Horror D'Oeuvres

Fanny Cradock doesn't mention Halloween much. She gives plans, ideas and instructions for almost every other festivity. Nothing for 31st October. It's a surprise as you'd imagine that all the spookery and ghoulishness would be right up her street. Dressing up. Making your food look eerily scary. Over the top, spine-chilling colourings. Putting the fear of god into children. Perhaps it's simply that, in England at least, it's only a relatively 'new' thing. Not on her radar. Growing up in Scotland, it was a major part of my childhood. Perhaps it's just that all this scary stuff was just everyday living for Fanny.

We can only imagine, but my guess is that Fanny's house was one of those doors that the 'guisers' as we call them up here, or Trick or Treaters elsewhere, just walked on by. Not worth the actual total fright that chapping on her door would provoke. Don't make me knock on the scary lady's door. No amount of treats would be a suitable reward for accidentally hammering on her door. Poor Fanny was likely inside waiting expectantly for the bash that never came. Surrounded by her own blood-curdling bespoke blow-out buffet, ready to share them with the local children. Perhaps this was the real issue. What Fanny thought of as treats would have been at best terrifying to many young eyes.

As all the kids skip merrily by, or perhaps run at hair-raising speed, Fanny was inside preparing party snacks just in case. We know her beloved banquet bites were Hors D'Oeuvres that could be easily passed around by the horrifyingly hearty hostess. We know that her favourite party food can be made in advance. It gives you more time to get yourself ready for guests to appear like it's all been an effortless excursion, despite the fact you've been preparing for weeks. We know that Fanny simply loved eggs. So put all three together, add a sprinkle of spookiness and get the Halloween Party started.

Fanny has seven ideas of egg based Hors D'Oeuvres. Seven. All a variation on a theme. All start with boiled eggs - some hard, some soft - and end up usually with something or other being van dyked. Not as in Dick, but as in cut into zig zags. I'm only making three of the seven. You'll see why. For the first ones, Fanny stamps out rounds of puff pastry, bakes them and then hollows out a circle in the centre. The eggs sit in this as a base. The eggs themselves can be excavated, removing the cooked yolks, replacing them with lemon mayonnaise if you like. Then small rosettes of Orange Mayonnaise are piped round the base of the egg. Or it can be a row of peas. The final flourish is a leaf of parsley on top. Maybe a splash of Tabasco. It's like an exploded vol-au-vent, if they ever made vol-au-vents for the film Alien.

You never really see eggs paired with oranges do you? You do in Fanny's world. As if orange mayonnaise wasn't already a step too far, she van dykes a small orange, places an egg inside then pipes more mayonnaise into the gaps. Remember those egg yolks you hollowed out earlier to replace with lemon mayonnaise? Fanny uses them to stuff into hollowed out tomatoes. To disguise the tomato as, erm, an egg, she van dykes some egg white to cap it off. You get the idea. Marry eggs, van dyke skills and orange mayonnaise in any combination for a treat that will never be tricked. Children will give your horrifying home a wide berth at Halloween, which may also be a neat trick, depending on how you view them. You'll be left with the full horror of eating the hors d'oeuvres yourself though, so beware.

A Whack of Leather - Our Third Fanny-versary!

Three really is a magic number, but sometimes it feels a little overlooked. I mean everyone likes a 'first' don't they? Nothing better. The Winner! The Original! The Pioneer! Second feels like a real achievement, having kept going and 'done it again', still pretty good compared to first. Third though, it's a bit like, okay, that's great. A kind of 'well done' but also a 'what's for tea' kind of celebration really. So, it may just be me, but today I am shouting it loud and cheering (for myself) as Fanny and I celebrate a terrific three years together. Aw. That's 'leather' in anniversary terms... Oh. Best move on.

Three years! You may not have been reading along from the very beginning (erm, but now I think of it, what not?), but that's a lot of weird and whacky recipes, a lot food colouring and a lot of mentions of poor, down-trodden assistants getting into hot water for not following instructions. That's probably where the leather comes in - a quick whack with a belt? It's also three years of learning new techniques, uncovering new flavour combinations and generally having a real laugh. Every day. That's not bad going is it? With Fanny watching over me. Every day. I don't think I've done anything deserving of a good belting. Yet.

I must distract Fanny's mind from leather. Fortunately Fanny has just the thing in mind for 'our' celebration - a three tired cake. Okay, so she's got her celebrations a little mixed up, but it's the thought that counts isn't it? She remembered! Her idea is to make a three tiered wedding cake, perfect for a June bride. She did love a good wedding, whether in June or not. She even had a fake one or two along the way, often more than one at the same time, and never really much clarity on who was married to whom, but we're not being judge-y today of all days, it's a day to celebrate.

Fanny suggests her tried and tested Christmas Cake (is it too early to mention?) for the three tiered triumph. We've made it before, together of course, but never in triplicate. Fanny informs us that the base layer is to be cut and eaten on the wedding day. The second layer should be stored away to celebrate the First Anniversary, or if we are more ambitious, and have blooming good storage, the Silver Wedding Anniversary. The Third and final tier is intended to celebrate the birth of the first child. I fear that Fanny may be waiting quite some time for that particular celebration. Maybe a sacrificial leathering is the best option after all.

So, it's a spicy, fruity, slightly boozy cake fest in June. Once all three cakes are mixed up and baked, Fanny urges us to move swiftly onto the decoration. Almond Paste followed by Royal Icing is essential as a starting point. She advises that it is best to practice decoration on an entirely irrelevant cake that you just happen to have lying around. This is what she makes Johnnie do. Poor Johnnie, it keeps him occupied. He decorates the bottom layer with stars. I, on the other hand, do not have any irrelevant cakes, or indeed any that hang about too long, but I am always applying the knowledge that wise old Fanny gives me. So I know cakes should be blue. Mix the two together and surely this is the ultimate Third Fanny-versary cake? The big question is, will we still be together for the next five years of Fanny Fun required to compete the Cookery Programme? Our next Fanny-versary is the much more suitable Fruit and Flowers, so don't be scared...

Ice To See You, To See You Ice

Fanny has a delicious proposal for me. She is suggesting we go on an adventure together. I'm assuming it's just me and her, she doesn't mention poor Johnnie at all. I'm also assuming there is nothing deliciously underhand going at all, just to be clear. I'm assuming it's something deliciously food related, she's obsessed. I'm hopeful. She's raising her eyebrows to even higher levels than usual and is making mysterious motions towards the kitchen, so, despite a slight feeling of panic, I can only speculate we aren't going very far on this delicious adventure together.

Thankfully, the adventure Fanny has in mind is into the 'realms of home-made ice-cream', so all we need to locate is our freezer. For those less fortunate than Fanny perhaps, who only have a small freezing compartment in their ordinary domestic refrigerators, Fanny says join us anyway, but just cut down her quantities to fit. So just miniscule tablespoons perhaps? For those more fortunate in the freezer department, Fanny promises we can make ice creams in bulk for storage, adding flavours as required. I always find ice cream is best eaten immediately until it's all finished, so storage is a new concept for me...

Fanny has a set of 'basics' that she's keen that we cherish and learn by heart so that they are in our heads and at our disposal whenever we want to make ice cream, throughout the year, before we progress. She knows how to plan an adventure, eh? Her foundation recipe is 1 pint of confectioners custard and either 1/2 pint (when you are willing to pay for more) or a 1/4 pint (if your purse is stretched) of whipped double cream. Indeed if your purse is very stretched, Fanny says you can frankly freeze the flavoured custard on it's own. She does however note that it's flat-out not worthy of the first-class, first-rate standards that we've come to expect from her. So the message is you can, but the real message is don't.

Fanny's method for most freezers is mainly to whip the cold cream until it just hangs from the whisk, and then whip it into the custard. freeze it until the edges are set and the centre is squidgy, whip it again for 5 minutes, then return it to the freezer until it's solid. When frozen, take it out and whip it again and refreeze. If you have a deep freeze, just bung it in and freeze it. So is all committed to memory? I will pass round examination papers shortly.

Well, forget it for now, as Fanny has a recipe of her very own to teach us. It's for Orange Ice Cream. In fairness, it's a similar process, but swapping the custard for a sorbet, mostly. Fanny dissolves sugar slowly in water, with orange zest, then boils it for nine minutes until it's a very fine syrup. She adds an egg yolk and strained orange juice, cooks for five more minutes stirring all the time. Then freeze, whip, freeze, whip and refreeze as before. Whip in whipped cream and freeze for the final time. There you have it, orange ice-cream. Serve in an orange, of course. It's delicious adventure. It soon becomes clear why Johnnie was not invited. Fanny reveals that, despite him being a wine-lover, he has been known to polish off forty-seven portions of this particular ice-cream in one session. Fanny says he is a pig about it, but being Fanny's own recipe of course he is a very discerning pig. Just don't let him near your freezer compartment.

Beep, Beep, Fanny's Supermarket Sweep

Fanny was often somewhat shameless in her promotion, plugging and product placement on TV, in her newspaper columns, in her books and probably most notably throughout the partwork. Whether it was a careful but quick flash of the Lurpak wrapper she really didn't mean to show you while un-moulding the steamed christmas pudding, or the grapefruit knife that you really must have but was normally so hard to find in ordinary shops, she'd feature items in a recipe, in a picture and again on screen. And subtly let you know where to get them from. Surely she was in on the deal. Many bloggers do it today, and PR companies think they invented it recently.

I'd be rubbish at it, by Fanny's standards, as I like to feature products that I've bought, found and love. For Fanny though it seemed to be all part and parcel of the game. If she could convince you to purchase an item that you never really needed, to make something you were never really very likely to make again, she had won. We all love a gadget don't we, and, well, if Fanny was using it, it must've been the thing to have. After all, if you did as Fanny did, you were sure to be doing it right, the professional way.

Sometimes though she wasn't quite so subtle. To fill up a tin with goodies ready for Easter, Fanny suggests making her Honey, Nut and Date Triangles, or Petites Tranches au Noix. They are really just stuffed puff pastry sandwiches, baked. However, you clearly need something to make the perfect triangles of puff pastry, that you've bought in from your favourite supermarket. Fanny's suggestion is a 'wheel' contraption that you roll over the rolled out pastry and voilà, fourteen identical triangles. It is, Fanny tells us, particularly helpful if you happen to be making large quantities 'at speed'. Fanny shows you how, in a handy pic-strip. The wheel is coincidentally easily available (in person or by mail order) from Elizabeth Davids shop in London.

I'm not making large quantities, nor am I concerned about speed, so I employ Fanny's second best option, of cutting them free-hand. My own idea of how to do it involves a pizza cutter. I do use my favourite pizza cutter from my local pizzeria, La Favorita, so perhaps I should cut a deal with them to promote it? I bought my puff pastry ready rolled from Sainsburys. Another opportunity missed. Fanny also loves Sainsburys apparently. The cream cheese she lists in the recipe is not any old cream cheese. It's Sainsbury's cream cheese. Perhaps Sainsbury's would not be so pleased with me though, as I bought my walnut pieces from Tesco. The dates came from my local fruit and veg shop, Tattie Shaws. The honey came from local store, Earthy. I told you I wasn't so good at this promotion malarky.

Fanny mixes the cream cheese, chopped dates, honey, orange juice (I used Sainsburys Taste the Difference which was surely the right thing to do?) and zest. In her dash round the promotional opportunities she omits the nuts from the recipe, but I mix them in anyway. Thanks heavens for the photos, so I know where they should be. They get sandwiched between my imperfect triangles, brushed with egg whites and sprinkled with cater sugar. From Tesco. Topped with a dried piece of banana. I can't remember where I bought them. Then simply baked. They are really tasty, the orange zest and cream cheese make a wonderful partnership. One of the best things Fanny has suggested I make actually. Sadly I do not have a pretty blue plate that is readily available from Fortnum and Mason to display them on. I have such a lot to learn from Fanny. I am such a bad blogger.

What Colour Were The 1970's?

Brown. Everything was freakishly brown. Furniture was brown. Think of all those drab wooden sideboards and burnt-looking velour sofas that houses were so very full of. Our houses themselves were brown. With brown front doors. Wallpaper was brown. Sometimes it was more off-the-wall than on it with swirly patterns granted, but generally it was different shades of brown. Our clothes were brown. Our shoes were brown. We were all tanned. We liked it. Brown was where it was at. We fawned over it. We were happy with brown. Until someone paired it with another ludicrous colour of course.

Orange. We had outlandish orange curtains hanging in rooms to match the peculiar orange lampshades. Rugs were a range of far-out orange tones. Our kitchens were so orange we needed sunglasses to enter them. We had offbeat ornaments that were orange and maybe a bit space-aged. But orange still. And kooky. We matched them with brown. We embraced the eccentric, extraordinary orange and brown combinations in our homes, in our wardrobes and in our lives. Even our tans went orange. If it wasn't for orange the whole curious decade would just have been, well, brown.

Almost. Okay, Fanny did her best to banish the buff and beige, bringing every colour of the rainbow to the buffet table. But the table was probably brown, the table cloth would undoubtedly be brown and orange. The guests crowded round it would certainly be dressed head to foot in cocoa inspired patterns of chocolatey brown and zesty orange, with orange accessories that perhaps looked like they'd been fashioned from the space-age adornments scattered around the house. And dipped in extra brown. You get the idea.

Fanny decided to embrace the unavoidable brown-ness of the time. In celebration, she unveiled her Brown Meringue. She could've worked more on the name, but do remember how hip and happening it was to love brown. Today we want our meringues to be so glowingly white they match our overly-whitened teeth and pristine, shiny, clinical white homes. Not brown. In the 1970's Fanny replaced the white sugar in her meringue mix for the tawny brown stuff and whipped up a brown frenzy. If she could've got brown egg whites I'm sure she would've. That's how she rocked.

Bang on trend, she pairs it of course with... Orange. She replaces the milk in a custard with equal quantities of orange juice and water, using the otherwise abandoned egg yolks perfectly. A splash of orange blossom water adds a shade more orange. The brown meringue is baked on a sheet of rice paper for reasons unknown, but also why not. It emerges so fashionably brown, all it needs is a seventies swirl of the orange custard. And a whole mandarin orange plonked in the centre. With a bay leave decoration. And freshly released citrus segments to trim. It tastes wonderfully caramelly and orangey. It tastes like the 70's. There are no other descriptions. It's brown. It's orange. It is the 1970's.

Seventies Salad

I'm going to ask you to close your eyes in a moment. Just warning you. However you'll need to read on just for a little bit to find out why on earth I would ask you to do so. Don't worry, I'm not going to flash up a photo of yet another crazy creation from Fanny Cradock, well not just yet. No, I want you to shut your peepers and think of your childhood salad. Oh dear, I should've said that once you've thought of it you need to open them again and continue reading. I do hope you've worked that bit out all for yourselves...

What did you see? I'd hazard a guess if you saw a boiled egg on your plate that you, like me, are a child of the seventies, or before. No salad was complete in our house without one. A little bit of lettuce, maybe some cucumber for special occasions, some pickled beetroot from a jar (which I never touched), perhaps a spring onion but always a hard boiled egg. Fanny too thinks that eggs are ideal for a summertime salad. She lived in a time before 'salad' meant pre-packed pillows of Frisee, Radicchio and Wild Rocket.

Fanny, years before dearly beloved Delia, first of all ensures that we know how to boil an egg. She brings a small pan of very ordinary domestic tap water to a fairly fast boil. Eggs should then be lowered in on a tablespoon to avoid cracking and cooked for eggsactly (sorry) seven minutes. Drain down the sink (just incase you had other ideas). Fanny then turns on the cold tap and runs it over the boiled eggs still in the pan until they themselves are cold. Tap the eggs very gently all around against the side of the sink to peel away the shells in seconds without 'unsightly fingernail marks.' Quite.

This technique from Fanny also means that the yolk will not be black against the white inside, which, Fanny says, frequently results from not chilling the egg instantly. Check it for yourself, slice the eggs in half lengthways and arrange them in the centre of the plate to begin the salad. No black. Fanny first surrounds the eggs with a 'ring of carrots' which can be either cut by hand laboriously or with ease and speed with a mandoline. Fanny always gives unbiased choices. Fingers must be kept out the way when using the mandoline. I have a guard on mine. Fanny had assistants.

Fanny shreds some white cabbage for an additional ring and skins tomatoes to make petal shapes for added decoration. For maximum appeal, Fanny flavours some mayonnaise with the juice of an orange and pipes it into rosettes in-between. Fanny does say that this is only when she is feeling grand and leisurely, otherwise she'd just plonk the mayonnaise down in a bowl separately. It's essentially a deconstructed coleslaw with a boiled egg, but Fanny makes it seem much grander, in a leisurely way. Using the mandolin keeps the carrots crisp and crunchy, and the whole salad is quite lovely. Did you have hard boiled eggs in your salad? Oh I do hope you've opened your eyes again ready to enjoy the full effect.

Recalling Appalling Tarpaulin

There's one pudding (yes, just one) that I have really never liked at all, ever. Loathed it. We had it a fair bit when I was young but the thought of it made me feel ill with dread all through the meal. Back then it was a case of 'you are not leaving the table until you've eaten it' so you can imagine me sitting there for hours and hours, wishing and hoping that it would magically disappear, slowly shovelling the smallest amounts into my downturned mouth, trying to force it down. Even today, I shudder when I think about it, such was the horror of the... Rice Pudding.

It was the really thick, absolutely black tar-like canvas-feel topping it had as it emerged from the oven that made me quake. I've heard other people say for them, this is the best bit, but it made me want to heave then, and now, just thinking about it! I didn't want it anywhere near my plate, or my mouth. There's no rhyme or reason for it I suppose. Thankfully Fanny seems to share the repulsion, with her recipe for a colourful, fruity alternative which does not have the 'tarpaulin top' that gives me the heebeegeebees.

Fanny makes her version by mixing Patna Rice with sugar, vanilla, fresh (or tinned) orange juice and ordinary tap water before baking under a light covering of ordinary domestic foil in a medium oven. Fanny doesn't specify a time for this, just until 'it reaches the consistency you like.' Clearly she hasn't been listening, I don't like the consistency at all. I struggled to find pudding rice in the supermarket - clearly I've never searched for it, ever, but I'd assumed it would be easy enough to find. Perhaps the whole world shares my feelings about rice pudding? I did spot some Thai Sticky Rice which said it was ideal for puddings though... Rats, there was no escaping this one!

To spice up the rice a little, I added a few drops of luscious Cardamom Holy Lama Spice Drops which I was very kindly sent recently. Orange and Cardamom are a celestial match. The drops are divine, really intense and as the name suggest, you only need a drop or two. For a pudding like this it seemed to make sense rather than adding ground spices. The heavenly smells coming from my kitchen are making me think that perhaps Rice Pudding might not be so bad after all?

Nothing with Fanny is ever that straightforward, so while the pudding is baking I whip up an accompaniment in the shape of Fried Breaded Bananas. As their name suggests, they are bananas cut down the centre ('because they look prettier'), rolled in beaten egg and enclosed in breadcrumbs before frying. Fanny arranges them in a fan display with a nut on the end, for no apparent reason. They taste like you'd imagine. They don't distract me long from the dreaded rice pudding though - but I needn't have worried. It surfaces without the dreaded tarpaulin top, and retains its orange glow - no black in sight. It's like a jammy marmalade-y risotto consistency, and with the kick of warm cardamom is, erm, lovely really. Just don't make me have that black-topped heavy duty tarpaulin stuff ever again.

Johnnies' Jugs of Joe

Fanny noted that back in the 1970's more and more people in Britain were becoming converted to coffee and those that weren't simply hadn't had the fortune to taste the real thing. If all you'd had was the 'boiled soot or beige dill water' which average catering establishments substitute for 'real coffee' then how could you possibly be expected to savour the flavour? And isn't it very complicated to make?  Are you scared off from tackling coffee in the first place by 'so called experts' waffling on about it? Perhaps you don't have a coffee making pot? What if that expert was no other than Johnnie himself showing how to make perfect coffee everytime, without much fancy equipment, in a pic-strip? Perfect!

Fanny and Johnnie don't want to recommend any particular type of coffee, but do stipulate a few basic rules to ensure that we can all enjoy a perfect cup. Never economise on the amount of coffee you use, the flavour will only suffer. If you buy ground coffee instead of freshly ground beans you will end up with an inferior flavour. Coffee, back in the 70's, was a luxury item, ideal for this time of year, and basically you need to splash out to justify your expenditure. Johnnie says it's common sense.

I feel like I'm recreating a scene from Trainspotting as Johnnie insists I lay out a small jug, some tin foil and a spoon in readiness for my 'real' coffee experience. According to Johnnie, this is the method used to make coffee in France, so it must be the best. The instructions are simple - place the coffee in the jug and pour over just boiled water, stir thoroughly and cover with the foil as a lid. Leave it alone for 3 or 4 minutes, before pouring it through a sieve into a coffee pot. Drink, with extreme pleasure.

It's quite a ceremony really. The finished coffee tasted weak to me, perhaps I've scrimped on the quantity of beans I've ground? It tastes good, I'm surprised, but no punch. But wait, this is everyday coffee, Johnnie has a few more tricks up his sleeve to help me enjoy a stronger brew.

The first is a perfect after dinner coffee. First pour just boiled water over ground coffee in a small pan. Johnnie specifies a copper pan, but sadly no such thing of beauty appeared under my tree this Christmas. Turn up the heat until the mixture seethes to the rim. Remove from the heat until it subsides, them repeat this three times. Once entirely seethed (presumably the coffee and not me) turn off the heat and (if you are being economical) add 1 or 2 drops of ice cold water to drive the grounds to the base of the pan. If however you are striving for perfection, add 3 or 4 drops of rose water. Well, Johnnie promised the perfect coffee, so it had to be rose water for me. We are not finished there though. While the coffee cools completely, a vanilla pod is popped in. Once cool, that is removed and the coffee sieved and heated up again, to just about boiling. Never boiling, just below. And voila, the perfect after dinner coffee. It's a little stronger, and the rose and vanilla give a good taste. Presumably your guests will have given up waiting by this time of course and may have gone home.

If you fancy hanging on your guests you could always serve them the most extravagant and luxurious coffee in the world. Quite a claim! It's a Café Brûlot, and Johnnie says is highly impressive after-dinner, quickly and easily made. Phew! In a flame proof vessel, place sugar, orange rind and a vanilla pod. Muddle them together. Gently heat some brandy (always the least expensive available to you), pour it over and set it alight. Oooh, pretty blue flames. It's tempting to just look at the flames for a while, and I assume dinner guests would be ooh-ing and aah-ing too, but really they should be put out by pouring piping hot coffee on them. Strain and serve the coffee as it is - NEVER with sugar or cream. It's lovely actually, really strongly flavoured and a kick of brandy. Perfect.

So there we go, three ways to make a perfect coffee at home. Simple, impressive and extravagant. The final recommendation from the Cradocks despite what they said is to invest in a coffee making pot, which they just happen to be selling to you as a special offer in this issue. It's proper Italian and includes full instructions on how to use it, so you could just ignore all Johnnies advice really. Fanny obviously does. My heads buzzing from all the coffee and jiggery-pokery. Happy New Year everyone, hope that 2015 is a good one. 

Pussyfooting Around the Cocktail Cabinet

I think Fanny Cradock and I are on the same page when it comes to Christmas. Food is important, and lots of it, but best to get it all prepared in advance so that you can settle down and relax with a drink. Nothing better than a wee glass of fizz, something fruity, and frankly something potent to while away the festive season. Fanny certainly thinks so, and she dedicates the final half of the dreaded Part Thirteen to Christmas 'Drynke'. Like the 'mete', it's as in 'Ye Olde'. I do love a bit of a booze up, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm pretty sure Fanny was no stranger to the cocktail cabinet either, but hang on a cherry picking minute, what on earth is Fanny playing at?

Teetotal? As in 'sans booze'? Fanny what are you thinking of? I guess not everyone enjoys a drink. I guess some people will be driving during Christmas. I guess some people will have given up alcohol. I guess not everyone has Johnnie at their beck and call, to drive them here and there in the Bentley. I guess you could always add some gin?

Fanny gives ten stand-in cocktails for those not partaking this Christmas. All are fruity, all are fizzy and all are fairly festive. I hate to admit it. The first is called a Pussyfoot, and is a lovely sounding combo of lemon, orange and lime juice. The juices are strained into an old-fashioned cocktail shaker, lucky that I have a few of those, with some crushed ice (just a teaspoon though! I manage to bash a cube or two in a plastic bag with a rolling pin), icing sugar and an egg yolk. Egg yolk? Time for a vigorous shake, presumably thinking of someone that you really didn't like very much. The same person you thought of whilst bashing the ice cubes. 

Once strained into a glass the Pussyfoot should be topped up with soda water and served with a cocktail cherry on a wooden cocktail stick. On no account should the cocktail stick be made from plastic, NEVER, as Fanny advises, 'Plastic always tastes of detergent!' Also on no account substitute the soda water for sparkling wine of any description, or at least if you do, do not tell Fanny. The Pussyfoot is very frothy and really refreshing. I wasn't sure about the egg yolk, but it makes if almost like an egg-nog... It would be lovely with a Brandy plopped in. Is Fannys insistence on teetotal-ness turning me too far the other way?

Fear not, the egg white isn't wasted - as if Fanny would allow that, especially in these times of austerity. It can be whipped up and added to more orange and lemon juice and some syrup to make an Orange Lemon Flip. Just shake again and top up with soda water, as before. Definitely not champagne. Fanny also makes an Orangeade by peeling the oranges thinly, placing them in a jug with some sugar and their juice, pouring boiling water over them and waiting. Once cooled, guess what? Add some soda water. Not vodka, no. 

Fanny gives variations on all the 'mocktails', using Strawberry Syrup in place of the citrus juice, or making lemonade with raspberries or pineapple chunks instead. The imaginatively titled Ginger Ale Punch is citrus juice, cold tea and sugar all shaken together, topped up with soda water and ginger ale. I've never seen so much soda water, but you know it's pretty versatile and makes the cocktails not-too-sweet, a bit sharp and dare I say a bit edgy. It's almost as if you don't miss the booze at all. Almost. However it's the egg tricks that impress me most, it's really like drinking something 'proper' and not 'soft'. The final one for now is a simple Egg Lemonade. I'd probably change the name if I was serving it to guests though. Back to the trusty cocktail shaker and in with some lemon juice, strained of course, with a generous tablespoon this time of crushed ice, some sugar and the egg yolk. Whip the egg white separately and at the 'precise moment of service' whip the two together, pour into a tall glass and this time squirt in the soda water from the side. It's another frothy one. I still say I might squirt in a Bacardi but if you are teetotal, even just for one night, go for it - these cocktails might just make you feel giddy.