Buttery and barely sweet brioche, home baked breakfast fit for a king. Paper-thin glossy crust and the softest, meltiest crumb hiding inside, waiting only for a lick of good jam.

Eating salads is hard when it’s cold outside, when mince pies start attacking us from every corner, when mulled and otherwise wine flows freely. So I hope you’ll forgive me if I get to the serious business already.