As the days become colder, I find myself returning to garlic.

I keep a plait of it hanging in the kitchen, and through autumn and winter I take down a few heads at a time. I slice across the tops, exposing the cloves, drizzle them generously with olive oil and tuck in whatever winter herbs I have nearby before putting them into the oven.

It is one of the simplest things I make.

In early spring, I begin looking for green again.

I bought this chard from a local producer, its leaves so large that they filled the basket on the walk home. At this time of year, after the denser foods of winter, I find myself wanting meals that feel simpler and greener.

By the end of summer, the fennel growing along the paths has reached above the surrounding grasses. Its fine green stems carry small clusters of yellow flowers, and later, as the season progresses, the seeds begin to ripen.

I love this part of the year. The days can still be beautifully warm, although the mornings and evenings are beginning to feel cooler.

It is around this time that I begin returning to warm, spiced drinks.

Winter does not always mean eating indoors.

On a clear day, when the sun reaches through the trees and there is enough warmth to sit outside for lunch, I like to carry something from the kitchen into the garden.

These chestnut and mushroom filo parcels were made for one of those days.

Through winter, we may naturally be drawn towards sweeter, heavier and more substantial foods: roots, grains, nuts and warming dishes. As spring begins, bitter, pungent and astringent tastes traditionally become more prominent in Ayurvedic seasonal eating, bringing a lighter contrast to the heaviness of winter.

In this bowl, the rice provides predominantly sweet taste, mung brings astringency, and the first fresh chives add pungency.

At the end of summer, the kitchen begins to change.

The days can still be warm, and there are courgettes, tomatoes and green beans to use, but I begin to want something warmer at lunchtime. It is too early for the deeper soups of winter, so I make something that seems to sit between the two seasons.

This minestrone is one of those meals.

At the back of the house, a grapevine grows over the terrace and forms a leafy passage towards the back door.

By late summer, bunches of grapes hang overhead, some still green, others beginning to deepen into purple. I walk beneath them many times a day, watching the change happen almost without noticing it.

And sometimes, in the afternoon, I reach up and pick a few for tea.

There is something I love about this point in the year. Summer hasn't disappeared, but there are small signs that another season is beginning. The light changes. The evenings arrive a little earlier. Food begins to become warmer and more substantial.

This is when I like to make grape and rosemary focaccia.

By early summer, the vegetable garden has begun to climb.

Pea plants wind themselves around their supports, sending out fine tendrils and small white flowers before the pods begin to fill. I love watching this part of the growing year. After the first shoots of spring, everything seems to be reaching upwards towards the light.

Picking peas for this soup is part of making it. I gather the pods outside, bring them into the kitchen and shell them by hand. Some inevitably get eaten before they ever reach the pan.

Spring is when I bring the griddle out again.

Through winter I am naturally drawn towards food cooked more slowly, with a little more oil and warmth. As the days become lighter, the way I want to cook begins to change too. I start grilling vegetables again, using the heat of the griddle to cook them simply without needing very much oil.

Asparagus is one of the foods that marks that change for me.

At the market, its arrival seems to coincide with everything else beginning to rise. There are tulips in great armfuls, leeks and young vegetables in the wooden crates, and bunches of asparagus appearing again after the winter.