As always, I begin my year with lemons. Regular readers must forgive me for my citrus evangelism. But, as the spice and richness of Christmas fare gives way to the drudge of the diet industry and the reality of the back-to-work routine, all framed by short, dark days and cold, icy pavements, the cobalt yellow orb is a literal light in the darkness. What began as a way of bringing brightness and culinary optimism to the new year now feels like a battle cry.

Lemons are magical: they come into season during the winter months, their vibrancy at odds with the drab mornings, a flash of lightning in your fruit bowl. Their zipply zest and bracing sourness remind you that you are alive. I, for one, need that reminder. In January, I find my hand reaching to that fruit bowl more frequently than ever: to zest over a plate of pasta just before serving, or spritz into a butter sauce, to slice thinly and frazzle in good olive oil, or pare into an ice cold gin martini, each time waiting for their distinctive fragrance to fill my kitchen.

Writer Rachel Roddy describes that fragrance........

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