February always feels like a threshold month. The mornings are still cold enough to see your breath, but by late afternoon the light lingers just a little longer, as if the day is thinking about stretching again.
It’s the month of pancakes, sharp citrus, and tentative plans. Still winter, but no longer the deep middle of it.
I’ve been leaning into small brightnesses at home — the sort that don’t overhaul the season, just soften it. One simple one: keep a small jar of blood orange curd in the fridge. It quietly improves everything. Hot toast, yoghurt, pancakes, porridge, even the centre of a cake. February cooking doesn’t need to be ambitious, just cheering.
On Pancake Day I’m reminded how underrated a basic batter is. Lemon and sugar is traditional for a reason, but it’s also a blank canvas — warm citrus curd, melted chocolate and marshmallows for a s’mores version, or savoury with cheese and crisp bacon. One bowl, one pan, and suddenly an ordinary evening feels like an occasion.
That same citrus brightness found its way into a bake I’ve been making repeatedly this month: soft sponge cupcakes filled with blood orange curd. They look quietly celebratory — pale cake hiding a deep ruby centre — and feel very much like late winter cooking, halfway between comfort and spring.
I've written up the blood orange cupcake recipe if you'd like to try it.
February is also when my mind starts drifting toward future trips. Not booking yet, just considering. Spring always arrives faster than expected, and the North East of England is particularly good just before the crowds return — long coastlines, wide skies, proper pub lunches after windy walks. It’s the sort of break that feels restorative rather than busy.
I’ve recently updated my North East England guide if you’re in planning mode.
At home, the most unexpectedly joyful evening this month came from a dim sum box on an ordinary weekday. We tried a Ding Dong Dim Sum kit just after Lunar New Year and it turned dinner into an event: small dishes to share, different textures, and the kind of meal that slows conversation down because everyone is reaching across the table. What stayed with me wasn’t just the convenience but the sense of ritual — food designed for gathering rather than simply eating.
I wrote about Dim Sum experience in full here.
Perhaps because winter sport has been everywhere lately, I’ve also found myself daydreaming about mountains again. Les Arcs remains one of those places that sits vividly in memory: crisp alpine air, wide slopes, and the peculiar glow of coming indoors after cold. Even reading about it feels like breathing sharper air for a moment.
I wrote about Les Arcs - it’s the sort of place you can visit briefly just by reading.
And in quieter moments I kept thinking about The Correspondent by Virginia Evans — a novel told entirely through letters, and one that feels made for late winter reading. Its seventy-three-year-old narrator writes every morning: to family, to institutions, to authors she admires, and to one person she never quite sends a letter to at all. What unfolds is reflective, gently wry, and unexpectedly moving, revealing a life shaped as much by what goes unsaid as what’s written down. It’s the sort of book that asks for a blanket, a cup of tea, and an hour without interruption.
I wrote a longer review of the the novel if you're curious
I suspect February is less about grand plans than small reassurances — warm kitchens, shared plates, and noticing the light returning. March is shaping up to be a practical sort of month: a proper steak and ale pie in the kitchen and a long Scotland road trip guide finally taking shape on the page.
Until then, I hope you find something bright in the remaining winter days.
Georgina
Culinary Travels
