There are many ways to eat anchovy butter, but I am particularly partial to four of them – the first being spread on toast. At the start of her Sunday Night Book, Rosie Sykes describes her family’s “toast Sundays”: a big pile plonked in the middle of the table, along with knives and treats, including her recipe below for anchovy butter, to spread on top. I enjoy thinking about this scene of crossing arms and generous spreading. Without being overly pedantic about what is essentially an unfussy meal, the temperature of the toast is crucial; you want it not so hot that the butter melts and escapes off the edges, nor so cool that it stays opaque, but rather somewhere in the middle, where it’s warm enough for the butter to sink in, but not away.

The second way with this butter is alongside broccoli. Like the Judas trees on Via Galvani and the star jasmine on our leaky terrace, the broccoli family is bursting into flower. “It’s the end of the season,” the man at the fruit and vegetable shop on the piazza tells me, pointing to the last crates of tree-like calabrese, sprouting broccoli and broccoletti, which look like a mad, leafy sprouting broccoli, but are, in fact, turnip tops. He explains that the tiny yellow flowers that decorate the florets like daisies in the grass are not only edible, but tender and sweet, too. Then there is a macabre turn that is a familiar part of Roman food shopping, when he tells me the eventual seeds can be deadly, while handing me a bunch of broccoletti with flowers. I take that to mean they are still tender and sweet.

Like the star jasmine on our leaky terrace, the broccoli family is bursting into flower

In Sunday suppers of my childhood, there was always roast chicken and green vegetables with a slick of butter on the red waxed tablecloth with a “tack tack” feel. When the butter is anchovy butter, this comfortable combination is given superpowers, with the rich, umami sear of the anchovy, the heat from the chilli, and the lemon zest giving just enough acidity for the perfect melted companion.

There is equilibrium, too, with the third way; stirring two spoonfuls into just drained, steaming hot pasta – spaghetti, linguine, and especially thick ribbons of fresh egg pappardelle, which seems designed to wear a coat of rich butter and anchovy sauce, a flick of which inevitably ends up on your clothes.

Last but not least, the fourth way is using anchovy butter to make breadcrumbs. Put a big spoonful in a frying pan over a medium-low heat and, once melted and frothing at the edges, add a handful of breadcrumbs from the heart of a white loaf and let them sizzle until golden, scraggy, crisp and deeply flavoured.

Again, broccoli works here: a handful of crumbs offers a brilliant and pleasing contrast to the fleshy stems and soft green florets. Alternatively, spring greens, pasta and tomato sauce, or pasta with broccoli are all improved by these crisp crumbs. Sicilians sometimes refer to breadcrumbs as the parmesan of the poor, which is ironic here because, having absorbed so much flavour and fried almost golden, they look and taste anything but poor. And, for more riches, put half a jar of anchovy butter in the fridge for another day.

For Rosie’s anchovy butter, find a 50g tin of anchovies, two garlic cloves, red chilli flakes, the zest and juice of an unwaxed lemon and 150g butter. You might need salt, and you will need broccoli, pasta or breadcrumbs (or all three).

Make the anchovy butter: drain the oil from the tin of anchovies and pulse or pound in a food processor or mortar with the garlic, a pinch of red chilli flakes and the lemon zest, until you have a sludgy paste. Then melt the butter in a small pan and either pour it directly into the food processor and pulse again, or add to the mortar. Taste and add lemon juice and salt, if you think it needs it. Add a large spoonful to steamed or boiled (and well-drained) broccoli. Pour the rest into a jar with a lid and chill until it sets firm – and becomes a firm favourite.