Well this is a bit exciting.

Take a sneaky peak at the cover of my new book: The Kids Only Cookbook, to be published by Quadrille on August 1. My kids and I have been cooking like mad things for months, and it’s been a huge amount of fun. We’re all very proud of what we’ve produced and hope it will lure more kids into the kitchen to get cooking. I’ll write about it closer to publication time but you can find out more by clicking  here.

Rhubarb fever is still raging at our house.

Jammed, stewed, roasted, chutneyed or magicked into pudding, we just can’t get enough of the gorgeous pink stems around here. Although I’ve just returned from an incredible food tour of Belfast, and my fridge is bursting with fine produce from Northern Ireland that I’m dying to cook with, I feel the need to take advantage of rhubarb’s blushing presence at my greengrocer while I can.

My grandfather grew rhubarb in his garden in Sydney and as a child I loved watching him cut the fibrous juicy stems that he would parcel up in brown paper for us to take home, along with  bundles of runner beans and bunches of heavenly sweet peas. My mother would chop the rhubarb into pieces, sprinkle it with sugar, roast it until tender (but still holding its shape – she’s a stickler for this) and serve it warm with vanilla ice cream. It was the beginning of an addiction.

Although it’s beautiful roasted or stewed with sugar and a squeeze of orange juice, it’s a versatile ‘fruit’ (yes, I know it’s actually a vegetable) that can be enjoyed in lots of different sweet or savoury ways. I fancy making Niamh Shields’ (aka Eat Like A Girl) recipe for rhubarb cordial, as well as the sublime rhubarb floats made with a spiced rhubarb syrup featured on the food blog Not Without Salt. Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall has some lovely suggestions for rhubarb, including a nice spin on the classic pairing with mackerel (he adds a little thyme to the stewed chopped stems).

Earlier in the rhubarb season, when the sublime pink stalks were a welcome flash of cheer during the endless cold and grey,  Imen McDonnell, author of the beautiful Farmette food blog, tweeted about the winning rhubarb and vanilla jam she had just made. It became my business to do the same and since then my daughter and I have enjoyed greedy quantities of rhubarb jam on toast for breakfast (as a second course to our stewed rhubarb and yoghurt).

Imen went on to use a lovely slick of her rhubarb jam between layers of duck egg Victoria sponge (see her terrific recipe), but in my cake I’ve actually used jam in the batter and on top for a glaze. It’s based on a Valentina Harris recipe for crushed orange and almond cake that was very kindly passed on to me by the lovely food stylist Karyn Booth, who I met during my recent trip to Belfast. Karyn was making the orange and almond cake as part of a stupendous wedding cake tower, but although the marriage of citrus, almonds and cake is just up my street, I’m in rhubarb mode.

This cake is quite dense, very moist and delicious with a spoonful of cream on the side and even a little of the rhubarb compote. It might seem like a faff to make both rhubarb jam, stewed rhubarb and cake but actually it’s not and I reckon you’ll be happy that you did. Get the compote on the go and while it’s roasting, cook the jam. (This recipe will make more jam and compote than you need for the cake.) That way you’ll have rhubarb jam, compote and cake from one simple cooking session. A rhubarb addict couldn’t ask for more. To be sure.

Rhubarb Jam Cake

For the jam (based on a recipe by Imen McDonnell)

• 500g trimmed rhubarb, chopped into 3cm pieces
• 300g sugar jam
• the scraped out seeds from 1 vanilla pod
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• a squeeze of lemon

For the compote

• 350g trimmed rhubarb, chopped into 3cm pieces
• 100g soft brown sugar
• zest and juice of 1 orange

For the cake

• 175g butter
• 175g caster sugar
• 4 eggs, separated
• 100g plain flour
• 1  teaspoon baking powder
• 100g ground almonds
• 200ml rhubarb puree
• 4 tablespoons rhubarb jam, plus extra for the glaze

1. Set the oven to 180°C. Lightly oil a 20cm springform cake tin and line the base with baking paper.

2. Place the ingredients for the compote in a baking tray and toss together. Roast for about 25 minutes, or until the rhubarb is tender but still holding its shape. When the rhubarb has cooled a little, transfer about half to the bowl of a food processor and blitz to a puree. Measure out  200ml of the puree for the cake.

3. Meanwhile, place the ingredients for the jam in a heavy-based pan with a splash of water and cook gently, stirring constantly, until the sugar dissolves and the rhubarb starts to release its juices. When all the ingredients have amalgamated and the mixture has liquefied, turn up the heat to medium and let it bubble away until thick and jammy, about 15 minutes. Leave to cool and then transfer to clean jam jars.

4. To make the cake, cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy, add the egg yolks and beat well. Sieve the flour and baking powder together and then fold in the ground almonds. Mix the dry ingredients and the rhubarb puree alternately into the batter. Whisk the egg whites to a soft peak and gently fold into the cake batter.

5. Pour half the batter into the prepared cake tin, then drizzle over the jam.

Pour over the remaining batter, gently smooth the top and transfer to the oven. Cook for about 45 minutes, or until a skewer or toothpick inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. If the top starts to brown too much towards the end of cooking, cover with a sheet of tin foil. Leave to cool in the tin for 5 minutes then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Melt a couple of tablespoons of rhubarb jam in a pan over a gentle heat and brush over the cake while still warm.

A children’s gardening and food app recently won the digital equivalent of an Oscar, a timely gong given the current public focus on encouraging kids to cook. Dirtgirlworld, a game played on smartphones and tablets, teaches children how to grow food from scratch and cook up tasty meals. It’s eco-friendly, full of right-on food messaging and charming enough. But are food apps for kids delicious fun or bad for their health? To read the full article in the Guardian click here

Young restaurateur James Fowler has done something completely magical. He’s transformed a shabby two-room space above The Larderhouse, his restaurant in Southbourne, Bournemouth, into a drinking venue and “purveyor of intriguing libations”. It’s called The Library and it’s amazing.

Enter an unremarkable side door in the restaurant, continue up the wooden stairs, turn left on the landing and you suddenly find yourself in an extraordinary Edwardian library. It’s lined with burnished wood panelling and mirror-backed cabinets gleaming with bottles of liquor. Everywhere there are fantastic things to look at.

A stuffed fox chases a pheasant in the bay window…

… a set of bagpipes waits to be played and a sepia-coloured globe wants to be spinned.

You can play chess in a comfy chair by the fire …

… or rent a vintage suitcase to store your own special tipple to enjoy when you visit.

Amazingly, the space was an empty shell five weeks ago. James had been tinkering with the idea of opening a bar above The Larderhouse for a while. But when he spotted some original antique wall panelling for sale on ebay – salvaged from a private bar in Middlesborough that hadn’t been touched for 20 years – he bought it straight away. From that point he had no choice but push ahead with the bar idea. Lucky for us.

The bar is most extraordinary. It’s been salvaged from the famous Macintosh Pub in Aberfan – the Welsh mining village that was devastated in 1966 when a man-made mountain of coal waste slid down the hill, crushing homes and the school and killing 144 people, including 116 children. You can see from the iconic images taken inside the pub (click here and here) by J.C Rapoport that ‘The Mac’, as it was known, was a vital hub for the community in the aftermath of that terrible day. The Mac is no longer a pub (inevitably apartments I think). But it’s wonderful that such a special bar has been preserved in a happy new home.

There are lots of very special things to drink here: fine spirits, wine, sherry, bubbles and cocktails made by clever mixologists. It’s only open on Friday and Saturday nights at the moment, and by reservation only, so ring ahead or Tweet to make a booking. There are plans afoot for special tasting evenings (when you will be able to buy bottles of what you taste) and other special events. You can also book it for gatherings in the daytime. Just ring and ask James, the chief librarian.

Let me rephrase that. They eat a surprising amount of toast for a household obsessed with cooking.

Sometimes this is not a good thing. One morning last week I discovered chocolate fingerprints all over the kitchen cupboards. Chocolate-spread thieves had been munching chocolate toast for breakfast rather than the prescribed fruit and cereal. Sadly for them, I consigned the offending jars (a designated weekend treat) to the bin. Harsh, I know.

Generally, though, toast can be a mealtime saviour, so long as it’s made from good quality bread.

Most of us at one time or another find our food stocks depleted, unless you’re the lovely Nigel Slater, who seems to stumble across domes of burrata and other delicacies in his fridge “just waiting to be used up”.  I cook pretty much incessantly, which is perhaps why I often open the fridge to find virtually nothing at all. Except lots of unsavoury reasons to get cleaning.

There are also times when, despite the fun I have pootling in the kitchen, my cooking mojo vanishes. Dries up. Then there’s Sunday evenings, after we’ve gobbled up a roast for lunch and all we need is something light. Or when someone is desperate for a snack, biscuits are out of the question and just fruit won’t cut it. On all these occasions, toast is often the answer.

I’m not talking here about a full-on cooking session, with toast as one of the components, or toast simply slathered with something from a jar. I mean toast as the centre of  very quick and easy dish. I know this is straying pretty close to sandwich territory, but there’s something definitely more meal-like about bread that’s cooked than not.

Toast is an excellent way to encourage fruit-shy folk to eat more of the good stuff. Squished banana on toast (with a cup or tea or glass of milk, oh yes) is an excellent snack, as is toast topped with thinly sliced apple and a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar. (Replace the sugar with grated Cheddar – or Comte for the Nigels among you – if you want to stray down a more sassy cooked path).  Toast spread with cream cheese and topped with sliced strawberries looks pretty and tastes delicious.

For more of a meal, peas on toast – unlikely as it sounds – goes down very well at our house. Cook a cup of frozen peas as you usually do, and while they’re simmering, pop some bread in the toaster – sturdy stuff like sourdough or thickly sliced seedy bread works best. When the peas are done, drain them and add a knob of butter, a pinch of dried mint (or chopped fresh), two or three heaped teaspoons of natural yoghurt, a squeeze of lemon juice and loads of salt and pepper. Mash until spreadable and spoon onto hot toast.

If you’re feeling energetic, a poached egg on top is definitely allowed.

Sausages on toast is another of our favourite standbys. I know, I know, snags involve proper cooking, don’t they? Not this way. Get the kids  - or whoever’s partaking – to do the hands-on sausage and cheese prep while you make the toast and heat the grill. Just squeeze the contents of some good-quality sausages into  bowl – about one per piece of toast does nicely. Then add a generous amount of grated Cheddar or whatever you have to hand (Parmesan will be too salty), leaving some left over for sprinkling on top. Mix together with your hands (add some ground fennel seeds, fresh herbs or lemon zest if you feel like getting fancy.)

Spread the cheesey-sausagey mixture over the toast, making sure you get it right up to the edges (the worst thing about cheese on toast is incinerated edges), and then sprinkle with the remaining grated cheese. Place under a grill. A word of caution: you need to set the grill rack close, but not too close, to the element. These toasts need to grill away for about 12 minute so the sausage cooks – but you don’t want the cheese to burn.

Eaten hot, this toast is very delicious. In fact, you could make these into little crostini for a drinks party when your energy levels are restored.

We brought home a new puppy, a 6-week old Spoodle called Cookie. He can’t go far for a while so it’s like having a newborn baby in the house. Today was for chilling and letting him sniff out his new home.

It wasn’t onerous to stay put. The rain came down soft but persistent all afternoon and we didn’t stray from the kitchen. The kids played with him for hours on the floor. I made a cake. Of course.

I’d just spring-cleaned the larder (reader, it was health and safety hell). My bad habit of buying ingredients I already have in bountiful supply was confirmed (we’ll be eating mainly couscous for the foreseeable future). In the process I discovered several bags of spelt flour and a neglected stash of expensive chia seeds. So I threw a loaf cake together with what I found.

It’s peculiar how your cooking reflects your mood. Time pressures, imminent guests, someone to impress – all these factors have a very bad effect indeed on my culinary efforts. Stress free, cooking because I want to with no demands on my time, I get the best results. So pop by unannounced if you want to be really well-fed.

This loaf was perfect for the occasion. Something layered and swaddled in garish icing would have been wrong. Wholesome, tasty and a bit squidgy, buttered with a cup of tea, it hit the nail right on the head. This loaf is a little like those dark and moist Soreen cakes you buy in a packet, but nowhere near as dense. And much nicer because it sings with orange zest.

We ate most of it warm from the oven with butter, although the kids’ idea to drizzle it with golden syrup was excellent. Or so I’m told (cough).  It’s still absolutely delicious the next day but my daughter reckons you could whip up a stove-top butterscotch sauce and turn it into a majestic sticky toffee pudding. Sadly there’s none left for us to confirm this, but thankfully we have my own body weight of spelt flour left in the larder should we feel the urge to confirm …

Posted this time last year: Semolina and pear friands

Malted spelt and date loaf with chia and orange zest

You can leave the chia seeds out of this if you want to (I wouldn’t because they really add to the depth of flavour), but the malt extract is essential to make it rich and dense. Strangely, I had a major task finding malt at the supermarket when I needed it for recipe testing yonks ago. I eventually snuffled it out in the vitamin section of Waitrose. Go figure. The kids had their doubts about the malt when they tasted it from the spoon for the first time. It is quite strong and distinctive, but baking smoothes out the flavour into something really delicious.

I am ashamed to tell you how long it took the three of us to demolish this cake. Addictive doesn’t really cover it.

• Vegetable oil, for oiling
• 175g chopped dried dates
• 250ml hot red bush tea (or any kind of tea, really)
• ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 50g sultanas
• 175g malt extract
• 85g dark muscovado sugar
• Grated zest 1 orange
• 1 tablespoon chia seeds (optional)
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 250g spelt flour

1. Place the dates in a large bowl, pour over the hot tea and add the bicarbonate of soda. Stir around and set aside for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, Oil a large loaf tin and line the bottom with baking paper. Set the oven to 150°C/300°F/Gas Mark 2.

2. Add all the remaining ingredients except the baking powder and flour and stir really well until all the ingredients are amalgamated.

3. Combine the baking powder and flour and then gently stir into the wet mixture. Scrape into the prepared loaf tin ad cook for about 55 minutes, or until the top is just firm.

4. Let the loaf sit in its tin for 5 minutes and then turn out onto a wire rack to cool. Enjoy warm, spread with salty butter (and/or golden syrup).

As part of the process of writing a children’s cookbook, I’ve lassoed all the small people I can find to help with ideas, test recipes and star in photographs. It’s been unbelievably messy fun as well as enlightening. Even though I cook with my children all the time, cooking with kids I don’t know well has taught me lots about how to make it fun. I’ve also learned there are more benefits for adults in cooking with kids than I’d previously appreciated.

I’ve always cooked with my children, but I don’t say this smugly. On the contrary, I’ve always felt guilty that cooking was my preferred form of play. The truth is, I find it easier (and more enjoyable) to crack eggs and mix batter with my kids than getting down on the floor with toys or games.

But recently I’ve realised this is not such a terrible thing. Cooking with children is a brilliant chance to find out more about them, an opportunity to peer inside their heads. If that sounds like mumbo jumbo, it’s not meant be. Children’s food expert Fiona Faulkner had some lovely thoughts about this in a recent blog entitled Why mums SHOULD do the washing up this Mother’s Day. She argued that some of the best conversations she’s had with her children have been during “chop-n-chat” moments in the kitchen. Children (and adults, let’s face it) often find it easier to open up while semi-focussed on another task.

But, I hear you say, my kids just aren’t bothered about cooking. Maybe. But why not go that extra mile to encourage them to try?  While making my book, I discovered that children I assumed had little interest in cooking – and I’m thinking of a particular group of pre-teenage boys – actually took to it with gusto when I was flexible enough to allow them to take the lead. And that’s what really gets children fired up about cooking, and eating for that matter. Hand over some control, let them decide what’s on the menu (or at least some of the ingredients) and you take a huge leap forward in making them want to get cooking.

But most important of all, you have to make cooking fun, so here are some tips that you might find useful. They don’t amount to rocket science. But they might help.

• Take a chill pill. Cooking with children is always messy and can be noisy and chaotic, depending on how many are involved. Accept that this is so and go with the flow. Clean up later.
• Give them a choice. Allow the kids to choose, within reason, what they cook or at least some of the ingredients. Pizza, fajitas, baked potatoes and even cakes offer ample opportunity for kids to choose what goes in. They relish this opportunity. After all, they don’t get to make many decisions of their own.
• Encourage mess. Kids love getting their hands right in there to touch, squidge and play with food. Choose recipes that involve getting mucky with rolling, kneading, dipping, cutting and decorating.
• Put on some music. Kids of all ages love music and it helps create a fun atmosphere in the kitchen. Music also keeps children distracted at times when patience is required such as when they’re waiting their turn to stir or while something is cooling.
• Be organised. If you’re cooking with a large group of kids, why make it a maths lesson? Prepare all the ingredients yourself before the session starts and have the necessary kit to hand. Save the weighing lesson for when you’re cooking one-on-one. Believe me – it will save lots of time and arguments.
• Take turns. Allocate tasks in an orderly way, giving each person something to do in turn. Screams of “that’s not fair it’s my turn” quickly turn a cooking session sour.
• Go with the flow. If a child wants to make a diamond-shaped pizza with a jam and cheese topping, let them do it. They might be a budding Heston.
• Involve grandparents. If you’re lucky enough to have older family members, encourage them to get together with the kids for a cooking session. Grandparents have precious cooking skills to share, and it’s often tricky for kids to find common interests with oldies.
• Just give them a task. Kids don’t have to cook a complete dish. Ask them to lend a hand with dinner by pounding spices, mashing potato or grating cheese. You never know, they might end up asking if there’s anything else they can do.

Here are two delish recipes the kids could help you cook this Easter. There’s pounding, rolling, grating and brushing involved and some scope for choosing the ingredients.

Fennel and pork meatballs with oven-baked orzo

This is definitely not a kiddie dish per se, but does contain key elements of kid food nirvana: pasta and meatballs. It’s perfect for children to help with as it involves grating citrus, pounding spices and rolling meatballs. The best part for adults – apart from tasting gorgeous and fragrant – is that it’s a one-pan job and does most of its cooking in the oven. Click here for the recipe.

Chocolate and raspberry twisters

I know filo pastry has something of the vol-au-vent about it – by that I mean it hardly reeks sophistication – but actually, it’s delicious and much less calorie-tastic than other forms of pastry.  I still find its paperiness a wondrous thing to cook with and children enjoy painting on the absolutely essential slick of butter. Click here for the recipe. If you fear a chocolate overdose this Easter, replace the berries and chocolate with a filling of chopped apple tossed in vanilla sugar and cinnamon.

I’m getting a head start on my Easter chocolate intake.

This beautiful chocolate cake actually started life as a recipe for burnt orange caramel. I wanted to send my recipe to the lovely Felicity Cloak to test for the  Guardian’s new Cook section, which had called for reader contributions on the subject of “burnt”. Sadly, I didn’t get the caramel recipe ready in time, so a scrumptious sauce evolved into something altogether more …. substantial.

As everyone at Pen and Spoon towers will vouch for, I’m partial to a chocolate-orange marriage. This one works exceptionally well on the  fluffy vanilla cake base. The cake looks like a hell of a lot of work, but  it’s not really, and the burnt orange caramel is worth the effort as it’s a bit of a wow. In fact, if you don’t fancy making the cake, I’d recommend making a batch of the burnt orange caramel on its own. I could (do) just eat it from a spoon, but the deep buttery-citrus caramel is delicious drizzled over ice cream, pancakes, crumpets or anything that benefits from a splodge of somethings sweet and gooey.

As ever with caramel, don’t wander off and do your nails or write an email while it’s cooking. It needs to have a toasted edge without tasting completely of burnt. When it’s ready, the caramel should be a deep amber colour and be starting to smoke and smell burned. Hold you nerve a bit longer, but be prepared to whip the pan off the heat when your instincts (and nose) tell you it’s time.

Chocolate and burnt orange caramel cake 

For the cake

• 150g butter
• 260g caster sugar
• grated zest of 3 oranges
• 3 eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 225g self-raising flour, sifted
• 100g natural yoghurt
• 3 tablespoons milk

For the burnt orange caramel

• 1/2 cup caster sugar
• juice and zest of 2 oranges
• 60g butter, cut into pieces

For the chocolate ganache

• 125g dark chocolate, broken into very small pieces
• 125ml double cream
• 1 tablespoon golden syrup
• 2 tablespoons milk

1. Set the oven to 180°C/Gas Mark 4. Lightly oil a 20cm cake tin and line the base with baking paper.

2. To make the cake, cream together the butter, sugar and zest until very pale and fluffy.  Add the eggs 1 at a time, beating well between each addition, and then stir in the vanilla.  Fold in the flour, alternating with the yoghurt and milk, until just combined. Scrape into the cake tin and bake for 35–45 minutes until springy to the touch and cooked through.

3. To make the caramel, pour the orange juice and zest into a small pan set over a medium heat. The juice needs to be hot but not boiling. Meanwhile, put the sugar into a small-heavy based pan (a frying pan works well) and set it over a medium-high heat. Cook without stirring (but shake the pan occasionally) until the sugar turns to caramel. Keep cooking until the caramel turns deep amber and starts to smoke slightly. Be careful – the caramel needs to “burn” only slightly. Turn the heat to low and very gradually add the hot orange juice, whisking constantly until fully incorporated. Add the butter bit by bit. Keep whisking and stirring while the mixture bubbles away for a good 5 minutes until it reduces and thickens.

4. When the cake is cooked, leave in the tin for 5 minutes and then turn out onto a wire rack. Make holes in the top (by this I mean the upturned bottom as it makes a neater “top”) with a chopstick or skewer. Set the wire rack over a baking sheet and slowly pour over the caramel, gently encouraging it to leach into the holes with the back of a wooden spoon. Scoop up any caramel that falls through onto the baking sheet and pour this over the top. Leave to cool and then chill while you get on with the ganache – the cake needs to be completely cold when you pour it over. Keep the cake on the wire rack.

5. To make the ganache, heat the cream and milk in a small pan until hot but not boiling, and then remove it from the hob. Add the chocolate and golden syrup and stir until the chocolate is melted and you have a smooth and glossy mixture. Leave to cool a little.

6. Pour the ganache over the chilled cake so that it spills down the sides to enrobe it in shiny chocolate.

Note: If you want to save time, you could replace my burnt orange caramel with good quality marmalade, heated on the hob. The orange bits would make the overall effect a bit less slick, but it would still taste delicious.

It’s neither the season for raspberries nor eating ice-cream, but making something cool and brightly coloured was in order on a recent sunny day. Crimson ice seemed the perfect Pantone match for the blue of the sky outside – a blue I’d forgotten actually existed.

Raspberries are the most sensuous fruits. Jewel-like with their ruby matt facets, they have a gorgeous floral perfume and an intense sweet-sour tang that makes for really satisfying and beautiful mouthfuls. It’s no wonder the Ancients attributed the origin of raspberries to divine intervention: the nymph Ida pricked her finger while picking berries for the young Jupiter, and this turned the previously white berries crimson.

Traditionally, most of the UK’s raspberries come from Scotland, which enjoys the perfect combination of soil, rainfall, temperature and sunshine for raspberry growing. (During the 1950s the berries were famously conveyed to London’s Covent Garden market on board the raspberry express.)

Many people think of raspberries as summer fruits. But according to the lovely British Summer Fruits website (representing British berry growers), producers have been coming up with innovative ways to extend the season, which now runs from June to October. Fresh raspberries are delicious but they’re delicate and perish easily and don’t keep for long once picked. The good thing is they freeze extremely well, just like peas. Food writer Joanna Blythman’s discussed the virtues of frozen raspberries in the Guardian’s new Cook section recently. She pointed out that the freezing process enhances the tang of raspberries, and frozen are much cheaper than fresh.

When it comes to health benefits, raspberries are hard to beat. They’re relatively low in sugar compared to many other fruits, and full of vitamin C and other micronutrients. New research also suggests raspberries could play a valuable role in tackling obesity and preventing the spread of cancer. The World’s Healthiest Foods website is a terrific resource if you want to find out more.

As for eating, raspberries taste glorious cooked into crumbles and jams, and many people favour them alongside duck and other game. Raspberry vinegar is absolutely delicious:  raspberry vinaigrette is a very effective way to encourage children to eat salad. (Raspberry vinegar can be expensive and tricky to find, so it might be a good idea to make your own. This Nigel Slater recipe  is very good and he has some clever ideas for making good use of it.)

Of course, raspberries and dairy make a perfect marriage: eat them with sugar and cream, on a Pavlova, in an Eton Mess and even paired with cheese. The problem with frozen raspberries is that they don’t retain their plumpness when defrosted – they actually stay very squishy – so they need to be cooked or whizzed into gorgeous ice cream.

This recipe is supremely family friendly because you can make it as basic or as elaborate as you like. The first time I made this I used a single-serve tub of flavoured berry yoghurt and a big splodge of honey with the frozen berries to produce a sherbet-style ice. It went down extremely well with the kids – and it’s so much healthier than shop-bought ice cream.

60-second raspberry ice cream 

Serves 4

• 400g frozen raspberries
• 125g berry-flavoured yoghurt
• 3 generous tablespoons honey, or more to taste

Place everything in the bowl of a food processor or blender and blitz until smooth. You might need to stop and scrape down the sides of the bowl frequently to get the frozen fruit moving, although this will depend on how powerful your machine is. The ice cream will be soft-ish but delicious to eat straight away. If you’re not quite ready to it, place it in a very clean freezer-proof container and freeze. Don’t forget to take it out 30 minutes before you want to serve it to give it time to return to creaminess.

For something slightly creamier, and possibly more adult, use 125g mascarpone and 2 tablespoons natural yoghurt instead of the pot of berry yoghurt. This is less sweet than the first version but taste and add more honey if you feel the need.  This makes an idiotically simple dinner party pudding – spoon some into pretty glasses and grate over some quality dark chocolate and/or flaked almonds, or serve with some really good quality shortbread or tuilles. You can honestly tell everyone it’s home-made ice cream – perhaps don’t let on that it took you under a minute.

Maybe management should pop down to the Lime Wood hotel in the New Forest to check out the newly opened, all-ages-welcome Hartnett Holder & Co, a new collaboration between Michelin-starred Angela Hartnett  and executive chef Luke Holder.

The Lime Wood is a chichi New Forest country-house hotel – a honey-coloured Regency pile set in completely gorgeous countryside. This is a luxe retreat – we love parking our Skoda among the Bentleys and  Ferraris when we come to eat here – and a beautiful place to have lunch and pretend you live a life far more elegant than it actually is. It’s not a family hotel per se – the kind with nursery teas and in-house kids club – but the breeches-and-cloth-capped staff are always very welcoming to pint-sized guests. From my assessment, the place is always buzzing and the car park full of people who look like they can afford to have a have a very nice time indeed, so the child-friendly policy seems to serve them very well. Child catchers at the aforementioned Hampshire eatery take note.

Hartnett Holder & Co is the result of the Lime Wood merging two restaurants into one: the Dining Room (fine-dining and thought to have been a bit fusty) and the Scullery (posh nursery-style food). The new arrangement is lovely and the refurbished dining room relaxed and clubby. Today the sun is shining through the floor-to-ceiling French doors and we look out over very lovely grounds. The space is so light and airy we want to sink back into the squishy egg-yolk leather armchairs and just bask in Farrow & Ball tastefulness. Tables are filled with other smiling families, couples and older folk so if  the purpose was to create a dining room that encourages all comers, it seems to be succeeding.

Hartnett and Holder both trained in Italy (and Hartnett has an Italian pedigree) so the menu resonates Italiano without being strictly so. There’s no kids menu but all mains come in half-serves for under-10s. More importantly, the kitchen is flexible. We’d all like to taste the gammon broth – is this possible? Of course! Out comes a (very generous) single serving of broth that the kitchen has thoughtfully divided among four bowls, each with its own delicious boat of oozy cheese on toast. Service doesn’t get better than that. It almost – but not quite – makes up for the broth being tragically salty. But other starters are terrific. Purple folds of home-cured bresaola, coppa and brisket are full of flavour and delicious served with pickled onions and crisp baby veggies. Garlic prawns, prepared the traditional Italian way, taste soft, sweet and fresh in their pond of garlicky, parsley-speckled butter. I shamelessly sip this with my soup spoon once we have gobbled up the crustaceans due to the sad (and distinctly un-Italian) absence of crusty bread to mop it up.

For mains, the slow-cooked pig’s cheeks are richly-flavoured and tender pillows, and the kids love their lobster pasta with spicy fresh tomato sauce. I pull a bit of short straw on the mains. My agnoletti is – there’s no mistaking it – a bit dried out and there’s not much sign of the rich and creamy burrata that’s supposed to plump the little pasta pillows. Plus, it’s been dealt the same heavy-handed seasoning blow as the gammon broth. Happily, chocolate and hazelnut torta for pudding restores the spirits.

Hartnett Holder & Co had only been open a week when we visited so I’m hoping that the crinkles in the food get ironed out quickly. Customers will expect a lot from a chef that boasts a Michelin star. This is a fabulous venue for a special lunch followed by a country walk (or maybe just a post-prandial waddle around the grounds). Our waitress was keen to tell us that Hartnett intends to spend 40% of her time here, and if that’s true, I’m sure she’ll be keen to get everything right for everyone – no matter what their age.

Lunch for 4 people including wine at Hartnett Holder & Co came to £145