October rain against the window. The clocks have gone back and the evenings arrive without warning. This is when stroganoff makes sense.

It came into British kitchens sometime in the seventies, probably via a magazine column or a dinner party, and it never left. The original wants beef, seared fast in a hot pan, but this version is mushrooms and it doesn't apologise for it. Good mushrooms, cooked properly, have a depth and a meatiness that needs no explanation. Chestnut mushrooms for their firmness. A portobello or two for their dark, almost smoky quality. A handful of wild ones if the market has them, but don't worry if it doesn't. We're only making dinner.

The sauce is soured cream loosened with a little mustard and smoked paprika. It's rich without being heavy, savoury without being complicated. The whole thing takes less than half an hour and most of that is standing at the hob with a glass of something, watching mushrooms turn golden in a hot pan. There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. "Mushrooms. Paprika. Soured cream. Rain." I come back to it every autumn, and every autumn it feels like the right food for the right evening.