THERE ARE FEW things that'll get me out of the sack quicker in the afternoon than the sound of the old dear upset about something. Honestly, roysh, I'm down those stairs three at a time and straight into the kitchen, where I find her pacing back and forth, her slap all over the shop, giving out yords to someone on the phone in this, like, loud, screechy voice, writes Ross O'Carroll Kelly.
I honestly haven't seen her this pissed off since Jackie Lavin stuck her XC90 in her porking space at Foxrock Golf Club while she was still lady captain.
And it's pretty obvious what it's all about. I may or may not have mentioned that RTÉ have decided to, like, reposition her TV show to take account of what they call the new economic realities. So FO'CK Cooking is suddenly going to be called FO'CK On A Budget and I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks it sounds like an idea for a travel show that RTÉ would never have the actual guts to make.
She's not a happy bunny either, judging from the way she's talking to them.
She's going, "So some banks went bust - are we all going to start eating our own excrement now? Put Cathal Goan on, this instant . . ."
I pick up the pages and pages that RTÉ sent her of all the ingredients she's, like, banned from using? Does seem a bit Jodie, in fairness. Bulgar wheat. Colocasia. Mascarpone. Black cohosh.
It's, like, six weeks ago, everyone in Ireland was eating this shit. Shiso. Bee balm. Pandanus. Even lemon verbena's suddenly out.
"Hello?" she's going. "Hello?" and it's obvious, roysh, that whoever she was talking to has, like, hung up on her.
I just laugh in her face and go, "Delighted for you," and she tells me she has no time for my unpleasantness this afternoon.
"I have literally 24 hours," she goes, "to work out what to do with this," and she plonks this, I suppose you'd have to say, vegetable - which, incidentally, I've never seen before - down on the island in front of me.
Naturally, roysh, I'm like, "What! The fock! Is that!"
She's there, "This is what they've given me to work with. It's called a swede. It's essentially a rutabaga, except for poor people."
I tell her I've never heard of it and she storts going literally ballistic.
"That's why we moved out of Sallynoggin - your father and I wanted to keep you away from this kind of thing. Now I'm supposed to go on national television and actually encourage it . . ."
I laugh in her face again but I stop when she picks up the Stellar Sebatier.
I often think she'd actually do it if I pushed her far enough - knowing she'd get off on, like, an insanity plea.
She runs the blade over the - I don't know - skin of the actual thing? "Oh, here's a thought - maybe if I chop it, I could do one my famous lanttulaatikkos. Ross, just tell me, is daikon on that list?" I give it the old left to right. I'm like,
"Yeah."
"And canolo oil?" she goes.
I'm there, "Yeah, and canola oil."
"Oh," she goes, trying not to lose the total rag.
"Okay, how to work around this . . . Halloween this weekend - oh, what about one of my fabulous Cinderella pumpkin bowls with sausage and root vegetables? I'm presuming they've not gone completely insane and outlawed savoury kielbasa …"
I turn over a couple of pages. I'm there, "Er, would you believe . . ."
"Oh for heaven's sake," she goes, slamming the knife down on the counter top.
"You can get kielbasa in Lidl. A friend of Delma's was in there once - she saw it with her own eyes . . ." I'm there trying to keep a straight face, of course.
"Okay," she goes, trying to control her breathing, "don't panic, Fionnuala. Just think . . ." She's great value when she's this worked up. "Okay, no one - and I mean no one - who has tasted my rutabaga and apple casserole has anything other than loved it. If I put extra cinnamon in, I suppose I could pass this thing off as rutabaga."
"Well, you're alright with cinnamon," I go.
"All purpose flour?"
"Yeah, not on the list."
"Light brown sugar?"
"Yep - well within the rules."
"Seakale and haricot vert?"
I literally burst my hole laughing. I just can't keep it in. It's probably the only funny thing she's ever said and of course it's, like, totally unintentional?
I watch her make a grab for the knife and the, what's it called, swede? I'm off that high stool like it's on fire and my orse is catching. She lets out this, like, piercing scream and, without even looking back, I peg it straight out the door, slamming it behind me.
Then something hits it - the knife or the swede, I suppose I'll never know.
I charge up the stairs, still laughing, roysh, and lock myself into my room.
It's only later - after an hour's kip - that I think how funny it would be to call her programme FO'CK Totally Focked.
Although before I tell her, I think I'lI give her another hour to cool off.
If you can't wait for next week's column, keep up to date with Ross's adventures in cyberspace at irishtimes.com/comment