FUDE A grape is just a grape. Until he's been in the freezer, whereupon he becomes a Frozen Grape. Small, frosted, atypically hard and a lovely eau de nil colour, your cold little friend will effortlessly tickle your guests' jaded palates after a heavy meal, provide a diverting snackette at your desk, impress and surprise people who have never imagined a world where grapes are frozen (happily there are plenty of these people around). No recipe is necessary for this beguiling little wonder. You really do just pick the grapes from their woody stems, jostle them into a freezer bag, tie them up tightly and freeze them. (My daughter likes these for breakfast.) (But she's weird.)  ENCOUNTERS WITH THE FAMOUS It's another biggie this week. It's George Michael. As a cake with a file in it sits cooling on my worktop (prison is no place for him) my wind wanders back to an evening in the last decade. I was sitting in a louche club, yawning beside my trendy male friend. He was very trendy, very very trendy, the kind of uber-trendy that could be mistaken for Care in the Community: hats indoors, school blazers, occasional use of a monocle. I was probably in black, with very high heels and just too much make up. A George Michael track came on – the coyly titled I Want Your Sex (one day we'll be singing it feebly around a Bontempi in the old folks' home) – and I perked up no end. 'Ooh, I love George Michael!' I said. 'He's rubbish,' said my over-styled companion. 'I love him,' I said. 'He's rubbish.' 'I love him.' 'He's rubbish. And look at that fat idiot dancing to this rubbish.' I followed the line of his pointing finger. Both our pennies dropped simulataneously. 'That's George Michael!' we said together. I simpered and sat up straighter. My friend said 'I dare you to go and dance with him'. Up I jumped, wearing the hyper-casual expression that means I am dangerously excited, and insinuated myself dancily into George's clique. And, Reader, he danced with me.  THE WORLD ACCORDING TO MAVIS Quite a week for our small hairy correspondent. We threw her an impromptu birthday party, long after the big day itself has passed. (She seemed unaware and she doesn't read this blog, so I think we got away with it.) We gave her a chewy stick hidden in a toilet roll and made her a pretty hat. She seemed ungrateful. 2 Comments | About Me
 I am Bernadette Strachan, but please call me Bernie or I’ll assume you’re telling me off. I am an author of romantic fiction, with added funny bits. Six books are already out there in the world (WHY DO WE HAVE TO LIVE WITH MEN? came out in October 2010) and number seven is coming to life under my fingers at the moment.
I live in Kingston, Surrey with my husband, my daughter and our dog. The husband is Matthew, a composer. The daughter is Niamh, she’s six years old. The dog is a spaniel called Mavis. She is quite thick. As Niamh might put it, I superduper love them all. I’m mad about books, and consider it a privilege to be paid to write. I love to cook, I overeat, I feed gangs of people as often as I can. I’ll be your friend forever if you offer me Pavlova but I may avoid you if you insist on giving me fish. Just can’t be doing with fish. I can’t bear txtspk, I love bad television, I think Johnny Depp should be available on the national health. I’m rather shy, although I can be horrendously extrovert when the spirit moves me, I do yoga once a week, I have a stationery fetish, I love it when Niamh puts on shows for me in the kitchen. Err, that’s all really. ArchivesOctober 2011 CategoriesAll |
