you're going to suffer, you may as well lose a few pounds in the process, I guess). I was just disgusted by my haggard appearance, and heaped more butter onto those toasty crumpets.

Unfortunately, all this bug seems to be doing to me at the moment - apart from making me feel nauseous, lethargic and dizzy - is increasing my appetite for all the wrong things. I came into the house and absent-mindedly ate a chocolate biscuit and drank a glass of orange juice. Seeing as I normally neither eat biscuits nor drink juice, something is clearly amiss. My dinner? Buttery crumpets. Crumpets topped with melted cheese and toasted under the grill until bubbling and oozing with grease. I am craving chocolate brownies, toast with butter, a block of cheddar, a flapjack, a scone. I wish I could legitimately say that perhaps I've been too health-conscious of late and my body is craving fat and sugar, but unfortunately this is a complete lie, as I've spent the last week stuffing my face full of scones, cobbler, Michelin-star lunches and Indian restaurant food in Yorkshire. Oops. My mum suggested maybe my tummy has become used to such indulgent fare and is protesting at the notion of it being taken away.

So here I am, having decided I should probably write a blog post as it's been a while and I don't want my readers to feel left out. Yet all those delicious creations I've photographed and have been saving up for this very moment just make me want to be sick. All of them, except this ice cream. This may well be because of its high cream and sugar content - just the thing I apparently seem to need at the moment. If there were some in the freezer, it would be sitting next to me in a bowl as I write. Unfortunately it's all gone, but the memory still remains, so I feel I should share it with you before I lose the ability to think about food at all (P.S. just in case I do get struck down with flu - if anyone has a Harry Potter audiobook that isn't the Half Blood Prince and wants to send it to me, that'd be great. Thanks.)

I completely forget where I got the idea for this ice cream. I know it partly arose from the need to use up my vast stash of honey mangoes. I think the idea for the mango ripple came before the idea for the avocado base. It was possibly an extension of one of my favourite salsas to serve with fish - mango, avocado, lime, chilli, and lots of herbs (mint, coriander, basil). I figured the sweet, almost bland creaminess of the avocado would be a lovely foil for a delicious, lime-infused honey mango purée. Perhaps the idea of avocado in a dessert is a bit weird, but it is technically a fruit, and it does have such a lovely oily, creamy texture that it seems almost natural to turn it into an ice cream. A quick google will show that - sadly - I'm not the first to come up with this idea. However, I do seem to be the first to include a mango ripple, so I'll marvel at my culinary ingenuity on that account.

For the avocado ice cream base, I just put three very ripe avocadoes (stone removed, obviously - that wouldn't be pretty) into a blender with some sugar, whipping cream, lime juice and salt. For the mango ripple, I again just put things in a blender - two honey mangoes and some more lime juice. I churned the avocado ice cream until frozen, then layered it in a tub with the mango coulis for a ripple effect. Into the freezer it went, just awaiting some lovely summer weather. Naturally, it waited for a while, this being England. In fact, I don't think it was a particularly summery day when I served it, but I couldn't wait any longer. It's very good with strawberries macerated in a little sugar and basil, though I was originally going to serve it with basil shortbread - I just couldn't be bothered, in the end, to bake anything (a phrase you won't hear on this blog often).

Unfortunately, I am now experiencing another wave of nausea and the ice cream is no longer sounding as delicious as it did a few minutes ago. I'd better finish this post before I say something that will put you off it, because it really is delicious. The avocado ice cream alone is gorgeous without the mango, but it just helps to give it a little sharp sweetness which is nice against that pale green cream. If you manage to find some ripe mangoes (try markets - supermarket specimens often never ripen), give this a go - it's literally just putting some things in a blender. It also goes well with all sorts of summer berries, as well as tropical fruits like mango, and - I reckon - lychees.

Avocado mango ripple ice cream (makes half a litre):

• Flesh of 3 ripe avocadoes
• 160g caster sugar
• 300ml whipping/double cream
• A pinch of salt
• A squeeze of lime juice, to taste
• 2 ripe mangoes
• Put the avocado flesh, sugar, cream, lime juice and salt in a blender. Blitz to a smooth creamy mixture, then taste - you might want a little more lime juice. Churn in an ice cream maker until frozen.

Meanwhile, place the mango flesh in the blender with a squeeze more lime juice and blitz to a purée.

Put a third of the avocado ice cream in a tub then spoon over a third of the coulis. Repeat, layering the ice cream and coulis until you've used it all up. Put a lid on and place in the freezer to firm up. Serve with strawberries and basil, or just as it is.

Poached apricot tartlets with Chai tea ice cream

The sight of the season's first apricots never fails to fill me with joy. It's probably more of a novelty thing than anything else, because apricots are one of the few fruits you don't find all year round. If I remember correctly they seem to have two seasons here in the UK; early winter, and summer - it depends on where in the world they're being shipped from. In the winter it's usually Africa, but now the Spanish and French varieties are starting to appear, and I couldn't be more excited about their culinary potential. I say culinary, rather than gastronomic, because I rarely use or consume apricots raw. There always has to be a modicum of cookery involved, because otherwise I find they are often woolly and bland inside - highly disappointing given the promise heralded by their gorgeous blushing skins. Once heat has been applied, however, the humble apricot transforms into something ethereal; sweet, tart, tender, and beautiful to behold.

I either roast or poach apricots. When they're in the shops, I will eat them for breakfast for weeks on end, dolloped generously atop a huge bowl of steaming porridge into which I've mixed chopped dates, sultanas, and ground cinnamon. It's probably my all-time favourite breakfast; the chewy, caramelly dates go so well with the tartness of the fruit. When the apricots aren't very ripe, as the early ones in the season often aren't, my preference is for poaching them. No matter how underripe your fruit, if you treat it in this way it is bound to be glorious. I just put the halved and stoned apricots in a pan with a splash of orange flower water, a few crushed cardamom pods, a few cloves, a cinnamon stick and a star anise, pour in enough water to half cover the fruit, put the lid on the pan and let it simmer away on a low heat for 20-30 minutes. The resulting elixir is amazing; some of the apricots stay whole and tender, while others dissolve into a gorgeous orange puree. The orange flower water lifts the flavour to new dimensions altogether; I think it was in a Nigel Slater book where I first read about using this ingredient with apricots, and it's a marriage made in heaven.

I have to say, though, despite having just gone on and on about how exciting the new season apricots are, they were actually more of an afterthought in this dessert. It originally started with a vehement desire to make Chai tea ice cream. Impressed with the success of my Earl Grey ice cream, and various herbal/floral ice creams I've made recently (bay leaf was particularly good) I thought the spices of Chai tea would be incredible in frozen form. A dessert combining my favourite things: tea, spices, and ice cream? Definitely.

I love Chai tea. I prefer to drink it black, rather than in the form of Chai tea lattes, simply because I find them a bit too cloying after a few mouthfuls. I have fond memories of Starbucks dates with a good friend of mine, in which he'd always order a Chai latte and I'd order a cappuccino (and then douse it in all the available sprinkles - the presence of shakeable nutmeg never failed to send me into a frenzy of delight), and then sit there inhaling the sweet aroma of the Chai spices and wishing I'd ordered one too. I do have a bit of an obsession with fragrant spices, which I suppose is what draws me to Middle Eastern cuisine so much, and the mixture of cardamom, cloves, fennel seeds, pepper, ginger, cinnamon and tea promised an amazing ice cream.

I used some Chai tea from a little tea caddy sitting on my windowsill, but supplemented it with a few extra spices for maximum flavour: a cinnamon stick, a piece of fresh ginger, some crushed cardamom pods, and some cloves. The mixture sat happily atop the milk and cream base for an hour or so to infuse. When I first made tea ice cream, I didn't really consider the fact that, of course, black tea stains liquid, and you end up with a pale beige colour. I rather like this effect; it makes the ice cream look much more interesting and also the colour has a hint of caramel about it. I whisked egg yolks with sugar, added them to the milk and cream base, stirred it over heat to form a custard, then put it in the fridge.

Incidentally, I'm not sure if this is normal, but my ice cream bases always separate when I chill them in the fridge overnight. I end up with a thick, set layer of mousse on top of a layer of cream. It doesn't seem to be detrimental in any way, and I just mix it up again with a spatula before putting it in the ice cream machine...though if any keen ice cream makers are reading this, I'd be interested to know if that happens to everyone. Maybe it's just my ineptitude at making custard (or, more likely, my impatience when making custard, so I stop before it's properly thickened).

For the tarts, I used filo. I was going to make a proper sweet pastry, but I decided the papery, melt-in-the-mouth texture of filo would be better with the sharp apricots and the Chai spices. I made the cases by just layering a few filo sheets with butter and pressing them into some mini tart tins. The effect is very rustic; definitely not the neat, French-patisserie style tart case you'd get with proper pastry, but I quite like the feather-lightness of these tart shells.

To fill them, apricots poached as I described above. They were an incredible vivid orange colour once they'd softened; I think it must have been a particular batch I got from the market, because a recent purchase didn't nearly compare in colour. These were bordering on neon orange. I spooned the jammy, tender compote into the baked tart cases, dusted with a little icing sugar, and garnished with a scoop of Chai tea ice cream. I now think that some toasted almonds or pistachios would have made the tarts look even better, but in the frenzy of plating up nine desserts my presentation skills tend to slip a little.

The flavour combination in this dessert is fantastic. The sweet spices from the ice cream perfectly complement the tart fruit (I never add any sugar when poaching apricots; I don't feel they need it and I like my fruit with a sour edge). The compote and ice cream would actually be perfect without the filo, but it adds a lovely crunch and it also looks pretty. The ice cream is difficult to describe; when I served it, everyone asked me what it was, and I told them to guess. "Toffee" and "praline" were the first guesses, though that was before anyone tried it and so down to the lovely tea colouring. After that, we had "lapsang souchong", "coffee", "cinnamon", "ginger", "green tea" and a few more ridiculous speculations until I finally told them what it was. I suppose it's because there are so many different spices involved, it's hard to pinpoint just one. And that is the beauty of this ice cream; every mouthful, I think, tastes slightly different. It would be wonderful just on its own on a hot summer day, or with most fruit-based desserts (I am very keen to try it with mangoes, given the Indian link).

Poached apricot tartlets with Chai tea ice cream (serves 8; easily adapted for smaller numbers):

• 300ml whipping cream
• 300ml whole milk
• 2 tbsp Chai tea
• 4 cardamom pods, crushed
• 3 cloves
• A slice of fresh ginger
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 star anise
• 5 egg yolks
• 130g caster sugar
• A generous pinch of salt

(You could re-use the spices for the apricot compote below if you don't have enough - just wash and dry them in between uses).

• 6 sheets filo pastry
• Melted butter, for brushing
• 500g fresh apricots, halved and stoned
• Water
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2 cardamom pods, crushed
• 2 tsp orange flower water
• 2 cloves
• 1 star anise
• 1 cinnamon stick

First, make the ice cream. Place the milk and cream in a pan, add the tea and spices, bring to the boil and turn off the heat. Leave to infuse for at least an hour - keep tasting, and leave until it's strong enough for you. Strain into a jug and either discard the spices or reserve for the compote.

Whisk the egg yolks with the caster sugar until doubled in volume, thick and creamy. Gradually add the milk and cream, whisking to incorporate, then pour it all into a pan. Gently heat, stirring continuously, until the mixture thickens like custard. This will take 10 minutes or more. Add the salt to taste - it will bring out the flavour of the spices. Put in the fridge and chill overnight, then churn in an ice cream machine and put in the freezer to set.

For the apricot compote, place the halved apricots in a pan and half cover with water. Add the spices and flower water, bring to the boil, then put a lid on and simmer very gently for about 20-30 minutes. You want the fruit to be tender, but some of the apricots to still keep their shape.

For the tart cases, pre-heat the oven to 180C. Take one filo sheet, brush with melted butter, and place another on top, then do the same with a third layer. Cut into four squares (or rectangles, depending on the dimension of your filo sheets), and press each into a small buttered tart tin or ramekin to make a rough cup shape. Brush with melted butter, then repeat with the other three filo sheets to make eight cases.

Bake for about 5 minutes, until golden brown. Remove to a cooling rack. When cool, spoon in the apricot compote. Dust with icing sugar and serve with the Chai ice cream.

Pineapple and coconut sorbet

I'd like to reassure you, if you're reading this, that I haven't spent most of the last month drunk on piña coladas. It would be easy to think so, given that I've now posted three recipes in quick succession featuring the combination of pineapple and coconut, but I think it's more down to a sort of pineapple snowball effect, whereby the more pineapple I used in recipes the more I decided to experiment. It's a fruit I rarely use, preferring just to eat it as it is, sprinkled with a little cinnamon or chopped mint. However, having bought a few to cook with, I ended up with a very overripe specimen that demanded quick culinary usage. Not fancying a heavy, butter-rich dessert, I decided a sorbet would be the perfect option.

There isn't much to say about this, to be honest (and I mean that in a good way). It's about as close to eating a frozen pineapple as you can get: pineapple flesh, sugar, lime juice, and a little coconut milk. The milk adds a creamy smoothness to the texture and a slight hint of coconut, and the end result is a hugely refreshing summer dessert.

I love ripe pineapple. Supermarket specimens can be extremely variable; scent is the best way of gauging whether it is ripe or not, but even then you can be disappointed by glassy, pastel flesh that has an unpleasant astringency. The one sitting in my fruit bowl was perfect. It had actually turned brown in places, which I see as a good sign. Most fruit is at its best just before it turns brown and almost mouldy; mangoes on the point of turning are often the sweetest and juiciest; ditto pears, peaches, cherries. 

This pineapple was the beautiful colour of an egg yolk, bursting with sweet juice. I chopped up the flesh and put it into a blender. I made a syrup from coconut milk and vanilla sugar, added it to the fruit, then finished it off with the juice of a lime. The lime is important to bring out the sweetness of the pineapple; things always taste more bland once frozen. The vanilla is also a great way of enhancing the pineapple flavour; I don't quite know why, but it just works. 

After that, I just churned it in an ice cream maker and froze it. The result is a gorgeous, pale yellow sorbet with a slightly creamy texture. It's extremely light; you could eat half the tub and not feel sick. Well, I could, but then I have quite a high threshold for anything involving sugar and fruit. I think it's because the milk mellows the flavour and so you end up with quite a mild-tasting sorbet. The texture is almost crumbly; if I made this again I might work on getting it a bit smoother, but it's all about the taste which is excellent. I might try adding desiccated coconut to the mix next time, for a bit of crunch. I'd also up the lime juice and sugar for even more pineapple flavour, but this is very good as it is.

This is a great way of using up overripe pineapple, and I think it would also work with mangoes or maybe even banana. It would be good served with any rich dessert, particularly a coconut cake.

Pineapple and coconut sorbet (makes half a litre):

• 1 pineapple, peeled and chopped
• Juice of 1 lime
• 200ml coconut milk
• 100g vanilla sugar (or caster sugar plus 1tsp vanilla extract)

Bring the coconut milk and sugar to the boil to dissolve the sugar, and simmer for 5 minutes. Leave to cool completely.

Put the pineapple into a blender and blend to a puree. Add the cooled coconut syrup and the lime juice. At this point you can sieve it if you want a really smooth sorbet, but I didn't bother. 

Churn in an ice cream maker until frozen. It really is as easy as that.

Lemon crêpes with Earl Grey ice cream

As if I need an assigned day of the year to give me an excuse to make pancakes. Those of you who are regular followers of my culinary endeavours will know that I rarely let a weekend pass without celebrating that period of the day between 11am and 1pm more commonly known as "brunch time". I'm a big fan of experimenting with the humble pancake in all its shapes and forms, but for pancake day you can't beat the traditional French crêpe. Wafer thin and delicate, its pale surface mottled with brown spots of heat from the pan, it demands to be filled with something delicious. The classic lemon and sugar combination is hard to beat, but I thought I'd add a twist to it with some home-made ice cream. I've been wanting to try out Earl Grey tea as an ice cream flavour before, and given the affinity between Earl Grey and lemon, it seemed only natural to pair it with these pancakes. My original idea was a lemon tart, but I love the contrast of something hot with cold ice cream, and pancakes are a happy medium - not so hot that the ice cream melts instantly (I hate melted ice cream), but warm enough to provide a pleasing difference in temperature.

I have to say, it is a revelation. Until you try it, you can't possibly imagine what Earl Grey ice cream will taste like. I have to admit that I actually hate Earl Grey tea. I can't stand the overwhelmingly perfumey fragrance of the bergamot, for some reason, which is odd given that I generally enjoy flowery notes in food. But when combined with cream, milk and sugar, the flavour becomes an absolute delight. It's like drinking a sugary cup of Earl Grey tea with a lot of milk, but cold and even sweeter. Even the colour of the ice cream is lovely, like a rich tea biscuit. I didn't use Fortnums tea because I am a snob (though I suppose I am), but because it was the only Earl Grey I had, as it came with a little hamper of tea I got given by my mum last year. I like to think the ice cream was extra special as a result.

The crêpes are just a standard pancake batter, filled with standard lemon juice and sugar...but with the addition of the ice cream, they become more like a proper dessert. The sweet lemon juice inside goes so well with the Earl Grey flavour; its strong bergamot notes stop it tasting overly sweet. I like to make my crêpes slightly thicker than a French person - I'm sure - would, and the soft warm batter with the crunchy sugar and soft ice cream is just divine. "Lush", as one of my dinner guests declared.

Also in the spirit of crêpes and ice cream, I filled a few of them with caramelised apples. Just sliced Cox apples browned in butter and demerara sugar, with a dollop of golden syrup and a sprinkling of cinnamon at the end to make them all sticky and delicious. Cox apples are good ones to use for this, because they have a sharpness and a firmness that stops them collapsing and means they stand up well to the doughy pancakes. I think apples and cardamom are a pairing of flavours I might have to pay more attention to in future; it works very well.

The great thing about pancakes is they're a very effortless dessert, but also very versatile. Fill them with whatever fruit you like, serve them with whatever ice cream you like, and people are bound to think you've gone to loads of trouble. The only thing I would suggest is to have the oven on a low temperature while you make all the pancakes; that way you can keep them all warm and plate up at the last minute, rather than serve everyone as they come out of the pan. Although that has a certain informality about it that is quite nice. Up to you.

Crêpes (makes about 12, in a 15-20cm frying pan):

• 120g plain flour
• 2 eggs
• 300ml milk (or 200ml milk and 100ml water)
• Pinch salt
• Knob of melted butter
• Sift the flour into a large bowl. Make a well in the centre and crack in the eggs. Using an electric whisk, mix the eggs into a bit of the flour, then slowly add the milk, whisking all the time to avoid lumps. Add a pinch of salt and a little melted butter then whisk again. You can leave the mixture to stand for a while, even overnight, if you want to make it in advance. 

To cook, heat a little butter in a frying pan - you want it quite hot before you start. Use kitchen roll to cover the base of the pan evenly with the butter. Dollop on the batter using a ladle - you want a very thin layer, just enough to coat the base of the pan. Cook for a minute or so, until the edges start to curl up, then use a palette knife or spatula to flip over, and cook the other side for a minute or so. You can keep the finished pancakes warm in the oven while you make the rest. 

Earl Grey ice cream (makes about half a litre):

• 250ml whole milk
• 250ml whipping cream
• 3 tsp loose Earl Grey tea (or 4 teabags)
• 100g caster sugar
• 4 egg yolks

Place the milk and cream and tea in a saucepan. Heat gently until just below boiling point, then remove from the heat and leave for an hour or so to infuse (taste to see how strong the flavour is - if too weak, add more tea, heat up again, and leave again). When you're satisfied with it, sieve to remove the tea leaves, or remove the teabags.

Whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until thick and creamy. Gradually incorporate the milk and cream mixture. Then place the whole lot in a saucepan and heat gently, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens into a custard (this will take about 15 minutes - don't heat it too quickly or it will curdle).

Pour into a jug, leave to cool, then chill until cold. Then churn in an ice cream maker and place in the freezer to firm up (2-3 hours). 

Banana and salted pecan caramel ice cream

I think that if I had lived in the age where they still taught Home Economics to girls at school, I would have come top in my year, simply based on my uncanny ability to never throw out a banana. I just can't do it. I see a bowl full of withering, blackening bananas as a huge goldmine of untapped potential. The possibilities are almost endless. Banana cake is my favourite (and has appeared on this blog a couple of times), but equally good is a smoothie made with any combination of fruits and a ripe banana or two. The fun doesn't stop there: ripe bananas mashed into pancake batter give a fluffier, slightly sweeter pancake that is ideal with a compote of poached blueberries or apricots, and ripe banana sliced into porridge is great with cinnamon and berries. Having tried and tested all these possibilities, however, it was time to attempt something else. I'd been sent some samples of Billington's sugar to try out, as well, and it seemed appropriate to try out a recipe that combined three different types. This ice cream is the (sublime) result.

Billington's boast that their sugar is some of the best because, instead of refining out all the goodness of sugar (i.e. the natural molasses of the sugar cane), their unrefined sugars lock it in. I much prefer this sugar to the bland, virgin-white granules you put in tea or coffee, though I concede that white sugar does have a place in recipes where you just want sweetness, rather than added depth of flavour. However, on opening packets of Billington's molasses sugar and dark muscovado sugar, the smell is enough to foster an addiction. Molasses sugar is one of the darkest, stickiest, richest sugars you can get: almost like powdered treacle. Dark muscovado has less molasses in it (around 13%) but still has that almost coffee-like flavour that works so well in fruit cakes. Both of them are just the thing for a dense, dark, banana bread or coffee cake, or, of course, banana pecan caramel ice cream. I used the muscovado in the pecan caramel, and the molasses sugar in the brandy snap baskets I decided to make to showcase my frozen labour of love.

I used a recipe from my favourite food blog, Pastry Studio. It's astoundingly simple, as far as ice cream goes: the actual ice cream is simply a mixture of (white) sugar, ripe bananas, cream, whole milk, nutmeg and lemon juice, blitzed in a blender. No faffing around with infusing milk, then adding eggs to make a custard. The nutmeg brings out the banana flavour rather wonderfully, though I'll probably add more next time. I have a bit of an addiction as far as nutmeg is concerned.

For the salted pecan caramel, you just mix dark muscovado sugar and cream together, heating until it thickens, and then stir in some toasted pecan nuts and a generous pinch of salt and vanilla extract (the key is to keep tasting until it's got that wonderful salty tang that accentuates the sweetness and the nuttiness of the pecans). Leave this to come to room temperature, and then it's layered up with the churned ice cream base. It's immensely satisfying, layering the whole thing in an empty Carte D'Or tub, and knowing that its contents will be infinitely better than the sad, processed, commercial rubbish that the tub once contained.

To encase my delicious creation, I decided to make brandy snap baskets. Or rather, snap baskets, as I had no brandy. These are a simple mixture of molasses sugar, butter, golden syrup, flour and ground ginger, heated together until smooth. Dollop the mixture on baking parchment and bake for about seven minutes until it has spread out. Leave to cool for a couple of minutes, then mould the baskets around the bottom of a jam jar or glass (another immensely satisfying process, albeit one that burns your hands a little bit). Mine were thicker than I'd like, possibly because I didn't loosen the mixture with any brandy, but they still tasted fantastic. I'm a definite fan of molasses sugar now, and am keen to try it in a cake or muffins.

If you have an ice cream maker, I'd urge you to try this. It really is amazing. The banana flavour is incredibly pronounced, considering it's frozen, I think because of the lemon juice and nutmeg in the cream. The salted caramel is just wonderful. The brandy snap baskets are so much more than just a container (though a nightmare to eat without snapping pieces off everywhere). All in all, a triumph, and a homage to Billington's sugar. They should be proud.

Quince sorbet

I know it is bad, but I do occasionally succumb to the allure of the impulse buy. The odd top or pair of trousers here and there. A new eyeliner. A very nice tweed-patterned scarf from Zara on Regent Street. An ice cream machine. Perhaps this last one isn't something you generally associate with impulse-buying, but then again, most people aren't as greedy and as gastronomically obsessed as I am. When the Arts and Humanities Research Council decided to fund my MA, I'm sure they intended the money to cover such necessities (thank you, AHRC). 

Recently I've been longing more and more for the capability to make my own ice cream. I partly blame Masterchef for this, proffering the likes of star anise ice cream (to go with pear tart), but also my own desire for something slightly more exciting to accompany a dessert. Apple crumble and ginger ice cream, anyone? Orange cake with date and caramel ice cream? Lemon torte with earl grey tea ice cream? All these are now at my fingertips. (Not literally, unfortunately).

They're not far off, though. I love this little machine. It's a Kenwood. We have a big Kenwood mixer at home, with a separate ice cream attachment, and this self-contained machine seems tiny in comparison. However, it's a great size to fit in the freezer and actually makes a surprising amount of ice cream - one litre, which is the average size of a supermarket tub anyway. A bargain, I think, for £23.

So, tonight I decided to give it a test run, by making some quince sorbet. As my mum said, "Well, I didn't think you'd start with vanilla." She is quite right - not when I have four quinces in the fridge (I keep a permanent supply on standby at the moment, such is my love for them). It's unconventional, and it features one of my favourite fruits: a clear choice. A good one, too - the end result is delicious. It looks and tastes creamy, even though there is no cream involved. In fact, it contains just three ingredients: 300g sugar, dissolved in 500ml water to make a syrup, into which go about a kilo of quinces, peeled, cored and chopped. Simmer until very tender then puree with a stick blender and pass through a sieve. Leave to cool before churning. 

I think it would be nice to serve alongside something richer - perhaps pistachio ice cream, or some form of pastry. Quinces have such a sweet, perfumed flavour that I think you need something richer and more earthy to balance it. It does make a great palate cleanser though and is lovely after a substantial dinner. 

I feel like the world of ice cream is my oyster.