October rain against the window. The kitchen is warm and the butter is already in the pan. This is a Tuesday kind of supper, the sort that doesn't announce itself, doesn't need a reason. You have mushrooms. You have bread. You have cream and a clove of garlic and a few sprigs of thyme, and that is more than enough.

I cook this more often than almost anything else in the notebook. It appears in different handwriting depending on the year, but the notes are always the same: mushrooms, butter, toast, good. There's a moment when the mushrooms have given up their water and started to take on colour, going from pale and damp to golden and concentrated, and the kitchen smells like wet leaves and toast and something almost meaty. That's when you know you're on the right track.

The cream goes in at the end, just enough to pull everything together into something silky and rich without drowning the mushrooms. This isn't a sauce with mushrooms in it. It's mushrooms with a little sauce. The toast needs to be thick and properly done, sturdy enough to hold what's coming. A slice of good sourdough, toasted until the edges are dark and the centre still gives slightly. Spoon the mushrooms over, let the cream soak into the bread, and sit down.

We're only making dinner. But some dinners are worth writing down.