Fanny Craddock, the TV cook of the 60's, was 

too posh to appear with a Player's Weights 

ciggie perma-glued to her lip-sticked lips,

but not my nan.

Standing on a chair next to her in aromatic

kitchen fog, I eagerly absorbed the commentary 

from the side of her mouth like a microphone. 

Although we were in Dagenham not Chelsea, 

Nan was my Nigella, only 50 years early.

OK, at five-foot nothing she lacked Nigella's

poise, and didn't cook with her coat on after 

haring back from Harrod's in a hackney cab 

with a couple of guinea fowl, and owned no 

state-of-the-art equipment like Cuisinart this 

and Kitchen Aid that......

no, nan performed magic with multi-tasking

flour-covered hands, and her eyes were her scales.

In her day, midnight chocolate cake fridge raids

or bolognese in bed hadn't been invented, and

no-one she knew had pan-asian soirées or, for 

God's sake, asparagus kettles.

My ash-dropping supergran cooked with her 

soul, the queen of the victoria sandwich cakes 

and fit-for-kings roast dinners, and let me tell

you before you ask, her yorkshires always 

turned out like Fanny's. And I'm sure if she'd

made doughnuts, they would have done too.