Week 9: Leek and Ham Galette

The book: Good Housekeeping Easy To Make Complete Cookbook

The recipe: p244, "Leek and Ham Galette"

I'm happy to buy every ingredient required for this project, but I draw the line at an entirely new freezer. We'll come to that, though.

A fundamental problem with the Random Kitchen concept is the risk of repetition, and right from the moment this recipe pops out of the hat, it looks suspiciously like the bastard offspring of my recent adventures in Italian asparagus and Delia's superfluous shortcuts. Looking through this section of the Good Housekeeping Easy To Make Complete Cookbook, however, it's not hard to see why: it's positively overflowing with sausage rolls, pies, quiches, filo parcels, tarts, tartlets, spanakopita, pithiviers and more besides. No wonder this kind of thing seems to be turning up with some regularity!

In this case, a "galette" is the order of the day. Not knowing what one of those is when it's à la maison, I consult Wikipedia, which explains that it's a term "used in French cuisine to designate various types of flat round or freeform crusty cakes". The photo accompanying the recipe makes this particular galette look more like a glorified Greggs Steak Bake than anything else - but as a Gosforth boy, I naturally consider that particular establishment to be one of this nation's crowning achievements, so I'm not complaining.

The mother lode

Plus it's a good opportunity to dive into the pages of this book, a Christmas gift designed to inspire Sam to do more cooking, but which even I have left largely untouched to date. So let's see where this stab at Franco-Geordie fusion leads us.

The prep: This is going to be exciting: while I haven't yet been called upon to make my own pastry, this recipe at least requires rolling out a block to the desired thinness instead of relying on a Jus-Rol sheet, so there's all sorts of potential for disaster there.

I take the liberty of using dried marjoram instead of fresh, mainly because Lewisham Sainsbury's doesn't stock the latter and I'd be surprised if it ever has. We're back to our good old friend Gruyère, this time as the cheese of choice rather than a (literally) pale substitute, and I shell out for a reasonably decent cooked ham to be "thickly shredded" into the mix. Otherwise, this is a mercifully straightforward bit of winter fare on the shopping front. 

Exceeeeept... the recipe calls for the galette to be frozen for a while. And the galette has a base footprint of 15 x 30.5cm. Our freezer is by no means small, but the drawers don't go back particularly far - and on a baking tray substantial enough to house it with room to spare, the pastry product as described would quite simply not fit in there. Bah, bah and thrice bah.

My only-child instinct is to abandon the whole project and go and sit in a corner and eat ham and Gruyère with my bare hands, but Sam comes up with the slightly more rational idea of just making two smaller galettes in a freezer-friendly size.

OK, fine, I suppose that could work.

The making: The "Easy To Make" part of the cookbook's name appears to be predicated upon its recipes consisting of very few steps. The Leek and Ham Galette, for example, involves a mere three. Three! Except on closer inspection it turns out that each "step" is a dense paragraph consisting of a good half-dozen separate and unrelated instructions. THAT IS DEFINITELY CHEATING.

Anyway, the first paragraph step requires me to preheat the oven to 220°C (remember this bit, it'll be important) then grease a baking sheet. Scarred by past experience of occasional (i.e. near-constant) tray-destroying stickage and resulting unsatisfactory food presentation, I opt for baking paper instead. The leeks are then chopped, boiled for a few minutes, and drained. The cooking water is retained, while the leeks are plunged into cold water then left to drain again.

Next I'm required to make a roux. I'm increasingly convinced that the roux is the practical joke of the recipe world. Every time I'm told the process will "form a smooth paste", and every time I'm left with something that looks like lumpy apple crumble topping. Still, adding the leek water and milk then slowly heating and whisking ends up removing the most egregious lumps and bumps, so that's something. After simmering briefly, the ensuing sauce is taken off the heat and left for 20 minutes to thicken and cool, before the marjoram, leeks, shredded ham and cubed Gruyère are stirred through to make what will be the heroic filling of today's masterpiece.

I then roll out the pastry on a lightly floured surface in an attempt to create a "30.5 x 33cm rectangle". Yeah, good luck with that. Having been removed from the fridge a while ago to reach peak malleability, the pastry is already so malleable it's threatening to become unworkable, so any pretence of straight edges is abandoned and I have to satisfy myself with what looks like the rough outline of various US states instead.

Washington and Oregon, accompanied by a rogue Minnesota

The big pastry "rectangle" is split and then (for the purposes of my improvised mini-galettes) split again. The two smaller pastry "rectangles" are placed onto the freezer-sized baking trays, the filling is spooned inelegantly into the middle, the edges are brushed with beaten egg, and the slightly larger pastry "rectangles" are placed on top.

Next the recipe wants me to press and crimp the edges. I know what crimping is but I don't really know what it entails. "Bashing the thing for a while with the butt of a knife" seems to achieve the desired effect, anyway. And then the two galettes are put in the freezer "for 20 minutes or until firm", before being brushed with beaten egg, sprinkled with some more Gruyère (an innovation the otherwise unimpeachable Greggs should seriously consider), and finally baked in the oven for 20-30 minutes until suitably nice and crisp and pasty-y.

Remember when I mentioned pre-heating the oven? Yeah. Good thing I looked ahead and ignored that bit. If you followed the recipe to the letter, your oven would have been merrily ticking over at 220°C for AT LEAST 45 MINUTES before your galette(s) even reached the baking stage. Either the folks at Good Housekeeping are too cheap to employ proofreaders or they really, really hate the environment.

The eating: I should mention at this point that the mega-galette required by the recipe apparently "serves 4". That claim always tends to prompt a "yeah, right" response in this household, but all the more so when circumstances have dictated that what comes out of the oven are two pretty massive, slightly misshapen, but very inviting Steak-Bake-a-likes:

1+1=2

We're blatantly having one each, aren't we? Yes, yes we are. And the misshapenness - slightly smoothed by the baking process anyway - only adds to the appeal, if I'm being honest. Wonky food is honest food, and if you want cookie-cutter perfection, you might as well just buy your pies from Iceland. (Or, erm, Greggs...)

But how do they taste? "Really good" is the answer, not that I'd expect anything less considering what's gone into them. Turns out it's far more pleasurable eating a standalone item surrounded by its own pastry than a slice of a bigger galette (or pot pie, Delia) whose contents have slopped out all over your plate and no longer look as if they were ever really part of a pastry product in the first place. The whole freezer size drama has ended up working in this dish's favour. And while the outcome isn't necessarily high-class and you could consume it out of a (very big) paper bag if you wanted to, it works just as well in this context accompanied by braised carrots and spuds as part of a hearty Sunday dinner.

The description above makes it sound like a lot of hard work, but none of the steps (and sub-steps, and sub-sub-steps) are particularly tricky, all that resting and freezing means the whole process is very linear with absolutely no juggling of simultaneous tasks, and frankly at least 70% of the words up until this point have been me moaning about stuff or waxing lyrical about Greggs anyway, so it's not like this post is a reliable indicator of anything.

Long story short, then: yes, this one takes time, but if you've got that time, it's actually a really rewarding cooking experience and the end result is a good 'un. Just don't let yourself be pressured into buying a new freezer for the occasion. I bet you Good Housekeeping has shares in Currys.

One-word verdict: Satisfying.

Week 8: Bengali-Style Aubergine Cooked in Yoghurt

The book: Indian Food Made Easy (Anjum Anand)

The recipe: p104, "Bengali-Style Aubergine Cooked in Yoghurt"

Another book bought with good intentions but largely untouched ever since. The "Made Easy" promised by the title means many of the recipes are almost too simple in places, or involve shortcuts or alternative ingredients and combinations that don't particularly appeal - so when I'm in the mood for something Indian, I find myself reverting to my trusty folder of downloaded recipes instead (or turning to Madhur Jaffrey's Curry Easy, but we'll probably get to that one at some point...).

Today's recipe is a case in point. Essentially a lunch or side dish, for all I love aubergines, the prospect of a yoghurt-based dish involving the vegetable would never have appealed to me enough to actually make it if it hadn't been for the fickle finger of fate random.org. I'm still a little suspicious in the face of what looks like a non-intuitive blend of ingredients, but let's roll with it.

The prep: The recipe calls for small "Japanese-style" aubergines, which the local Sri Lankan corner shop is happy to provide. Otherwise it's all standard stuff. The most daunting part is, once again, the sheer amount of washing-up there's going to be afterwards - two bowls, a frying pan and a saucepan at the very least, and all for some poxy aubergines in yoghurt. This had better not be shit.

The making: The aubergines are sliced into rounds, tossed in turmeric, salt and chilli powder, and fried until soft and glowing. Anjum says, "You may have to do this in two batches". I say, "You will have to do this in two batches unless you own a frying pan the size of a garden table." The aubergines are then left to drain on some kitchen paper.

Plain yoghurt is beaten with some sugar and chilli powder, then added to a saucepan. And that's where the problems begin. "Heat, stirring, over a low heat until warm" is the next instruction. Even on a very careful heat, though, the yoghurt promptly does what yoghurt does and curdles.

That can't be good

At this point, I should really pull the emergency cord, go out and get some more yoghurt and try again. But the slicing and frying of the aubergines has already taken long enough, so I plough on instead - it's not going to taste bad as such, it's just going to look awful, and I'm only cooking for myself today so I can deal with that.

After five minutes of further yoghurt destruction in the guise of "heating", the aubergine is added along with some ground cumin seeds and chopped coriander. The whole thing is cooked for another minute then taken off the heat, then a last spoonful or two of (mercifully intact) yoghurt is added before the dish is served.

The eating: Flexing my turd-polishing muscles, I decide to make a loose effort at presenting the resulting mess in an attractive manner.

(ish)

Unfortunately, with curdled yoghurt clinging unappealingly to every last slice of the aubergine, my enthusiasm for the eating process is lacking. The combination of flavours is a strange one anyway, with the sugar, yoghurt and spices not really gelling like they ought to. Texture-wise it's a similar story - it feels like eating lots of component parts rather than a coherent meal, and the yoghurt seems to overwhelm the aubergine without really adding much to the dish beyond unnecessary richness.

Moreover, with every bite my brain keeps screaming you're eating curdled yoghurt, you moron. No dish can recover from that.

I'm not convinced I'd have enjoyed it any more if things had gone right, though - like I say, the other flavours and textures are peculiar too (even the ones that are supposed to be like that...). Anjum describes the dish as "mild and creamy but confident and versatile". I'd have gone with "cloyingly sweet and overly rich and just a bit weird really".

Reader, I must be honest with you: I did not clear my plate, I did throw away the rest, and I will not be making this again even without accompanying dairy disasters.

One-word verdict:

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.