A slow Saturday morning, the kettle on, the radio low, and a dough that's been quietly proving on the side since you came downstairs. This is the kind of cooking I like best. Half attention, half ritual, the sort of recipe that makes a house feel inhabited.

Proper English muffins are not baked. That's the thing most people get wrong. They're cooked on a dry griddle over a gentle heat, slowly, until the bottoms turn a deep, even gold and the kitchen starts to smell faintly of toast even before you've toasted anything. The semolina on the outside crisps and crackles. The inside stays soft, full of those craggy little caverns that exist for one reason and one reason only: butter.

The fork matters. Never cut an English muffin with a knife. A knife slices the crumb shut and you lose half the point. A fork prised around the middle leaves ragged peaks and hollows that catch the butter and hold it and let it pool, and that's the difference between a muffin and a roll. Worth knowing.

I wrote this one down in the notebook a long time ago and the note next to it just says: "Saturday. Butter. Honey. Done." A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, but some entries don't need much elaboration.