ALMONDS

The almond doesn’t sing for attention, unlike the sweet, high-pitched hazelnut – the soprano of nuts – or the deep, bass-like, walnut. The almond seems pure and demure. It’s no surprise that in Christianity, almond branches symbolise the virgin birth, or that, in paintings, almond-shaped halos appear around Christ’s head. The almond may also seem modest because we rarely taste its full-on flavour. I’m always made aware of it at Christmas and Easter because of marzipan, but we often use bags of ground almonds, which don’t smell or taste of much.

I didn’t appreciate the almond’s charms until I started to visit France. As soon as you enter a patisserie there, you’re assailed by its rich, sweet smell. It dances in the air, making you long for tarts with a layer of frangipane (a paste of ground almonds, flour, sugar and eggs that is spread in tarts under fruit, and which puffs up during cooking) almond croissants, or a slice of pain de gênes – the simple but intensely flavoured almond cake that’s so good with poached summer stone fruits. I always have almond extract on hand when baking sweet dishes with