January. Rain on the windows since morning. The kind of day that makes you want to stand near something warm and not think too hard. This is the soup for that.

Scotch broth is not a pretty thing. It sits in the bowl, thick and cloudy, full of swollen barley and soft vegetables and pieces of lamb that have given everything they had to the pot. It looks like it was made by someone who needed feeding, not impressing. That's exactly what it is. A few cheap cuts, a handful of whatever roots are in the vegetable drawer, a fistful of barley, and two hours of patient simmering while you do something else. The broth builds itself.

I make this when the cold settles in properly, when the market stalls are piled with swede and carrots and leeks, and lamb neck is sitting quietly in the butcher's window, undervalued and overlooked. It's a thrifty soup. The barley stretches it, the vegetables fill it out, and the lamb gives it a depth that stock cubes can only dream about. There are few better feelings than putting a warm bowl of this in front of someone on a dark evening and watching them go quiet for a moment.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: lamb, barley, swede, rain. Better the next day. That last part is always true. The barley continues to drink the broth overnight, the flavours settle and deepen, and what was good on Monday is something worth remembering on Tuesday.