UK Food channel, in their infinite wisdom, are showing Fanny Cradock's 1975 Christmas series of programmes. It's rare to see full episodes of shows like this, appearing as they usually do in some hastily cut-together compendium of Embarrassing Seventies Fashion, so this is a fantastic treat.

It makes me a little tearful, to tell you the truth. After seeing endless programmes featuring Gary Rhodes gurning, spinning and enunciating pretentiously, it's wonderful to see a woman in a gaudy frock stuck in the Play School studio with a work surface, an oven, some less-than-pristine pans, and a dowdy assistant called Sarah who marches on and off the set with purpose, dedication and a deeply unfashionable haircut.

In a television climate where we're constantly addressed as if we're 8 year old children, it's almost bizarre to be chatted to, rather formally, as adults – or rather, female adults. Fanny is deeply concerned about the budget of the housewife, and adds to most of her recipes a gentle reassurance. “This confectioners' custard only contains 3 egg yolks, so it won't break you.” She prepares a goose for the oven, and rubs butter on the skin. “Of course, if you can't stretch to butter, then dripping will do.” Her one concession to extravagance comes in her christmas cake. “Prices are so terrible these days, but you have to be allowed ONE piece of decent cake a year.” I've not heard such a heartbreaking sentence since Oliver Twist asked for “more”.

For all her asides about being nervous – “I'm scared stiff when I meet you all, you know” she's the consummate professional. There's no retakes or fast edits, it's all done in one go, and if Fanny drops something, well, it's dropped. Tough. “Don't you worry about that spoon, I'll pick it up in a minute or two.” And her viewers notice things like this. “Don't write and tell me that I've got chocolate on the side of the bowl, because I know.” She gives her cues to Sarah with a weighty resonance. “So now all we need are the Softened Chocolate Chips!” Sarah, who has been loitering almost out of shot, marches on to soften the chocolate chips. On her exit she takes with her a spatula. “NO!” shouts Fanny, who needs said implement and grabs it back, before turning to the camera, smiling. “Sorry about that noise, there.”

There's no concession to political correctness. She recommends particular recipes to “lonely, old people who are living alone.” And spends 5 minutes slagging off men who can't carve a turkey properly. “I'm not such an clot as to support Women's Lib, but this really does Drive Me Mad,” she says, witheringly.

Thank you, Mrs Cradock, for a wonderfully pleasant afternoon. I don't think I'll be making bright green brandy butter, or flourescent pink icing for choux buns, but I'll certainly be referring to my “ordinary modern domestic refrigeration unit” from now on.