October, and the beetroot are in. Deep crimson things from the Saturday market, still dusty, the leaves wilting but the roots heavy and firm in the hand. This is their season, and the best thing I know to do with them is also the simplest: quarter them, put them on a plate with good smoked mackerel, and let the horseradish do the talking.

Smoke, earth, and heat. Three flavours that were made for each other and need very little help from you. The mackerel brings its salt and oil, the beetroot its quiet sweetness, and the horseradish cuts through both with a sharpness that keeps the whole thing honest. Watercress, because it belongs here, peppery and green against all that crimson and bronze.

This is a Tuesday supper. Fifteen minutes, most of which is spent standing at the counter flaking fish and stirring crème fraîche. There are few better feelings than putting a plate like this in front of someone on an ordinary evening, something that looks like you tried, tastes like you cared, and asked almost nothing of you. I wrote it down in the notebook last week: mackerel, beetroot, horseradish, rain. That was enough to remember it by.