‘During rationing, which was long before you were born, we never wasted butter or margarine on making a sauce. You just heat the milk and stir in some cornflour mixed with a little cold water and it thickens perfectly well.’

Tess is not convinced. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, the Ryvita on the shelf near the bread bin.’

‘Ryvita. OK.’ Cauliflower cheese and crispbread? Would that be like cauliflower cheese on toast? Tess wonders, but doesn’t ask the question.

‘And that jar of wholegrain mustard. It’s nearly empty and we can add the last dregs to the sauce.’ Georgia chops the cauliflower into florets, slices the stalk thinly and puts it into a jar of water. ‘We can have it in a terrine tomorrow; it lasts longer if you keep it under water in the fridge.’ She gathers the cauliflower leaves into a heap and chops them up with her old Sabatier knife, forged long before they were made from stainless steel, using a rocking motion like a TV chef.

The round dish is filled with cauliflower, then the cheese sauce studded with mustard seeds is poured on top. ‘See? No lumps. Absolutely fool-proof and much easier than making a roux.’

‘You don’t cook the cauliflower first?’

‘I don’t. It makes it mushy, like baby food. I like a bit of crunch in my dinner. Speaking of which, pass me the rolling pin.’ Georgia takes four Ryvita from the packet, puts them onto the chopping board, and crushes them into rough gravel. ‘Mix this with the chopped leaves and sprinkle it all on the top five minutes before the cauliflower is ready and then pop it back in the oven. It makes it nice and crispy. You can start it off now. That’ll give me enough time to go and deal with this morning’s post.’

Tess feels as though some sort of baton is being passed, as if she is being entrusted with what is clearly an old family recipe. She nods. ‘Five minutes.’

‘And another thing,’ says Georgia. ‘The census.’

‘The census?’ echoes Tess.

‘I was going to fill it in online this year, but it’ll be a bit of a performance for us to do it side by side at my computer.’ She points to the narrow wooden staircase in the corner of the kitchen. ‘My office isn’t set up for more than one person, so I ordered a paper form and it came in the post this morning. I’ll leave it on the table for you next weekend. You can enter your details first, and then I’ll do mine.’

‘I’d forgotten all about it. I don’t think I was even in the country when the last one happened.’