Bernadette Strachan

ENCOUNTERS WITH FAMOUS PEOPLE
Su Pollard once told me I have lovely eyes. 

BRAVE  This word is rashly over-used at the moment, don't you think? When my parents were young, brave people were the ones who dashed in to burning buildings, put themselves in mortal danger for their political beliefs, brought up families of eight on thruppence a year. This morning I read an article about Terri Hatcher's bravery. She had allowed herself to be filmed without make-up for the Oprah Winfrey show.

FUDE  This is another recipe for dessert, and I do not apologise for this. It's the part of the meal right-minded people look forward to. It's the course my Irish aunties pretend to be nonchalant about (“Just a tiny slice for me … well, not that tiny”) and the course that remains in your guests' memories.  A whizz bang main course followed by a sliver of own brand cheesecake = fail, whereas your roast chicken can go wrong, your broccoli can droop and your gravy can curdle, but if you produce a Pavlova loaded with double cream and strawberries, or a magnificent crumble evoking memories of a childhood you possibly didn't have, then you'll be hailed as a marvellous cook. Which is why this dessert idea is possibly counter-intuitive.

Lollies. Yes, lollies. A marvellous antidote to the perceived sophistication of a dinner party, they bring out the inner child (who is, let's face it,  usually more pleasant than the outer adult) and provide a playful finish to the meal. I remember reading a cook book with an entire section devoted to feeding boring people. It suggested serving food that provokes conversation, and lollies certainly do that: bear this in mind when Audrey from the office or your husband's second cousin twice removed who collects beer mats comes to stay.

First, buy a decent mould. Lakeland do a splendid one, obscenely pink and rudely bendy, which delivers lollies in the shape of strawberries, with a green stem for the lolly stick. Giving people lollies shaped like strawberries that taste like a different fruit altogether will bond them to you for life.

Use your common sense (you don't have any? Me neither, but you can find it on Amazon.com) to measure amounts. Drag out your food processor (I use a tiny one, as those big ones are like the Hubble Telescope to dismantle and clean). Tip in natural yoghurt, any old fruit you like* and some caster sugar if you feel it might need it. Whizz. Pour in to moulds. Freeze. Produce at end of meal and watch people squabble over the flavours.

*Strawberries, blueberries, raspberries are all excellent, as are mangoes (squeeze a little lime in too). Mix and match the flavours, throw in those kiwis that are driving you mad hanging about in the fruit bowl, add some lemon juice, a slug of vanilla, whatever takes your fancy. It's hard to go wrong.

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO MAVIS  This week our hairy little heroine has been unwell. It's almost certainly something she ate. If your diet includes snails, leaves, grim items covered in hair you find under the sofa, then you must expect a little tummy trouble. At last count she has been sick fourteen times, poor love. Her long curly ears are full of  … but let's not dwell on that.  She's looking extremely sorry for herself and the house smells of Flash wipes.

CLOTHES  I've put my summer clothes away. I've retrieved my winter stuff from the loft. It looks pretty sorry for itself, wrinkled, crumpled, past its wear by date. So I need new gear. This is frightening. Because fashion always looks like costume on me. If I try on anything gypsy-inspired, I look like a real gypsy. Not the romantic ones of fiction who dance, flashing eyed, around a campfire and bewitch men with their air of mystery. I look like the raddled hags who accost you on Oxford Street, pimping lucky heather. Likewise the military style so prevalent at the moment. I adore those multi-buttoned, double breasted, shoulder padded coats, but they make me look like Stalin.