“I hope you’ve cooked lots of roast potatoes because I like roast potatoes now,” announced the housemate’s granddaughter as she walked through the front door on Sunday.

“I’ve swapped them out for Yorkshire puddings because I don’t like those any more,” she added to the housemate’s delight as she realised the days of going head to head over the last pud had come to an end.

“Is there plenty of stuffing?” asked the 15 year old grandson.

“There is,” I lied knowing I’d have to brave my way through the snow to pluck the last remaining sprigs of sage to make up a batch.

“It does come in boxes from the supermarket as well you know,” whispered the housemate’s son-in-law with a grin as he staggered through the door weighed down with all the paraphernalia needed for an afternoon visit.

“ I know, but The Mother always does a batch of onion gravy for him and we’re not losing the battle of the roast dinners for want of a dish of stuffing,” I replied trying to find him under the pile of bags he was carrying.

The long-running battle over who cooks the best roast briefly turned in our favour several months ago when the visiting tribe discovered to their horror that The Mother added a spoonful of red currant jelly to her gravy.

“You can’t put jam in gravy,” announced the son-in-law in horror. “I can’t eat that!”

“ I’ve done it for the past goodness knows how long you’ve been eating it,” replied The Mother.

“Do you put jam in your gravy?” he asked fixing me with a stare.

“What? No never,” I lied. “That’s disgusting.”

Having enlisted his help on Sunday to dispose of the Christmas tree and put the decorations back in the loft and feeling slightly guilty after a tiny white lie about using apricot jam in the chocolate ganache at Christmas, I thought I’d try a little honesty and give him some jam free gravy on his roast this weekend.

In an effort to prove my veracity I grabbed the similarly picky granddaughter as she wandered through the kitchen.

“Stand here and watch me make the gravy so you can tell your Dad there’s no jam in it,” I said as I reached for a spoon.

“Oh my God WHAT is that?” she asked looking in disgust at the meat dish.

“It will be gravy in a few minutes,” I replied stirring furiously.

“That is gross!” she announced.

“It’s not gross. It’s what you slather all over your Yorkshire puddings…or at least you did until this week…now it’s what you’ll slather all over your roasties.”

“First I have no idea what ‘slather’ means and second I am not eating that,” she replied making good her escape from the kitchen.

Back in the safety of the living room she announced, “You will not believe what they’re doing in that kitchen!”

“What are they doing?” asked The Mother, sensing a minor roast dinner war victory.

“They say they’re making gravy but I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s no jam in it Dad…but you will not want to eat it!”

As we sat down for dinner she reached quietly for the gravy boat.

“I thought you weren’t having gravy,” I said with a smile.

“Well…I have to say it looks a bit better now it’s finished,” she said grudgingly pouring a healthy amount over her dinner as her brother rolled his eyes.