I found it in aisle nine of the Greenfields supermarket in Truro, on a wet Tuesday afternoon.

The space on the shelf where my pasties used to be.

My pasties weren't there anymore. Something else was.

Greenfields Finest Cornish Pasty. Hand-crimped. Traditional recipe. £1.75.

I picked one up. I turned it over in my hands.

The golden pastry. The swede, cut into little cubes, not grated. The beef in chunks, not mince. The white pepper, not black. You could see the flecks through the steam holes. And the crimp. Down the side, twisted over and over like a rope. I counted it standing there in the aisle.

Twenty-one crimps.

Exactly twenty-one. Like my grandmother's. Like mine. Like nobody else's in Cornwall.

My pasties had cost three pounds twenty. This one cost one seventy-five.

A woman with a trolley reached past me and took two.

“These are just like Pascoe's,” she said to her husband. “But half the price.”

I stood in aisle nine with the pasty in my hand and my grandmother's recipe card in my purse.

They hadn't just pushed me off the shelf.

They'd taken her recipe with them.