You can lick my mixmaster's bowl

In keeping with last week’s theme of food, the mistress will continue with the culinary caper, perhaps not as wacky as those Kids from c.a.p.e.r. (the theme tune for which my mind was playing as I stirred from my slumber this morning) but a divertin’ motif nevertheless.

Yes so the mistress has got back her baking mojo and been cooking up a storm. I’ve been delving into the Margaret Fulton cookbook and whipping up afternoon teacakes, lemon meringue pies, strawberry soufflés and chocolate mousse. And it has dawned on me that no matter what you bake, nsrs, if you are using eggs, it always pays to separate the yolk from the white, whipping those whites till stiff, and folding in the beaten yolk with the sugar aforehand works wonders. The lightness of that teacake was absolutely extraordinary. Margaret Fulton’s instructions, like that can of oil spray she used to promote, are pure and simple. Images of orangey red gingham are now flashing before my eyes.

I do wonder why my mind is so fixed in the past when I post. Is the now that bleak, bel? is it, bel, is it?

Well I tell you who found the now pretty bleak today, Princess Derrrek in charge of the counter at the local bookshop that is who. Gordonia de Benatar did he have a right royal attack of the snippety snoos this a.m. when the Mistress was purchasing some lovely birthday presents. Admittedly the mistress was in a bit of a courtesy counts flap, checking that she hadn’t jumped the queue and faffing about, dropping coins, bumping into displays, when ruddy old Derrrrek got most terse and heavy with the imperatives and the mistress, who did what she was told, ever obedient - only to stew about it several hours later, natch. Scold her and watch her slow burn for hours on end as though upon some whizbang K-tel rotisserie gadget.

While it is good to lay off the vinegar when you are serving customers, the mistress as cook finds it indispensable and sloshes it about when boiling water and cooking eggs, yes i know who doesn't. While every cook under the sun from Mrs Beeton to Elizabeth David, oh and lest we forget King, prescribed the use of vinegar, I think it was FCB who introduced mid 20' s mistress to its wonders when poaching eggs. FCB poaches a very mean egg.

It really is joy to flip through Elizabeth David recipe books; the delightful anecdotes and illustrations - the recipes aren’t bad either. Her pâte brisée recipe is indispensable for making pastry for all open tarts. It is so faultlessly simple to follow and absolutely delicious. South wind through the kitchen , which mmc gave me one christmas many baby J's ago, is an excellent compilation of E. David's Mediterranean recipes and a most soothing read to boot, i turned to it this afternoon. I cannot recall whether Gerald Samper is a fan...but are we not all Gerry Samper as the pop group once sang.

Of Orange Slice neglected

Orange Slice

Least loved biscuit

in the Arnotts Assorted Cream family

You are always the last to remain

in that biscuit packet’s row of cellophane

When placed in the tin or Tupperware

Your pungent scent permeates the flavour of your fancy siblings:

Delta cream, Monte Carlo – even resolute Kingston

Causing eater to wince and utter “ugh”

Orange slice you are the middle child

Destined to be played by Eve Plumb

In a very assorted cream biscuit hour special

Orange slice you are not universally desired but you are needed

You are the trigger and scourge of childhood memories Australian.

Best legs in Australia but what about Frahnce

During the course of my day I had three people tell me that they were going to get their legs waxed.

No, I didn’t greet them with a "hey, hot legs" or a "what’ve you got in your basket?", I defer to the master, R. Stewart, for that kind of banter. I had just uttered a cordial greeting and they let loose so I duly responded with a “shame” or a “nice” depending on the manner of their delivery. Still at least they weren’t getting Brazilians or I guess they would have been telling me about the joy of waxed snatch to which one could only reply with a “yowzer “ or "let your minge keep her fringe."

Speaking of which this week I have been privy to the comings and goings of the city's fashion week courtesy of my post-work evening stroll to the bus stop at the quay, via Kent Street, the Windmill steps, Hickson Road, the laundry on the hill and the overseas passenger terminal- the latter is where fashion week is taking place. The attendees at fashion week just seem to be wearing super fly 70’s sunglasses, pieces of material around the torso and a belt or just black ensembles – sucked in cheeks and sullen expressions accessorise all outfits. I did see one woman in a beautiful cherry red woollen dress which was adorned with a matching patent leather belt but she was in her mid-40’s, so would understand the difference between style and fashion. Her only flaw was that she was on the mobe banging on about Fraaaaaaahnce.

Oh the recurring themes that plague. If i'm not being haunted by the sight of the bus to Castlecrag threes times per day, or having people waxing to me about depilatory methods and activities, i'm constantly hearing or being reminded about Fraaaaaahnce.

Oh ruddy Marianne!

I have several different groups of friends, people at work and now fellow pedestrians talking about going to Frahnce or wanting to go to Frahnce. Am I watching the final season of a US tv show or living in the south of England ? Are my friends metamorphosing into Peter Mayle, letting their inner Bonnie Tyler roam free (been there, done that) or is it just the perfect destination for the middle age rampage. Time for a nice Contiki tour of South-East Asia with the kids for me.

The veneration of France by Anglophones is akin to the esteem in which the Beatles are held, which of course means that if France were a pop group she would be the Beatles.