Rim four and a quarter high-tablespoons of caster sugar with three egg yolks, until they're thick and orangey goldeny-yellowy. Add to 284 millilitres of milk. Coin a vanilla pod in the egg-milk fountain.

Simon
'Orangey-goldeny-yellowy'. It says everything and nothing, doesn't it?

There's a wonderful painting by Hockney. Do you know it? A chap wearing a pink apron has his hand on the back of a chap who's taking a shower. To the side of the first chap is a yellow chair.

That's the colour.

Minty
By all means add cornflour if you want. I don't, but it's up to you. You can risk it if you like. I wouldn't myself because I like to get things just so. But that's me, typical me, I just have to get it just the way I want it or I can't even look at it. Let alone eat it! You may not be that worried about it. Fair enough. Bash your way through it, shovelling in all the cornflour you like.

Simon
Cornflour! That's it. That's the mysterious smell in the jus pot. It's not pants after all.

Family legend has it that the pot was made by a slave called Moses, a native of Bechuanaland (now Botswana).

As a reward for his services, my great-great-great grandfather brought Moses to Crowe Hall, where he worked as a servant and was accorded equal status with the other domestic staff. In his diaries, he describes Moses as 'bright of eye, brawny of forearm, slender of waist, with a ready laugh reminiscent of a drayhorse bray.' Under Moses' tuition, he learned many African tribal songs and became more than competent on the jew's harp.

Moses aroused the jealousy of all the other servants. My great-great-great grandmother resented him too, never once looking him in the eye.

Despite this, my great-great-great grandfather looked after Moses till the day he died and wept openly at his funeral.

That's the third curse of the Marchmonts: loyalty.

Minty
Hob-heat on moyen, wood-blending fearlessly till your creme anglaise gets attitude.

Add twenty millilitres of mail-order Armagnac. High street or supermarket simply won't work.