There's a particular kind of afternoon that calls for jam tarts. Rain on the window, nothing urgent on the calendar, a few half-finished jars of jam at the back of the cupboard that need using. That's the afternoon. You don't plan for it. It arrives, and you put the kettle on, and you make pastry.

These were the first thing I ever baked. I expect they were the first thing you baked too, or your mother, or someone who taught you. There's a reason they're the recipe handed to small children with floury hands: the dough is forgiving, the cutter is fun, and the moment when the jam goes glossy in the oven feels like a small piece of magic that you made happen yourself. We're only making dinner, or in this case, only making tarts. The pleasure is in the doing.

Use whatever jam you have. That's the whole point. A row of identical raspberry tarts is fine, but a tin with raspberry next to apricot next to blackcurrant next to a single defiant marmalade one is much better. Each tart is its own small surprise. I wrote it down in the notebook once, the day I cleared out the cupboard and made twelve of them in twelve different colours: "Tarts. Tuesday. Rain. Used up the marmalade." That's all it needed.

They're at their best within a few hours of baking, eaten with a cup of tea, ideally given to someone who wasn't expecting them. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate of small bright tarts in front of someone on an ordinary afternoon.