I am gloriously happy that MasterChef New Zealand and My Kitchen Rules have both finished for another year.
Now don't get me wrong, I watched these two programmes religiously and even recorded them during a week's holiday recently. I think the presentation was superb, the judges all fair and professional (who could not adore "where's ze sauce?" Manu?) and the contestants' knowledge, skill and in many cases, unflappability, were remarkable.

 Many of the cooks spoke about food being the centre of their worlds, while one very likeable young woman spoke of being "inspirated" by food. I think we were all inspirated by the two contests and happily relieved when the "baddies" were eliminated and that both were won by seemingly genuine and likeable people.

 But, I have been 'jus-ed', 'coulis-ed', 'confit-ed' and finally 'Croquembouched' sufficiently for one year. Bring on the Mainland cheese rolls, Mum's mince on toast and the good old Sunday roast.
It reminds me of the true Southern man, who when asked what sort of coffee he wanted, replied: "I'll have Gregg's please." None of this soy latte, macchiato, ristretto or even flat white carry-on for him.