Spring has truly arrived (this week the weather has been turning on a penny from snow showers to bright blue skies) and we're in the middle of the first foraging glut of the year. This month I've seen loads of wild garlic, primroses, stinging nettles, dead nettles, Alexanders, Jack-by-the-hedge (a.k.a. garlic mustard) and, you guessed it, sorrel!

Obligatory note of caution #1: Be careful not to mix up other leaves in your bag or basket as sorrel does sometimes grow mixed in with other plants. Don't confuse sorrel leaves with the leaves of Lords and Ladies or lilies that may grow alongside them - they're toxic. Finally, as with any plant you pick from ground level, especially in a popular dog-walking spot like Lake Field, give your sorrel a thorough wash before you eat it!

The taste is the final identifier. Sorrel has a tangy, almost lemony flavour. I love the way it makes my mouth water when I chew on a leaf. The citrusy element makes fresh sorrel a great flavour addition to wraps and sandwiches (with hommous, or egg, or roast vegetables). When it's cooked, it reduces and turns limp and brownish. I also find that the tanginess becomes slightly more subdued. Add sorrel at the end of the cooking process to retain more of the flavour.

As with most of my recipes, the quantities listed are approximate. It might be that you need more liquid - so use more liquid. If you like a cheesier risotto, use more cheese. If you like more garlic, put more in. If you want to eat more veggies, add them. If you're vegan, use a vegan cheese or add a few tablespoons of nutritional yeast flakes and/or a ground up dried shitake mushroom for umami. However. While the ingredient quantities are flexible, you do need to pay attention to the timing: have everything ready before you start and be prepared to stir the pot almost constantly for the entire process. Here's a good risotto primer. And here's one of those Guardian "How to make the perfect..." experiment articles on risotto.

Ingredients

• 2 tbsp vegetable oil
• 1 onion, chopped as finely as you can be bothered (not very fine, if you're me)
• 2 nice big knobs of butter (or vegan margarine)
• 250g arborio or carnaroli rice
• Half a glass of dry white wine (have some more on hand for the cook!)
• 1 litre vegetable stock (1 litre water, 1 or 2 stock cubes), hot
• 1 cup frozen peas
• A few stems of asparagus (trimmed, cut into 1 inch lengths)
• 2 cloves garlic, crushed
• A big bunch of sorrel, washed and roughly chopped
• A handful of other wild spring herbs (e.g. wild garlic, Jack-by-the-hedge), washed and finely chopped
• A handful of parsley, washed and finely chopped
• 100g cheese (soft goats cheese, or a mix of gruyere and cream cheese, or parmesan, or anything you like)
• Juice of half a lemon, zest of the whole lemon
• Freshly ground black pepper
• Salt

Method

1. Prepare all your ingredients in advance. Make sure the stock is warm, the lemon is zested and juiced, the cheese is grated.
2. Put a large saucepan on medium heat and add the oil. Fry the onion gently, stirring frequently, until it's translucent. Try not to let it brown. This usually takes a minimum of 5 minutes, even if you're impatient like me.
3. Melt one knob of butter (or vegan margarine) with the onion then add the rice. Turn up the heat and stir the rice until it's all coated in oil and begins to go translucent (a minute or so).
4. Pop the wine in with the rice (it will hiss!) and stir continuously until all the liquid has evaporated. Turn the heat back to medium-low.
5. Start adding the stock, one ladle at a time, stirring after each ladleful until the rice has absorbed the liquid. This will probably take around 15 minutes. The low temperature helps ensure that the rice doesn't overcook on the outside and become mushy while the inside is still crunchy and undercooked. (If you're making a vegan risotto, add your umami about half way through this process.)
6. When you've only got a bit of liquid left and the rice is almost done (just on the crunchy side of al dente), add the peas, asparagus, crushed garlic, lemon zest and the rest of the stock. I try to add these early enough so they have enough time to cook, but not so early that they'll be limp and brown.
7. Turn off the heat, stir in the spring herbs and parsley. Add cheese (if using) and second knob of butter/margarine. As it's melting, stir briskly to up the creaminess factor.
8. Just before you dish it up, mix in the sorrel (reserve a few small leaves for garnish), a squeeze of lemon juice and  pepper and salt to suit your taste The sorrel is added at the end of this recipe so it retains more of its tangy flavour and stays greenish.
9. Plate up, using remaining sorrel leaves for garnish. Eat that deliciously tangy risotto!

If you went out walking in the UK in August and September, you probably noticed the epic quantities of blackberries in almost every hedge. I can’t go past a blackberry bush without stuffing my face, but with all the face-stuffing dedication in the world I couldn’t possibly eat all the blackberries on offer, so I took to making hedgerow jam.

“Hedgerow jam” is really a catch-all name for any jam you make using the fruits of your foraging labours – blackberries, elderberries, crabapples, rosehips, sloe, hawthorn, damsons and so on. You don’t have to have a particular ratio of fruit, but with the current blackberry glut I’d suggest you pick lots of blackberries and supplement them with a few handfuls of whatever else you happen to find. If you’ve got a cooking apple at home, throw that into the mix, too.

Here is the basic recipe for jam: boil approximately equal weights of fruit and sugar together, maybe with a bit of water, until it sets.

That’s it. At the heart of it, making jam truly is that simple. Now that you realise jam-making is well within your capabilities, here are the only other things you need to know to make epic jam.    

Low-pectin fruits don’t set as well, so, if you’re concerned about that kind of thing, combine them with high-pectin fruits or add a good squeeze of lemon juice to the mix. To give a few common examples: damsons, blackberries and crabapples are high in pectin; elderberries and garden fruit like strawberries are low in pectin. If you’re not sure, Google it.  And remember: under-ripe fruit has higher pectin levels than over-ripe fruit, so it makes a better jam.    

Clean your fruit thoroughly, discard any spoilt bits and chop it up if necessary. Boil together any fruits that will need straining, such as whole crabapples, damsons and sloe, with just enough water to cover them. It will only take a few minutes for them to get mushy, at which stage you can push the mixture through a sieve or colander to get rid of the pips and skins. (If you're using hawthorn, rosehips or elderberries, it's probably better to make jelly instead of jam - see below.)

Return the mix to your saucepan and add the blackberries and sugar. If you’re using blackberries by themselves, they’re fine to cook with the sugar from the start.

Feeling adventurous? Go for it! Add your spices as early as possible to give them time to infuse. Some spices also look lovely suspended in a jewel-like jelly (see below). You could try cardamom, chilli, cinnamon, star anise, cloves, peppercorns… the list goes on. Let me know if you strike a winning combination!    

If you’re using rosehips or hawthorn, or if you prefer jelly to jam, you’ll need to add a step. First, boil your fruit in water until nice and mushy (rosehips take ages), then, before adding the sugar, let the mixture strain for at least an hour through a sterile cloth (e.g. a clean, freshly ironed pillow case or large handkerchief) into a bowl. Some people say to leave it overnight – I don’t have the patience! But be aware that if you squeeze the cloth, pulp will come through and give you a cloudy jelly. Mix the liquid and sugar together in your saucepan and proceed as you would for jam.    

Your fruit-sugar-water mixture will set only after it’s reached a rapid boil (about 105 degrees), so get it bubbling before turning it down to a lively simmer. The easiest way to test your jam is to pop a small dollop onto a cold plate out of the freezer or fridge, let it cool for a minute, then swipe through it with your finger. If the mixture wrinkles up a little bit/stays separate along your swipe-line, it’s ready. If it oozes back in like a liquid, it isn’t ready. If you jam’s not setting, add a squeeze of acidic, pectin-y lemon juice to help it on its way. But in all seriousness, don’t stress about this: runny jam is still delicious (drizzle it over icecream!) and if it doesn’t set in the jar overnight you can always tip it back into the saucepan and cook it a bit more the next day.    

Just joking – I know you know how to eat jam. So, who’s for scones and tea?    

In North Norfolk, at the mouth of the Wash, the wind churns the sea into choppy brown peaks and sends clouds scudding across the wide horizon.

At low tide, mudflats and salt marshes stretch endlessly, carved through by meandering waterways, spiked with grey and yellow grasses, lightly but thoroughly trampled by flocks of wildfowl and waders. Inland, fields of wheat, corn and sugar beet stretch across the gentle, shallow swells of a landscape punctuated occasionally by dark stands of trees and the grey flint spires of village churches. Life exists here on a thin strip, like the Earth’s crust, sandwiched between sky and stone.

Having visited Norfolk several times during the colder, off-peak months, I’ve tended to describe it as flat, bleak and full of birds. But this time, after the best summer in years, I was struck by the abundance and diversity of the hedgerows, streams and tidal marshes. As I explored the area, I couldn’t resist making the most of this wild harvest. . .

Stinging nettles and mallow are familiar friends. We found them growing in great quantities along a footpath snaking between coastal villages and we sautéed a few bunches with mushrooms to make a tasty snack. The wild mint we found alongside the nettles went into fresh mint tea. We later found a stream overrun with watercress, but we were out without a bag or container, so I made do with munching on a few peppery leaves.

Established hedgerows encircled the village we stayed in, offering a variety of fruit. Blackberries are probably one of the most commonly foraged fruits in the UK and we tossed a handful of small but sweet specimens into an apple crumble along with the last cherry plums from a nearby tree.

Intertwined with a couple of sloe bushes, and easily distinguishable in such close proximity, I discovered damsons – the first time I’ve found these small plums in the wild. I made a tiny batch of damson jam to experiment, and it was absolutely amazing – tart and flavoursome. We went back later to pick a few more and made them into jelly with some crabapples collected during a bike ride. This wasn’t quite as lively, but it was still good spread on challah toast in the morning.

The hedges were dripping with droopy bunches of shiny, black berries on bright red stalks. After checking with some knowledgeable friends on Twitter, I identified them as elderberries.

These were completely new to me, so I decided to make something simple to get a feel for the flavour. Alys Fowler in The Thrifty Forager claims elderberries “have a slightly rank taste so it’s always the last jam in our house to get eaten”, but I was not to be dissuaded! I made a tasty (if slightly too sweet) cordial, which was reminiscent of a well-known blackcurrent drink. We drank it with ice out of champagne flutes while sitting in the Norfolk sunshine. . . bliss!

My most exciting find, out on those wide, sticky flats, was patch after patch of marsh samphire. I had never eaten samphire before. I snipped a few bits (not sure if it was legal to harvest it, not wanting to disrupt an ecosystem I was not familiar with) and added it raw to a salad. It was gorgeous – tiny, crunchy pockets of salty sea-flavour bursting in each mouthful.

(N.B. We later went to Titchwell Manor for a delicious evening meal, during which I was presented with an enormous bowl of samphire. It made my foraging efforts look rather paltry in comparison. . . but food is always tastier when you find it and/or grow it yourself!)

Over the course of our holiday, this flat ribbon of North Norfolk became more than a beautifully bleak and bird-filled landscape to me. Through our foraging excursions, I connected with it on a personal scale and felt grounded there in a way I hadn't before.