Mrs Taylor’s biscuits were a centrepiece at every family gathering of my childhood — weddings, Christmases, birthdays. The biscuits are discs about the size of an old half-crown, crinkle cut. They go with champagne like no other nibble on earth. Slightly chewy, a little buttery, very cheesy.

Mrs Taylor was our nearest neighbour in the Sussex Downs. She had learnt to make the biscuits “in service” in a grand house, before the war. I remember once telling her that if she gave me the recipe, we could sell them and make millions, they were better than cheesy Quavers, better than Roka, the world’s other greatest cheese biscuit. She smiled, but she was happy making them for friends and neighbours.

What’s in them? Flour, grated cheddar, butter and bicarbonate of soda. This much I know because my sister told me. Mrs Taylor entrusted the recipe to her, before she died. But will she give it to me? “It’s not what Mrs Taylor would have wanted,” my sister says. “You can’t be trusted not to tell everyone.” I’ve tried to make them, but I can’t get them fluffy, I can’t get them chewy. I can’t get what foodies call the “mouth feel”.

I have to get my sister to cook them — which she will, if you beg. My best hope is that, one day, she’ll hand on the recipe to my daughter — and then at last the secret of the Cheddar biscuits will be mine.

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