Sixtysomething KEITH FORT's sepia-tinted take on life

NOW that the TV publicity pundits have got Gary Rhodes scaling the White Cliffs and Rick Stein turning up with cookery tips inside a Russian sub, I think we've got the message.

Already, I believe, people are having cards printed warning: "In the event of a culinary disaster in my home please do not let Ainslie Harrison, the Naked Chef, Delia Smith or Antony Worral Thomson into my house!"

I used to enjoy the early cookery programmes like Food and Drink before it became a fruit bowl farce and television became hell-bent on "overcook."

Now Jamie goes naked while Nigella bites.

Can you imagine standing in your steam-filled kitchen in front of a Delia Smith tome, sweat pouring down forehead, pans and patience boiling over, friend due in 10 minutes, grabbing the phone, frantically dialling Smith, D getting her in the middle of a Friends for Dinner episode and chummily asking: "Oh De, I'm just in the middle of making your creme brulee recipe and things don't seem to be working out"

Without the TV cameras present, the reply might be just a touch dismissive, don't you think?

I couldn't imagine my old gran ringing up busy chefs like Rick Stein every time they hit a snag in their latest cookbook like TV would have us believe. But in those days the diners were important; now it's the chefs.

She was a brilliant cook, weighing ingredients by hand and eye, cooking by instinct learned at mother's knee and could make even the plainest food taste sensational. The one and only time she tried to prepare something different from a recipe book was a day never forgotten in our family.

I still vividly remember the details of this event more than 50 years later.

Fidget pudding it was called.

That may not be how it was spelled but that's how it sounded.

Main course over, we awaited the arrival of the new pudding with great anticipation.

I must admit it didn't look all that appetising but we tucked in.

The faces of the family said it all.

After the first mouthful, everyone slowed up considerably, eating more and more reluctantly.

Spoons were shuffled around in the mixture as grannie's face fell.

Then my kid brother piped up: "No wonder they call this fidget pudding!"

The tension eased and we all started laughing nervously.

Once gran joined in we all laughed and laughed until our faces were tear-stained and the pudding ended up in the bin.

Thereafter, whenever anything went disastrously wrong in our family we would all cry "Fidget pudding!"

Everything our TV pundit chefs make always comes out so perfect and looks so appetising.

I wonder whether Jamie Oliver, Delia Smith or the flamboyantly named Antony Worral Thompson ever made a Fidget pudding?

To find out we'll just have to wait until Auntie dons her TV cookery bloomers.