To market to market to buy a fat turkey

Don't overcook it or you'll be left with turkey jerky!

Why do we freeze up at the mere thought of cooking a turkey? After all, it is just an oversized chicken!

Last week we impulsively decided to put work behind us and escape down south to the beach for a week of chill out time. Winding along the sea bridge along Sir Laurence Hargrave Drive I wound the window down and took a huge gulp of sea scented air and felt the stresses of the last few months dissipate as we drew closer to our little sea side shack.

The other night on the way to our favourite little French bistro, we were subjected to a cab driver who spent more time with his head turned towards the back seat than with his eyes on the road. He said to us "why do the French like eating snails?", "I dunno," I replied "why do the French like eating snails?" rolling my eyes and giving Harry a grin. "Because they don't like fast food!" said the cabbie.

I'm so excited! For the very first time in my whole blood-orange marmalade-making career I finally (just last Saturday) discovered how to actually keep the colour in it...

On the first day of spring my lovely neighbours out on the farm left a basket of freshly-harvested zucchini on the doorstep. This happens a lot in the country, particularly around this time of year when the frosts have gone and everything that was brown is green again.

Isn't it funny how we go through stages with what we want to eat? I have just come out of a serious Francophile period to find myself now craving for steamed prawn dumplings with black vinegar dipping sauce.

Last Saturday night, before the symphony, I whipped up what I thought was a pretty sensational chicken noodle soup to have for supper before we left. It tasted great — if I don't mind saying so myself...

I once named a toasted sandwich after myself. I know that doesn't sound very romantic but we couldn't think of anything else to call it, and were pushed for time. It was called the "croque Simmone", a spoof on the croque madame or monsieur.

Whenever I need to earn some serious brownies with Harry, I cook him a schnitzel. Suddenly, I am elevated to goddess status and with the delightful aroma of fried food wafting from the kitchen, he has miraculously forgotten why he was Mr Grumpy Pants in the beginning.

Not long ago my great-grandmother sadly passed away at the age of 101. Joanna (my sister), my mum and I made a car trip up to our home town, Muswellbrook where my great-grandmother had lived in a ramshackle timber cottage along the Macullies Gap Road all of her life.