There's an hour late in the afternoon when the kettle goes on whether anyone has asked for it or not. Mid-winter, especially. The light has thinned and gone amber, and the day needs a small ceremony to mark its turning. Maids of honour are for that hour.

I won't pretend to know exactly why they're called what they're called. Something about Henry VIII and his court, the story goes, and a corridor at Hampton Court, and Anne Boleyn's ladies eating them out of sight. You can still buy them in a small shop in Kew that's been making them by the same recipe for two centuries. I went once. They were very good. But you can make them at home and they will also be very good, which is the point of cooking anything.

A puff pastry case, filled with curd cheese softened with ground almonds and lemon and a grating of nutmeg, baked until the tops dome and crack and go golden. They smell like a cross between a cheesecake and a pastry shop. The filling stays soft, almost custardy, against the crisp pastry beneath. Eat them warm with strong tea. The afternoon becomes deliberate.