January. The garden is bare and the market stalls have shrunk to roots, brassicas, and whatever the cold ground still gives up. This is when Jerusalem artichokes appear, knobbly and unpromising, caked in mud, looking like something the earth forgot to finish. Don't be put off. Under thatawkward skin is one of the sweetest, nuttiest vegetables of the winter, and it asks almost nothing of you.

I roast them. That's it. A hot oven, some olive oil, a few bay leaves, and half a lemon sliced thin so it softens alongside them and goes sticky and caramelised at the edges. The artichokes need nothing more than heat and time. They come out golden where they've met the tin, with a centre that's gone to a yielding, almost creamy sweetness. The bay gives a quiet, resinous warmth that sits behind everything without announcing itself. A squeeze of lemon at the end, a knob of butter melting across the top. Right food, right evening.

This is a dish I come back to every winter. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: artichokes, bay, lemon, Tuesday. That was enough. It's the kind of side that sits next to a roast chicken or a piece of fish and quietly becomes the thing everyone reaches for twice. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate in front of someone and watching them discover a vegetable they'd walked past a hundred times.

A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. If your artichokes are small, keep them in halves. If your oven runs hot, check them earlier. If you want to add a few thyme sprigs or a scattering of hazelnuts at the end, your kitchen, your rules. The principle is simple: good ingredients, proper heat, attention. We're only making dinner.