There is a category of dish that I think about more than I probably should. The arrives looking like you didn't try category. The thing that comes out of the cool bag at the picnic and makes people put down whatever they were holding and say oh. The thing that photographs itself.

This trifle jar is that thing.

I developed it specifically for the Battle Proms — because if you're going to sit on the grounds of Highclere Castle as the sun goes down and an orchestra plays and a a Spitfire dances overhead, you need a pudding that is equal to the occasion. And a supermarket tiramisu in a plastic pot, however excellent, is not quite equal to Highclere Castle.

There is a moment at a picnic that I live for.

Not the unpacking — though that's good. Not the first bite — though that's excellent. It's the moment just before the first slice of pie, when the knife goes in and everyone goes quiet without quite meaning to. That half-second of collective breath-holding. And then the reveal: a perfect crescent of golden egg in the centre of every slice, set into the filling like it was always meant to be there.