Sunshine Pie with Courgette and Bacon

Puff pastry here is doing a job, not just holding things together, so buy the best ready-rolled sheets you can — the ones listing butter, not "vegetable fat," because fat with a high melting point is what gives you those separate, shatter-crisp layers instead of a dense biscuit. If all you've got is one large sheet, cut it into two matching rectangles yourself rather than hunting shops for the two-sheet pack — the pie doesn't care how the pastry arrived, only that top and bottom match.

Courgette is the bulk and the problem, both. Choose small to medium ones — the giant marrows some allotments produce by August are mostly seed and water once you hollow them for grating, and you'll end up fighting the same sogginess twice. Any firm summer squash does the same job if courgette isn't to hand; the test is the same — flesh that holds its shape when you press a thumbnail in, not one that gives like a sponge.

Ricotta is there for two reasons: it carries less water than cottage cheese, so it won't fight the courgette, and it has almost no salt of its own, so you're in control of seasoning rather than guessing someone else's brine. If you can't get ricotta, drained cottage cheese works, but drain it properly through a sieve for a good half hour first, or you're back to the water problem. Full-fat is not optional here — low-fat ricotta is mostly water with ambition, and it won't set in a 20-minute bake.

Bacon and provolone are the savoury backbone, and neither is precious about its form. Bacon lardons, cut thick and fried until the fat's rendered but before they crisp hard, give you both meat and a little extra fat that the lean ricotta filling is missing — that's not an accident, puff pastry fillings always want some fat in reserve because the pastry itself is giving off very little moisture to the filling, it's not basting anything. Provolone melts long and stringy rather than oily, which is what you want in small cubes scattered through rather than grated — grated cheese disappears into the mix, cubed cheese gives you pockets of pull when you cut in. A mild cheddar or a young gouda will do the same structural job if provolone's not stocked locally; you're after meltability and a mild flavour that doesn't fight the nutmeg, not a specific name.

Nutmeg is not a flourish — it's there because courgette and ricotta together are quite flat on their own, all water and mild fat, and nutmeg is the one spice that reads as "savoury custard" rather than "sweet" even in tiny amounts, which is why it turns up in every ricotta-and-greens filling from spanakopita to lasagne. Grate it fresh if you can; the tins of ready-ground nutmeg lose their punch within months of opening and you'll end up adding three times as much to taste the same thing.

The egg wash and poppy seeds are cosmetic but not pointless — egg wash is what gives puff pastry that lacquered, Sunday-best shine, because the proteins set and catch light under heat in a way raw pastry never will. Poppy seeds in the centre mark where the filling is, a visual cue more than a flavour one, so don't skip it thinking it's decoration for its own sake — it's telling your guests which part is which before anyone's cut in. If you've none in the cupboard, sesame does the same signalling job and toasts to the same dark fleck.

Patience shows up twice here and both times it's invisible in the ingredient list. Once, in letting any squeezed courgette actually sit and drain rather than rushing it into the bowl. And once, in trusting the twist-and-bake to do its slow work rather than opening the oven door to check — every time you open a fan oven, you drop the temperature ten degrees and let the pastry layers relax before they've fully set, which is exactly how you get a flat, dense ring instead of the flaky sunburst you're aiming for.