Week 7: Chicken and Leek Pot Pie

The book: How To Cheat At Cooking (Delia Smith)

The recipe: p119, "Chicken and Leek Pot Pie"

Saint Delia's How To Cheat At Cooking caused quite the controversy on its initial release, but the principle always struck me as a laudable one - people in the modern commutersphere are time-poor but relatively resource-rich (and generally not lacking in local supermarket options compared with the Bad Old Days), so why not couple that with a desire to still knock out something approximating home-cooked grub instead of relying on ready meals all the time?

That having been said, our copy of this particular book, acquired from a charity shop not long after the aforementioned controversy, has never yet prompted me to actively delve into its pages. That's right: while some of the Random Kitchen books are merely criminally under-used, this one was entirely unused. Until now. God bless you, random fairies.

It's not a bad-looking book at all, to be honest, even if Delia clearly couldn't be arsed when it came to some of the recipe titles:

Name. Bothered.

A chicken and leek pot pie sounds more like an Actual Tangible Thing, though. Worryingly, in the introduction Delia describes this as "an unlikely sounding combination". Chicken and leek, unlikely? Really? Maybe we've had a different set of life experiences but that seems like a fairly obvious pairing to me. Perhaps she's been on the vermouth the recipe calls for.

The prep: The "cheating" that led to such outrage at the time primarily involves purchasing ready-made ingredients from prominently named High Street retailers. In this particular case, that means popping into the Lewisham branch of M&S and picking up a tin of chunky chicken in white wine sauce for a good quid more than I'd have paid for the Sainsbury's equivalent.

Jus-Rol puff pastry is also on the list; otherwise it's all quite standard stuff, although fresh tarragon is a surprise in a recipe that's supposed to be about ease of assembly - I apply my own cheat and use dried instead, natch.

The making: The convenience championed by the book isn't hugely in evidence here, as I have to prep and chop a leek and carrot before softening them with some butter, then add two tablespoons of vermouth and let that bubble down and reduce. (I use the Shaohsing rice wine from last week - same intent and end result, really. By this stage I am officially even cheatier than Delia.)

That all gets stirred into a bowl containing the tinned chicken, a tablespoon of crème fraîche and the tarragon.

That mixture then gets spooned into a small pie dish, over which the pastry is arranged and trimmed before being brushed with beaten egg - another bowl for the washing-up pile, hurrah!

The whole thing then goes into the oven for half an hour and comes out looking very much like a pie.

Very much like a pie

Delia suggests serving it "with a leafy, green vegetable such as spinach". Even with pastry and a creamy sauce to dig into, that sounds a little insubstantial, so I also roast some beetroot with thyme and balsamic vinegar and a fistful of asparagus (separately, separately!) for good measure.

The eating: Pies without a base tend to serve poorly from an aesthetic point of view, invariably collapsing into a baby food-like mush with some sad-looking pastry sat on top, and so it was here. There's something inherently satisfying about a good pie filling, though - northern as I am, I could happily shovel it into my gob all day long - and there's no real faulting the outcome of this week's Random Kitchen experiment in the taste department.

I don't do presentation

The question is more whether all of Delia's cheats really had the desired effect. Pastry aside, there's nothing here that I couldn't have done from scratch almost as easily, and with a similar amount of washing-up to tackle afterwards (i.e. lots). And if you're going to essentially use pre-prepared ingredients for the filling - with all that entails in terms of salt content, freshness and quality, not to mention price - then you might as well just shell out a fiver for a decent supermarket pie in the first place and save yourself the bother.

Don't get me wrong: there are some recipes in How To Cheat At Cooking that look more promising and where you can see how the corner-cutting would make a real difference, and if nothing else, random.org has made me take a proper look inside a previously neglected book and fold down a few page corners for future reference. This one, though, can remain unfolded.

One-word verdict: Pointless.

The books: Everyday Novelli

A few weeks ago, my friend and fellow parkrunner Sarah sent me the following tweet:

Now, I should have realised this could happen; after all, no matter how much a blogger might claim they're doing it purely for the pleasure of the art, we all secretly want an audience, and I'm glad the Random Kitchen concept has caught a few people's attention. Turns out we all have those under-used cookbooks gathering dust on our shelves, often principally acquired because:

...then forgotten about once the initial euphoria of having grabbed a bargain subsides. All well and good, but why should I necessarily invite further randomness into my life and deprive a charity shop of some decent stock in the process?

Sarah, though, swiftly followed up with this:

Well, that sealed it - I had to say yes. And so book #22 was added to the Random Kitchen bookshelf. Here it is in all its glory:

"More than 100 recipes from the nation's favourite French chef." Sounds good, right? "Delicious, easy-to-make treats", claims one review. And all with the promise of "everyday" cookery, which suits my limited kitchen skills nicely.

EXCEPT IT'S A BARE-FACED LIE.

Take the recipe for "Roasted Vine Tomato Tarts with Rocket Crème Fraîche", a dinner party starter whose method covers 19 steps and two whole pages of the book.

Easy-to-make. Everyday.

Or "Home-fed Mussels with Vanilla Piperade". I'm always going to be suspicious of any recipe that requires "debearding" anything, but it turns out the debearded mussels then have to be fed on dry porridge flakes and stirred every 4-6 hours. Now I'm sorry: getting up in the middle of the night to tend to a vat of molluscs might be an everyday activity in Jean-Christophe Novelli's house, but it's not my idea of simplicity.

Oh, and then there's this:

Swan meringues are not "everyday".

SWAN MERINGUES ARE NOT ANY DAY.

SWAN MERINGUES AREN'T EVEN A THING.

Except they might be if the random.org fairies have their way.

So far I've escaped this cruel and unusual punishment, but I feel like a swan-shaped Sword of Damocles is permanently suspended over my head, poised to drop at any moment.

Thanks a lot, Sarah.

Week 6: Spicy Warm Bacon Lardon and Cucumber Salad

The book: Chinese Food Made Easy (Ching-He Huang)

The recipe: p48, "Spicy Warm Bacon Lardon and Cucumber Salad"

I've been looking forward to this particular ball popping out of the magic invisible lottery machine. Chinese Food Made Easy, a gift from Sam's mum several years ago, has seen reasonably active use in this household, but I've tended to stick to Ching-He Huang's supermarket-friendly variations on takeaway and restaurant staples rather than trying out anything more adventurous from her arsenal.

The book accompanied a BBC TV series that I didn't watch, and while it promises a simple introduction to healthy and fresh Chinese cookery, some of the recipes reach a level of complexity that I feel disqualifies them from the "Made Easy" tag. That said, the back of the book does contain a comprehensive index of all the various core ingredients with explanations of what they are and why you might use them, so that's to be commended (though, again, I would dispute the claim that they're all "easy-to-buy").

In any case, I'm glad this particular recipe has landed in my lap this week. I mean, yes, technically it's a salad, but (a) it's warm and (b) it's got bacon in it, so any thoughts of wilted lettuce leaves and sad low-calorie dressings are immediately cast aside. Bring it.

The prep: My initial enthusiasm is swiftly dampened by the sight of a frankly huge list of ingredients, some of which I have in the house, some of which I should have in the house but don't, and some of which I've definitely never owned. Considering this a recipe whose two primary ingredients are bacon/lardons/pancetta (your choice, possibly depending on how middle-class you are) and cucumber, I feel a little overwhelmed by the sudden need for Sichuan peppercorns and Shaohsing rice wine in my life.

Still, that's easily solved with a quick bumble down the Lee High Road to the box of delights that is Hua Xia Oriental Food Specialists, a.k.a. the local friendly Chinese supermarket. I've walked past it any number of times without ever venturing beyond the threshold of its unassuming exterior, yet I fall in love immediately - it's predictably unpretentious, has a cleaner and more logical layout than similar places I've been to in the past, and boasts pretty much everything you might need to rustle up some authentic grub (as well plenty of frankly scary-looking ingredients you'd hope to never need - forgive me, but I'm in no great rush to cook with jelly fungus).

#haul

Cupboards duly stocked up (OK, so the bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and Five Spicy Powder [sic] are superfluous to today's recipe, but when on the Lee High Road, etc.), it's time to begin! And actually, the "easy-to-buy" claim turned out to be true, didn't it? Assuming you're fortunate enough to live within striking distance of a Chinese food store, at least. Tesco Express will not help you here.

The making: With the recipe seemingly requiring military precision in terms of when the various ingredients are added, I prep literally everything in advance. More bowls to wash up, less chance of things going horribly wrong.

Oil is heated in a wok, then dried chillies and Sichuan peppercorns are stir-fried for a few seconds along with star anise. The lardons are added and fried until golden at the edges, before a chopped, de-seeded red chilli joins the party. Then things get frantic, as the aforementioned rice wine, sesame oil and rice vinegar are added, before the titular thickly sliced, de-seeded cucumber is thrown in and briefly stir-fried until everything is nicely blended.

Salt, dried chilli flakes and lime juice are added for seasoning, then the "salad" is plated up, drizzled with chilli oil, and garnished with chopped coriander and some dry-roasted peanuts, because nothing says Sichuan authenticity like British pub snacks.

Two small but perfectly-formed dishes of haphazardly mixed ingredients ensue - one with peanuts, one without, because that's how we roll in this house.

Nutty boys

The eating: It seems strange to say it, but the combination of vivid flavours actually takes some getting used to here. The first few bites are a bit like taking your first tentative steps onto ice, but once you're in the swing of things, it's a smooth and pleasant glide across the surface.

There's a sharp, aromatic tanginess that hits your nostrils almost before it reaches your mouth, and a substantial but very slow and manageable burn that clears the sinuses yet somehow isn't too overwhelming considering the recipe calls for dried chillies, fresh chillies, chilli flakes and chilli oil! The flavours are complex, bright, challenging, and quite unlike anything I've made before, while the texture is a pleasing if slightly confusing mix of crunchiness and chewiness - though I suppose that's going to be the case if you add peanuts to anything, isn't it?

I'd actually go so far as to say that this dish is restaurant-quality, although I suppose you might expect that with a list of ingredients the length of your arm. Still, none of them are particularly outlandish in context, and they combine to immense effect here.

A definite success, then. I may still be waiting for the random fairies to conjure up a tiered wedding cake or something involving a full side of beef, but my tongue and my tummy are very happy in the meantime.

(And while I make a point of not reproducing the recipes I'm using in full - copyright and that, innit - this one's available right here if you want to try it out yourself. God bless the BBC.)

One-word verdict: Tingly.

Week 5: Asparagi alla Valdostana

The book: The Silver Spoon

The recipe: p474, "Asparagi alla Valdostana"

Get in! I was hoping the fickle finger of fate might land on this book sooner rather than later.

You see, I bloody love The Silver Spoon. It's understandably viewed as the Bible of Italian cookery - it's even one of the country's most popular wedding gifts - and I'll endeavour to give it the dedicated blog post it merits some time. Suffice to say that I had to tell random.org to pick a page number between 57 and 1325, which gives you some indication of its sheer scale.

I had it on my Amazon Wishlist for the longest time, until a birthday voucher burning a hole in my (virtual) pocket finally tipped me over the edge. It's not a cheap purchase, but it is just gorgeous, packed with recipes from the challenging (basically entire banquets) to the simple ("here, have ten different ways of searing carrots"), all presented in an eminently readable, modern but elegant format. Seriously, just look at that. You could spend ages just poring over the various sections and drooling. And I have done. Repeatedly.

 
But that's precisely the problem. I've owned The Silver Spoon for a good three years, yet probably used it for about three recipes in that time. Admittedly, one is the aforementioned Devil's Fennel, a firm favourite that gets deployed every time those £1 scoops at Lewisham Market are overflowing with bulb-y, aniseed-y goodness. But otherwise, my Italian Bible is a beautiful but woefully underused presence in my life. Enter The Random Kitchen...

The prep: "Asparagi alla Valdostana" doesn't say much to me in terms of what might be involved (asparagus aside, obviously). The Silver Spoon helpfully translates it into English as "Valle d'Aosta Asparagus", which: thanks. Fortunately, it turns out to be a fairly uncomplicated oven bake, and asparagus is on offer at the supermarket right now, so let's just call me Success Kid and be done with it.

The only concession I have to make is substituting the Fontina cheese - a Valle d'Aosta speciality; not so much a Lewisham one. Wikipedia tells me that Fontina "has a mild, somewhat nutty flavor, while rich, herbaceous and fruity. It melts well." Which is nice. Gruyère seems like a reasonable alternative.

The making: A metric buttload of asparagus (I believe that to be the technical term) is trimmed then cooked in salted, boiling water for ten minutes. After being drained and arranged in a dish, it's topped with strips of cooked ham and slices of the Gruyère. Then two eggs are beaten with grated Parmesan (because one cheese just isn't enough) and poured over the top. The dish goes in the oven for 15-20 minutes until the eggs have set and the top is nicely browned, and that's about it.

This could work as a decadent side dish, but as it's lunchtime, my radical serving suggestion instead involves solo presentation with a hunk of crusty bread to mop up any errant juices:

The eating: Confounding my expectations, the baking process results in a dish that's dead easy to slice and serve, initially appearing to have the consistency of a frittata. Sadly, containing rather fewer eggs than a frittata means it quickly falls apart on the plate, leading to an effect that's more "here's a bunch of things near each other" than a particularly cohesive whole.

Still, when those things are asparagus, cheese, ham and more cheese, who's complaining?

On balance, combining the ingredients at the assembly stage rather than layering might prevent this, as might boiling the asparagus for a few minutes less - once it's been in the oven too, the veg does come out a little bit sloppy. Still, the end result is a pleasing one. It's the ideal lunch really, kidding you into thinking you're being healthy with all that lovely green stuff, then hitting you with the salty suckerpunch of CHEESE OVERLOAD.

Sam thinks it seems like a lot of effort for a quite simple end result, but it's more time than effort really - the constituent steps are a doddle, but if you're looking for a quick turnaround to hit your hunger where it hurts, you'll need to look elsewhere. In any case, I'm reasonably convinced, and the marriage of asparagus, ham and all teh cheeses!!1! will be more than welcome on my plate again.

As I summon up the Herculean strength required to lift the book and return it to the shelf, I find myself contemplating the possibility of a follow-up blog, The Random Silver Spoon, to keep me occupied in 2017...

One-word verdict: Sloppylicious.

Week 4: Curried Rice with Spinach

The book: 101 One-Pot Dishes (BBC Good Food)

The recipe: p140, "Curried Rice with Spinach"

These recipe names really don't do themselves any favours, do they? Then again, the pocket-book BBC Good Food series is meant to be about simplicity, especially where 101 One-Pot Dishes is concerned (the clue's in the name, I suppose).

I'm still rather less than enamoured by the prospect of this one, though, particularly since the recipes either side of p140 look somewhat more promising - though even they labour under the names "Bean and Vegetable Chilli" and "Vegetable Casserole with Dumplings", so pragmatism is evidently the order of the day in the BBC Good Food offices.

And besides, that's not how random number generation works, is it?

Fine, then. "Curried Rice with Spinach" it is. Be still, my beating heart.

The prep: Actually, I'm not kidding when I say the recipe does itself a disservice with that name. There's all kinds of tasty morsels involved here - chickpeas, raisins, cashew nuts - so to reduce the dish to a mere "Curried Rice with Spinach" would seem to be all brevity and no wit.

Moreover, there's very little I need to buy in here, which is a definite win. The recipe calls for "medium curry paste" then promptly recommends Madras, which doesn't meet the definition of "medium" in my book. Regardless, I decide to take advantage of the cracking Sri Lankan shops out on Loampit Hill and avail myself of a jar of Kashmiri Masala paste (which is essentially your standard hottish curry paste but with added paprika for awesome fierce redness). I also go for fresh rather than frozen spinach because, well, it's better.

The making: Garlic and the curry paste are fried in oil for a minute, then rinsed basmati rice, a drained tin of chickpeas, a handful of raisins and a Pyrex-jug's-worth of vegetable stock are added, stirred and simmered for 12-15 minutes. No onion, which is a bit unusual for a curry dish, though I suppose that's covered by the paste to some extent.

I make the mistake of nipping upstairs for a couple of minutes and come back to find that, even at a desperately low simmer, the water has already been all but fully absorbed and the pan is in imminent danger of Death By Burnt-On Rice. A quick rescue operation follows and all is well (though I do end up using about twice as much water as the recipe calls for and still the rice doesn't end up overly claggy, so my ingredient accuracy scepticism antennae are twitching like crazy at this point).

The spinach and a handful of chopped cashew nuts are added and gently stirred until the spinach is wilted, then yoghurt is added to taste (if you're using Kashmiri Masala and you're a wuss like me, "to taste" means "quite a bit, then"). And that's it! Introducing one substantial and largely unphotogenic dish of Curried Blah with Blah:

The eating: Allow me, if I may, to quote directly from the top of p140: "Warming and tasty, practically no preparation, superhealthy, uses storecupboard ingredients - one-pot dishes don't get better than this."

I'd dispute two things here: the audacious closing claim and, worse still, the idea that the single-word usage of "storecupboard" is in any way acceptable, no matter how many recipe websites seem to believe it is.

Still, I can't really argue with the results: this is a warming and tasty dish (with minimal washing-up required afterwards), offering a pleasing texture and a nice blend of spice and sweetness thanks to the raisins and nuts. Even Sam, no fan of either ingredient, describes it as "surprisingly nice", though that might be because I'd lowered his expectations sufficiently with advance warnings of potential dullness.

And I mean, it is kind of dull, but it's also an appropriately wintry warmer of a dish and exactly the kind of thing I'd happily make as an easy midweek dinner with or without the inspiration of this blog, so at least the random fairies have been quite sensible in that respect.

Though I'd probably throw in some meat next time, because I'm a savage like that.

One-word verdict: Hearty.

Week 3: Tomato, Fennel and Feta Soup

The book: A Soup For Every Day (The New Covent Garden Food Co.)

The recipe: p262, "Tomato, Fennel and Feta Soup"

A Soup For Every Day is a rare example of a cookbook in my collection that actually gets pretty decent use. Even without the involvement of randomness, I largely ignore its calendrical structure, though; for example, this week's recipe is on the page marked "September 13th", which I acknowledge means some of the key ingredients are currently out of season - but then that's precisely why we have aircraft to help us rack up horrific food miles, isn't it? Modern life FTW <3

The book was a family Christmas gift a few years back, along with a Morphy Richards soup maker that has proved to be something of a godsend for a hungry homeworker like me. Stock up on cheap veg from Lewisham market, chop it all up, then sit back and enjoy that lunchtime goodness after a mere 22 minutes in what can only be described as a giant soup kettle:

As this week's chosen recipe involves multiple phases and that's not the soup maker's strong point, I decided to go the conventional route and make it in a pan instead. (Still used the kettle for blending, though - beats faffing around with the food processor.)

The prep: Mainly fridge and store-cupboard staples here, though tracking down sundried tomato paste proved to be surprisingly tricky considering I live in an area that's supposedly mid-gentrification. Like last week, doing my shopping on a Sunday doesn't help matters, but them's the breaks.

I opted for some nice vine tomatoes, as well as splashing out on quite expensive Actual Feta instead of supermarket-brand "salad cheese" (ahem). Though I do wonder whether there's much point in chucking high-end ingredients into something that's essentially going to end up as a bowl of mushy red liquid whatever you do with it.

Like quite a few of the Covent Garden recipes, this is notable for being a soup that doesn't use stock cubes just for the sake of it. I broadly approve - I'd far rather control the salt content myself and let the flavour and seasoning come from the ingredients wherever possible (a recipe containing feta is hardly going to be short on saltiness, after all).

The making: A diced potato, a chopped onion, tomato purée, garlic and a small amount of the sliced fennel are heated in a geet big pan until nicely soft. Caster sugar and white wine vinegar are added and boiled down slightly, then several chopped tomatoes (unpeeled - surely that's asking for trouble?),  sundried tomato paste and water are added.

After a good slow simmer for 30 minutes, the contents of the pan are blended, then the remaining fennel slices are added along with some cubes of feta. The recipe calls for a mere 50g of feta for a recipe that claims to feed four people, but obviously I use more, because feta.

I have no idea, I just googled "feta meme"

Another ten minutes of simmering to soften the fennel and melt the feta slightly, and we're done! A "rustic roll" (again, ahem) from Sainsbury's is the accompaniment of choice.

The eating: Fennel is great. There's an evocative recipe called "Devil's Fennel" in The Silver Spoon that I love, in which chunks of fennel are slow-cooked with anchovies and mustard. But of course I almost certainly won't get to write about that here.

Anyway, my point is that the fennel and feta flavours are what lifts this from the ordinary, giving it a subtle tartness and a sharp edge that work really nicely in combination with the robust tomato base - it's surprisingly fresh on the palate for something that feels like it's going to be quite heavy. That also means it tastes a lot less tomato-ey than the orange-redness of its appearance might suggest:

Now if you're thinking that's not the world's most attractive soup, you'd be right - the late-added slices of fennel and cubettes of feta aren't exactly designed for elegant visual impact, and the mouthfeel (box 4 on your Random Kitchen Buzzword Bingo card, folks!) is a little odd and lumpy. But at least there aren't any bits of tomato skin floating around in there as I'd feared - the long, slow cooking time ensures that even they end up being successfully blended. In any case, the flavour more than makes up for any shortcomings on the texture side.

At the end of the day, though, it's still just a soup. Indeed, after three weeks, I'm starting to realise that random.org seems determined to give me a lot of

• things that don't look particularly thrilling in photos;
• things that aren't particularly hard to make; and
• things with quite a lot of red in them.

Whether this reflects the uninspired nature of my cookbook collection or is just plain bad luck, I suppose only further throws of the dice will tell. It's all been nice enough, though - no disasters so far - and the overall quality trend is an upward one, so I look forward to whatever next week may bring.

Maybe I'll even be allowed a different colour or two.

One-word verdict: Tart.

Week 2: Slow-Roast Tomatoes, Goat's Cheese and Mint Salad

The book: Nigella Express

The recipe: p127, "Slow-Roast Tomatoes, Goat's Cheese and Mint Salad"

When this blog came up in conversation over a post-parkrun coffee on a snowy Sunday morning, we said it'd be nice if the fairies of fortune took the wintry weather into account and made this week's choice something hearty, like a pie or a stew. Inevitably, then, I shouted the randomly generated numbers through into the kitchen later that day so that Sam could look up the selected recipe, only to be greeted with the mournful response: "That's just a picture of some salad."

Flick back from p129 to the page containing the actual recipe, and it didn't sound too bad. It was lunchtime and we needed something light (insofar as anything involving goat's cheese can ever be described as "light"), and Nigella Express counts as one of the least-used cookbooks on the Random Kitchen shelf, so the choice was very much in keeping with the purpose of the exercise.

I'm not particularly fond of Nigella and her style of televisual delivery, though I concede I'm probably not the target audience for her assets. Still, underused though my copy may be, Nigella Express is responsible for introducing sesame oil, honey and soy sauce-glazed cocktail sausages to my life (and, subsequently, to party guests on numerous occasions), so it was really about time I gave it the honour of delving into its pages some more. 

The prep: Mostly fresh ingredients, of course, so a trip to the shops beckoned. The goat's cheese needed to be the ultra-soft variety - you know the type, with an almost mousse-like consistency for maximum dollopability. I opted for baby spinach leaves as the salad base, though in hindsight one of those supermarket watercress/rocket/spinach mixes would probably have made things more interesting.

That took care of the green and the white, but it's the red where the only complexity in the recipe comes in. Nigella calls for the reader to make their own sunblush tomatoes, a process that involves heating an oven, switching it off, then leaving a tray of herbed- and oil-up toms in there "overnight or for a day". Which, let's be honest:

Having said that, I'm sure the results would have been considerably better than the rather average supermarket deli counter tomatoes I ended up using - while certainly preferable to sundried tomatoes from the jar, which wouldn't have been juicy or sweet enough for the purpose, they were still a notable step down from my original plan, which was to get my semi-dried tomato fix from Lewisham's own slice of Italian heaven that is Gennaro's delicatessen.

Except Gennaro's is closed on Sundays, isn't it? #firstworldproblems, there. 

The making: Well, it's a salad. The Random Kitchen experiment is yet to pose any real problems where skill levels are concerned.

The spinach leaves are scattered across the dish as a base, then knifetip-sized dollops of goat's cheese are scattered here and there. The tomatoes are scattered on top, before a whisked-up blend of extra virgin olive oil and lemon juice is drizzled over and around the creation as it stands. Then to finish, as the recipe name suggests, a scattering of chopped mint. (It's a whole lot of scattering and a bit of drizzling, basically.) 

Et voilà:

See? It's a salad.

The eating: The tanginess of the goat's cheese and the acid pang of the tomatoes are the main flavours here, particularly since the quantity of mint involved doesn't seem to make much of an impression - I'd use a lot more next time. If you're like Sam and tomatoes aren't your favourite thing in the world, this salad won't be either (and doubly so if you're weirded out because it ends up leaving the inside of your mouth really dry for some reason). Whereas if you're me, you'll probably really like it, dry mouth and all.

Still, though: being essentially just a bunch of fresh ingredients slung together, the recipe lives and dies on the quality of those ingredients, and I'm the kind of person who finds it hard to justify spending delicatessen amounts of money on "just" a salad when I could be buying half a dozen bags of Tangfastics from Poundland for the same outlay.

So no complaints about random.org's choice this week - and Nigella Express certainly lives up to its billing when it comes to speed - but I'd need this to be a whole lot more special before I'd dare to serve it up to guests ahead of those sinful cocktail sausages.

One-word verdict: Tangy.