October. The beetroot at the market are pulled from the ground that morning, still wearing their soil and their long ragged tops. I bought too many, as I always do, and walked home with my fingers smelling faintly of earth.

This is the moment for pickling. Beetroot are at their best in autumn, dense and sweet and the colour of something serious. They keep, of course. They'll sit in a cool cupboard for weeks. But the best of them go into jars, where they'll last through the winter and stain everything they meet a deep, unrepentant crimson. There's a kind of quiet satisfaction in lining them up on the shelf and knowing they're there.

I eat pickled beetroot with cold ham and a hunk of strong cheddar and bread that doesn't need anything else. I eat them on Boxing Day with the leftover everything. I eat them in February when the kitchen is grey and I need a reminder that there were bright things once. A jar of these is a small insurance policy against a long winter.

The method is barely a method. Cook the beetroot. Make a spiced vinegar. Slice, pack, pour, wait. We're only making dinner, except this time we're making it for a version of ourselves a few weeks from now. I wrote it down in the notebook: beetroot, spice, patience.