Week 19: Vegetables For One

The book: The Microwave Gourmet (Barbara Kafka)

The recipe: p277, "Vegetables For One"

Barbara Kafka is trying to ruin my life. It's the only possible explanation.

This week in Randomville, we make a regrettably swift return to The Microwave Gourmet, where any hopes of encountering something more tangible than Apple Butter are duly stomped on. Page 277 is the first page of a section entitled "Main Course Vegetables". As Babs herself puts it: "It isn't just vegetarians who from time to time relish making a meal out of vegetables." Hard to argue with that, right? And having just got back from a holiday where my diet consisted primarily of crisps, Cruzcampo Sin and Smash, the prospect of something fresh and healthy is a fairly enticing one.

What's more debatable is her definition of the word "meal".

I say that because this week's random pick is a dish called "Vegetables For One". Not even How To Boil An Egg would dare to come up with so demoralising a name. It conjures up visions of frozen ready meals placed on the Iceland checkout belt as, defeated in life, you try your hardest not to make eye contact with anyone around you.

Good start, then. On closer inspection, however, "Vegetables For One" turns out to be a culinary revelation, combining tasty produce with a unique... oh wait, no, it's just a load of vegetables microwaved for five minutes.

 

I'm not even kidding. The "recipe" (I use the word loosely) requires you to prepare and assemble assorted vegetables of your choice in a microwave-friendly dish, top them with assorted herbs of your choice, then zap them for five minutes on high. And that's basically it. Even the dots of butter are "optional".

And Barbara Kafka has the nerve to call this a main course. "Vegetables For One". Served with a garnish of salty, anguished tears.

*sigh* Fine. The random gods have spoken. Let's do this, I suppose.

The prep: The feng shui-like simplicity of "Vegetables For One" would obviously be compromised by anything as useful as a list of actual ingredients, so I'm left to interpret the "assorted vegetables" as I please. In her defence, Barbara does add a footnote about which vegetables are "slower-cooking" (carrots, green beans, red cabbage, broccoli florets, cauliflower florets, peas, mange-touts, cherry tomatoes) and which are "quick-cooking" (asparagus, red onions or spring onions, mushrooms, courgettes, red and green peppers). Not that that narrows it down much. We're talking about some very different flavours here.

Still, with our pretentious organic veg box delivery having arrived the same morning, I have no shortage of options, so I decide to go with some celery, red pepper, Swiss chard, carrots and mushrooms. Should be a tasty enough combination.

Similarly, Barbara offers very little guidance when it comes to the seasoning, satisfying herself with "2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh herbs, such as basil, chives, dill, parsley or tarragon". Again, those are not the same thing, Barbara. Using chives is going to give you a pretty different outcome to the one you'd get from a Scandinavian suffision of dill. I'm starting to think the author might not have my best interests at heart here. Regardless, I go with basil and parsley, mainly because they're among the few things Lewisham Sainsbury's hasn't run out of by the time I get there just before closing.

The making: The "trimmed, peeled and sliced" vegetables are arranged in a pie dish "with slower-cooking vegetables towards the outside". The chopped herbs are scattered across the top, salt and pepper are added and - because I'm feeling especially daring - the whole thing is garnished with the "optional" dots of unsalted butter.

The dish is then tightly wrapped in microwave cling film and cooked on full power for five minutes. On establishing that this hasn't really achieved much on the "cooking" front, I blast it for another two minutes. Then another two minutes. Then I give up. This is evidently how it's supposed to be, and who am I to argue?

Let's play a little game of spot the difference. Here's "Vegetables For One" before being cooked:

 
Here it is after being cooked:

And here it is, lovingly plated up:

Nope, me neither.

I had been naïvely wondering if the microwaving process would release some kind of magic, but it really is just some undercooked vegetables and herbs on a plate. Swimming in some watery butter.

I am fucking furious with you right now, Barbara.

The eating: Here's another thing I find particularly bizarre about this "recipe": there's no serving suggestion. At no point are we told that these underwhelming vegetables might go well with rice, or pasta, or even some crusty bread. It seems like we're just expected to eat them as is. So I do. Where this cookbook is concerned, I'm determined to take things as literally as possible, because it deserves nothing more.

Quoth Babs: "There is no simpler way to satisfy a craving for a dish of crunchy, assorted fresh vegetables, with absolutely no work involved."

Well, you could try not microwaving them in the first place, for all the difference it makes. And of course "Vegetables For One" is simple, because this isn't even a recipe.  

IT'S JUST SOME BUTTERED, SLIGHTLY SOFTENED VEGETABLES ON A PLATE. 

I mean, it's quite nice to eat, because the vegetables were nice in the first place, and I suppose it's weirdly reassuring to know that I can use the microwave to quickly make an inferior version of a side dish masquerading as a main course. But really, why is this even a thing? Barbara might as well have written "if you have any vegetables, blast them for about five minutes on full power then see if they're done or not". Even with the most generous of interpretations, this is a cooking tip, not a recipe. I am utterly bemused.

The front cover of my edition of The Microwave Gourmet features a quote from Jane Grigson describing it as "an extraordinary, comprehensive book". I'm only now starting to realise that "extraordinary" doesn't have to be a compliment.

One-word verdict: Vegetables...?

Week 18: Mozzarella & Parma Ham Wrapped Chicken with Roasted Tomatoes

The book: My patterned recipe folder

The recipe: no. 8, "Mozzarella & Parma Ham Wrapped Chicken with Roasted Tomatoes" (Bitchbuzz)

These are my trusty recipe folders.

They are home to the multitude of recipes I've printed out from the internet, been given by other people, snipped out of magazines and newspapers, and so on.

Specifically, the green one contains recipes from friends (because green is a friendly colour!), the red one contains curry recipes (because red is a hot colour!), and the patterned one contains everything else (because that was the other folder in the set of three from WHSmith!).

Despite not being actual cookbooks, I thought they deserved to be part of the Random Kitchen project all the same. While they do house quite a lot of things I've cooked before (I wouldn't keep a recipe without being fundamentally interested in it, after all), there are still plenty of recipes that remain thoroughly unexplored - "this looks interesting, let's print it out then forget about it for seven years!" - and plenty of old favourites that I haven't dug out for a while.

The latter category is where we end up today. I've made this one before (even for visitors). It's hardly reinventing the wheel - anyone can wrap a bit of meat in some other meat and stick it in the oven - but it's a really nice simple dinner and one that, frankly, we could use after last week's Spiced Cucumber debacle, so...

The prep: There's very little I actually have in stock for this one, so a supermarket sweep is required for some chicken, mozzarella, basil, prosciutto and cherry tomatoes.

I'm even out of olive oil, so actually pretty much the only thing I don't have to buy for this recipe is the seasoning. Totes worth the outlay though.

The making: This is the point where I normally talk in vague terms without referencing specific quantities or quoting the ingredients and method directly, because copyright and stuff. But the beauty of recipes from the internet is... they're from the internet. Which means I can share the full joy with you here. Let's celebrate!

"This is supposed to be some kind of prize...?"

This week's recipe, then, can be found right here. Yes, it really is from a website called Bitchbuzz (now defunct, apparently).

As you can see, two chicken breasts are essentially used as the meaty bread of a mozzarella sandwich. (Mmmm, meaty bread.) The mozzarella-stuffed chicken is then wrapped in basil-stuffed slices of Parma ham (or proscuitto, or whatever you can get really) and perched atop a bed of sliced courgette and not-sliced cherry tomatoes.

Lashings of olive oil plus some garlic, salt and pepper are added to proceedings, et voilà:

It really is that straightforward. Recipe ain't lying when it talks about "minimal effort". Into the oven it goes, and 35 minutes later we have an easy evening meal on our hands. Hurrah! But what about the end result?

The eating: Well, obviously it's ace. It's chicken, mozzarella, basil, Parma ham, oil and lovely fresh-tasting veg - what's not to like? The roasting process really brings out the best in the courgettes and tomatoes, and the wrapper o' meat means the chicken is lovely and succulent too.

As you can see, the recipe recommends serving this with buttered new potatoes. This would very much be an error. Oil, chicken and the veg mean there's lots of lovely juices swimming around the bottom of the roasting tin, so mashed potato is clearly the only way to go.

Oh, and a slice or two of Hovis to mop up the leftover juices once we're done, because we're northern.

So there you have it. On the one hand, this week's Random Kitchen choice has confirmed something I'd long suspected from my years of Eurovision blogging, namely that it's a lot harder to write interestingly about positive experiences than proper actual hilarious disasters. On the other hand, it's nice to actually get to eat some proper food for a change.

One-word verdict: Smashing.

Week 17: Spiced Cucumber

The book: Riverford Farm Cook Book

The recipe: p153, "Spiced Cucumber"

Being middle-class, reasonably adventurous and immeasurably lazy, I'd been meaning to sign up for one of those organic veg box schemes for a while, so when a charming Lucía Pérez lookalike turned up on my doorstep and extolled the virtues of Riverford to me, I was easily persuaded. It's been a good investment - yes, it's a bit wanky and more expensive than supermarket produce, but it's also better (I never realised that courgettes could actually taste of something), it makes us eat more healthily, and it's led to some entertaining moments of "what actually is this vegetable and what am I supposed to do with it?".

That's where the Riverford Farm Cook Book, a "free" gift with my subscription, comes in. It's packed with veggie recipes - some of which I've even used - but also plenty of photos, essays on food growing and general explanations of how to prepare and use the various fruit and veg that Riverford produces on its various farms in the UK and (whisper it quietly) further afield. Which goes some way to explaining why the random number generator had such trouble settling on something actually usable this week. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: *clicks "Generate" button*
Sam: That's just a picture of some blackberries.
Me: *clicks "Generate" button*
Sam: That's just a description of what Jerusalem artichokes are.
Me: *clicks "Generate" button*
Sam: That's just a courgette.
Me: *clicks "Generate" button*
Sam: That's just a description of some herbs.
Me: *clicks "Generate" button*
Sam: That's just a list of ideas of things to do with Brussels sprouts.

...and so on. Anyway, we got to a page with an actual recipe in the end, though (spoiler alert) I'd soon be wishing we hadn't. "Spiced Cucumber" may not be the most obvious combination of words, but it at least sounded like it could be ploughing the same furrow as the Chinese "salad" from a couple of months back. Sadly, I don't think I'm giving too much away by saying that it... wasn't.

The prep: With a bountiful supply of rice vinegar, caster sugar, sesame oil, groundnut oil, dried red chillies and salt in my cupboards (not a euphemism) (or if so, a remarkably contrived one), all I have to buy is the cucumbers. The recipe calls for "3 small or 2 large"; Lewisham Market can give me "5 stonking for £1". Sorted.

The making: The cucumbers are cut lengthways into quarters, deseeded, then sliced into 2cm pieces before being covered with no less than four teaspoons of salt.

Unlike in many of Madhur's recipes, though, it does serve a purpose: the bowl is left to stand for several hours, during which time the salt draws much of the water out of the cucumber. The magic of nature, there.

Salty water duly discarded, the cucumber is combined with a generous lug of Chinese rice vinegar and some caster sugar. Next, sesame oil and oil oil is heated in a small saucepan and several chopped and deseeded dried red chillies are sizzled for the briefest of moments. The recipe warns me to take care or else they might burn; they do get a bit blacker than they ought to, but not to the extent that I need to have a second go. I'm not quite sure why we're using dried chillies, though, when deseeding fresh ones is much easier and the damn things would be far less likely to burn instantly on contact with hot oil. Oh well.

Anyway, the chilli-infused oil is poured over the cucumber/vinegar/sugar mix and the whole thing is stirred together to attractive effect:

This goldfish bowl of yums is then left to stand "for at least 6 hours or overnight in the fridge". I go for the latter, if only because this has taken hours already and I'm not staying up until the middle of the night just to eat some marinated cucumber.

The eating: OK, let's get one thing straight here: the recipe does mention that "the longer you leave it the hotter the chilli flavour becomes". That's all well and good. But I haven't even used the maximum number of "according to taste" chillies here, and the thing is still prohibitively hot. The problem is that's all it tastes of. Cucumber and hot. There's a hint of interesting sweetness from the sesame oil, but otherwise it's just the gloopy viscosity of one of the world's less interesting vegetables paired with the flat dullness of dried chilli, and I don't see how less time in the fridge (or less chilli) could improve it in any way.

I give it a second chance a few minutes later, just in case my initial impression was a little hasty and my tastebuds needed time to get used to the concept, but no: still awful.

Aaaaand into the bin it goes.

They know what's what.

By this point, you might be wondering what the intent behind a dish like this could possibly be. The suggestion in the Riverford book proudly reads thus: "Serve as an accompaniment, or as a canapé with cocktail sticks for spearing the pieces." Seriously. If you served me this as a canapé, I'd turn on my heel and leave immediately. After spearing you in the eye with a cocktail stick. And burning your house down, just to be on the safe side.

I cannot stress how much this recipe upsets me. It truly is a terrible, terrible creation.

One-word verdict: Apocalyptic.

Week 16: Steak, Mushroom and Guinness Pie

The book: Deeply Delicious (WeightWatchers)

The recipe: p103, "Steak, Mushroom and Guinness Pie"

Insofar as one of the stated purposes of the Random Kitchen was to make my culinary output less repetitive, I hadn't reckoned with the possibility that my cookbooks might actually be... well, you know, quite repetitive. With the collection including dedicated Indian, Chinese and soup cookbooks, I was anticipating a few similar dishes during the 52 weeks of this silly project, but even I was a little taken aback when random.org's choice for Week 16 turned out to be yet another variation on a theme of pie.

Now don't get me wrong:

And at least this one promises to be a little different thanks to the book it comes from. Deeply Delicious is a WeightWatchers publication that falls firmly into the "why do I own this?" category. If I were to un-rhetoricalise that question, the answer would be something like "it was cheap in the WHSmith sale a few years ago, back before I'd worked out that you kind of also need to move a bit if you want to lose weight". Whereas nowadays, thanks in part to parkrun, a modestly used gym membership and abstention from booze, I've got a better grasp of the "calories in/out" equation and can quite happily dangle the prospect of MOAR MINI EGGS in front of my mind's eye whenever I need inspiration to get and remain active. Whatever works for you, right?

Anyway, for all I may have bought it with good intentions, I have never made anything from this book before. Page corners have been turned down in anticipation, but that's all. And even if we've been in pie and pastry territory before, I'm curious to see how the WeightWatchers ethos of good health can be applied to something as seemingly incompatible as beef, ale and a layer of JusRol.

The prep: In terms of what isn't already in the house, the recipe calls for lean stewing steak (which I'm more than happy to shell out for) and sage (which I'm less happy about since I'm unlikely to use it again any time soon, but what the heck). Veg-wise, the presence of two whole onions, two sticks of celery and a punnet of button mushrooms goes some way to explaining how things are going to stay WeightWatchers-friendly here - lots of bulking out with low-calorie filler.

(Hang on, is it even called a punnet when it's not for strawberries?)

The only other thing that needs buying in is the ale, namely a bottle of the black stuff. (If your instinctive response to that sentence is "You can't drink a pint of Bovril!", we're going to get along just fine.) The recipe demands a mere 150ml of Guinness, which poses something of a logistical dilemma: I don't drink and Sam's no big fan of beer, so the remaining 350ml or so is obviously going to sit in the fridge until it gets chucked out along with the half-bottle of prosecco, the less-than-half-bottle of white wine and whatever other dregs and leftovers are lurking in there. But so be it; I'm already buying a load of sage I don't need, so I can live with some beer that'll get tipped down the sink when we get back from holiday and wonder what that smell is.

The making: This being WeightWatchers, oil is out and "low fat cooking spray" (really, no hyphen?) is in. That's fine in principle; I have a can of that one-cal stuff that I use on occasion, it's just that this isn't necessarily the right occasion. Softening the veg (onions, celery and a carrot, plus the sage) in the oil-and-water spray is fine, but I have to add a splash of actual oil to get the mushrooms going at all, and browning the cubed steak after it's been rolled in flour requires a proper glug of the stuff otherwise (a) the pan would just burn and (b) we could be here all night, frankly.

Between that and the extra pastry I'm going to end up using, the "ProPoints values per recipe: 33 | calories per serving: 330" dream is officially dead. :-(

At no point does the recipe ask me to actually mix the ingredients together in the casserole dish that will be their home for the next two hours, so I assemble layers of the onion/celery/carrot mix, the softened button mushrooms and the browned steak before pouring over some beef stock and the Guinness.

The oven has been heating up to a slow-cooker temperature of 150 degrees in the meantime, and that's where the casserole sits for the required cooking time, with occasional stirring to finally encourage mingling between the aforementioned food strata. Once the two hours are up, a trusty covering of JusRol is placed atop the filling, "a little skimmed milk" (that'll be the key to losing those pounds) is applied via careful brush strokes, a steam-valve slit is cut into the pastry topping, and back into the oven it goes for another 20 minutes or so "until risen and golden".

Et voilà: one healthy (but not that healthy) pot pie. Slice and enjoy.

The national flag of my kind of country

The eating: Not going to lie, this is pretty sweet. Obviously it's just a pie, so I shan't waste your time describing what the eating experience involves, other than to relay Sam's grumbles at frequently biting into a mushroom when he was expecting steak. A metaphor for life, there.

The WeightWatchers concessions aren't noticeably detrimental to the dish - if anything, the lean meat and modest use of oil means the filling isn't overly liquid, which makes it a whole lot easier to serve, albeit a bit less sinful - and while the slow cooking is obviously time-consuming, it's necessary in order to persuade the lean beef to become sufficiently succulent in a way that simmering on the hob wouldn't quite achieve. 

While the simplicity of the recipe means the output probably depends largely on the quality of the input (not that I splashed out on organic butcher-grade meat here, but I didn't penny-pinch either), I make this kind of thing rarely enough that the novelty value alone is enough to outweigh the lack of surprises on my plate. And you can always make it a bit naughtier by using more than the required 100g of puff pastry because you've got some leftovers in the freezer (purely as a hypothetical example, you understand) without entirely destroying the healthy intentions.

I wouldn't mind something properly different next week though. Where are the desserts, for one thing? Randomness needs to start getting a whole lot more random.

One-word verdict: "Healthy".

Week 15: Pan-fried Liver with Tomatoes

The book: Good Housekeeping New Step-by-Step Cookbook

The recipe: p190, "Pan-fried Liver with Tomatoes"

Liver! Can the supermarket shelves boast a more polarising foodstuff? A supply-stretcher from the days of wartime rationing that somehow clung on as a kitchen staple long into my childhood, the overcooked boot leather we were served up at primary school was surely one of the main reasons I begged my parents to let me take a packed lunch instead. (At least until middle school, when I realised I could squirrel away most of the dinner money they were giving me and subsist on two packets of Space Raiders, but that's a different matter.)

Cooked right, of course, liver can be a whole lot more palatable, and I have very occasionally returned to it in the meantime - this Hairy Bikers recipe does a good job of hiding the worst characteristics of the ingredient, mainly by masking them with bacon - but I can't claim to ever get much of a craving for it. Perhaps I should, because apparently it's a superfood nowadays (though what isn't?). But let's be honest, it's a bit icky and disgusting too, at least when you allow yourself to think hard enough about what it is you're actually consuming.

Still, the random finger of fate points where it will, and so today we turn to the second Good Housekeeping recipe book in my collection - they're quite similar in content and the other one is newer and pwettier, but this one has been with me since my immediate post-student days and taught me how to make a good solid shepherd's pie, so I'm loath to throw it out.

I find myself almost wishing I had done when this week's choice turns out to be the unimaginatively named "Pan-fried Liver with Tomatoes" - particularly since the pages on either side would have offered up minted lamb burgers and roast pork loin respectively. Damn you, fate! But oh well. You don't win anything on the lottery just because your numbers are one out, so there's nothing else for me to do but scrunch up that losing ticket, sigh wistfully, and get my offal on.

 

The prep: One of the few saving graces of liver is that it's incredibly cheap. (Another is "at least it's not kidneys".) The recipe calls for lamb's liver; I have a feeling I may have picked up calves' liver by mistake, but there tends not to be a massive difference once it's been cooked to any degree of edibility, so hey.

And since we're already making compromises, I can't justify buying a whole bottle of the requisite Marsala or sweet sherry solely for the sake of marinating some liver, so I substitute in the Shaohsing rice wine from several weeks ago, mixed with some soft brown sugar to temper the sharpness. After all, it's still going to taste offal (arf!) at the end of the day.

Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary is called for here (tomatoes, onions, some ground ginger because why not) - although it does take a bit of effort to source lamb stock cubes, which is surprising. Are they out of fashion? Were they ever in fashion?

The making: The recipe doesn't mention washing and patting dry the liver, but I do that first because otherwise it'd be even more disgusting. 

What the recipe does mention is slicing the liver into "wafer-thin strips". 

Even with the sharpest of knives, I would contend that liver does not have the kind of consistency to allow for anything approaching wafer-like accuracy, but either way "reasonably thin chunks" will have to do. 

These are then left to marinate in the faux Marsala for a couple of hours.

♫ Feels like I'm flying, like if I had dinners
Like I am sailing on a sea of innards ♫

Once we're ready to go, three medium-sized tomatoes are peeled (Sarah, you were right; skinning tomatoes is easy when you do it properly), quartered, de-seeded and sliced. The onions also get the slicing treatment before being fried in the oil along with a pinch of ginger for five minutes. I'm already sold on the ginger thing at this point - it gives a nice bouncy kick to proceedings that I can tell will help to offset the potential blandness of the liver.

Next, the onions are set aside and the liver is added to the pan and fried until nicely sealed. Then the tomatoes, the set-aside onions and the elusive lamb stock are added, and the whole lot is brought to the boil and bubbled down until the mixture thickens into something broadly approaching a sauce. 

Even then, the contents of the frying pan never really become a coherent whole - not for the first time in the Random Kitchen project, this ends up being less a dish, more a bunch of ingredients in close proximity to each other.

The recipe says "Serve with noodles." Piffle. Just as the internet is for porn and I am for dance, a saucy liver dish is for mashed potato. Plus some roasted broccoli for good measure. (Robin, roasted broccoli is the dog's brassica. Oil, garlic and pepper, 20 minutes or so until nicely browned at the edges, bam.)

The eating: Sam's natural scepticism concerning the texture of liver (which I share up to a point) is tempered by the decently tasty accompaniment - not for nothing is "liver and onions" the accepted way of serving/distracting from the foodstuff in question, while the tartness of the tomato, ginger and rice wine "gravy" makes firm friends with the mash.

Even after several hours of marinating, the texture of the liver still pervades the whole meal, of course - but as a cheap, filling and really quite quick and straightforward evening meal, if you can cope with the truth of offal in the first place then this really isn't a bad effort at all.

I remain firmly Team Hairy Bikers when it comes to the additional bacon thing, though - I may have taught myself to enjoy liver, but I'm not daft.

One-word verdict: Acceptable.

Week 14: Goan-style Dal Curry

The book: Curry Easy (Madhur Jaffrey)

The recipe: p191, "Goan-style Dal Curry"

I was up at my parents' in Newcastle this weekend just gone, but tempted as I was to subject them to the whims of the Random Kitchen, our dinner plans were set in stone - Gosforth Chippy on Saturday (as it must be) and Red Mezze on Sunday - so it wasn't until Monday night that I let the finger of fate do its worst.

It's back to Curry Easy this week, and after our adventures in yoghurt and pineapple a few weeks ago, I'm pleased to report that it's something closer to an actual meal this time. Or at least a component thereof, depending on your legume tolerance.

I've already mentioned that Madhur's moong dal is one of my go-to recipes, and I'm a big fan of the humble lentil in a curry context, so this looks like it might be an interesting one. Closer inspection of the ingredients and method, however, make it clear that this is essentially another variant on a theme of "boil some lentils into submission, make a tadka, stir in and serve". There's quite a lot of that in Curry Easy. Or, to put it another way:

Oh well. There was always a risk this project would involve something I'd made before, or at least something suspiciously similar, and the results should be decent enough since I already have an idea of what will be coming out the other side. So let's go!

The prep: Our cupboards are not short of lentils, grains and the like. The recipe for this Goan-style curry calls for red lentils, but Madhur explains in the introduction that moong dal can be used instead or mixed half and half. Since we've got both in stock, I go for a nice colourful mixture.

I have to pop out and get some fresh coriander and ginger, but otherwise it's all very standard store-cupboard stuff for any curry aficionado - being both a lazybones and a cheapskate, I guess that's precisely why I end up eating so many vegetarian curries for lunch... 

The making: The red lentils and moong dal are placed in a medium pan with 700ml of water, which is brought to the boil. The inevitable scum (mmm, tasty scum) is skimmed from the top, then a good 40 minutes of slow, slow simmering follows.

Once the lentils have absorbed the water and are nice and creamy-looking, two chopped tomatoes are added (the recipe calls for them to be peeled too; I may have enough time on my hands to write this self-indulgent blog, but there isn't enough time in the world to make me want to spend it peeling tomatoes, so: fuck that), along with Madhur-esque quantities of salt (like last time, I used a bit less), a good half-teaspoon of cayenne pepper and - I think it's fair to say - a not insubstantial amount of coriander.

European coriander mountain

The mixture is then simmered for another 10 minutes before being taken off the heat and left to thicken a bit.

Meanwhile, brown mustard seeds and cumin seeds are fried in oil in a medium-sized frying pan, then a chopped onion and a small handful of curry leaves are added. Once the onion is browning nicely, garlic and ginger are added, stirred, and fried briefly. Then the contents of the frying pan are stirred through the lentil mixture - and our filling Goan-style lentil dish is ready to roll.

Ez a dal

"Serve with rice and some fish", Madhur says, so I oblige. Microwave pilau and a dusted sole fillet from Iceland probably aren't quite what she had in mind, but we're all about fusion cuisine in this household.

The eating: As I said, I'm predisposed towards a good lentil curry anyway, but this is a winner. It has all the warming heartiness of a regular tarka dal or moong dal, but the blandness that those dishes can suffer from is swiftly banished by the aggressive kick of the cayenne pepper, a hint of acidic zing from the tomatoes and a generally more well-rounded flavour thanks to the curry leaves, toasted seeds and coriander. I wonder which of those elements makes it specifically "Goan-style"? I'm ignorant and it's never fully explained in Curry Easy, which is a bit of a shame.

Either way, while I'm still not convinced this merits its own separate entry in the book - one or two dal recipes would suffice; half a dozen similar ones are overkill - it's definitely the best variant I've found in there yet, so I'll be going straight back to page 191 the next time a dish like this is called for. Which, in this household, tends to be quite often.

Reader, I ate the leftovers for breakfast. That's how good it was.

One-word verdict: Moreish.

Week 13: Microwave Apple Butter

The book: The Microwave Gourmet (Barbara Kafka)

The recipe: p399, "Apple Butter"

Ah, The Microwave Gourmet. "The definitive microwave cookbook", as it claims on the front cover. I've been waiting for this one to come up. I can't quite remember why it's even in my collection, to be honest - some combination of late-night blog surfing, a £0.01 + P&P price on Amazon and an itchy mouse finger, no doubt - but here it is, gloriously untouched and poised to deliver some wonderful shortcuts to an easy and delicious meal.

The cover also quotes Jane Grigson describing it as "an extraordinary, comprehensive book", and in many respects she's not wrong - as well as the recipes, there are huge sections on how best to prepare, defrost and cook individual ingredients in the microwave, the different kinds of dishes and containers used in the recipes, even the best way to arrange your food to ensure it's cooked evenly.

If this all sounds like it's aimed at people who've never used a microwave before, it's worth bearing in mind that the book was originally published in the late 1980s, so that probably isn't too far from the truth. The date also means that what the book repeatedly describes as "100%" microwave power turns out to be 700W, a slightly puny figure by today's standards. Worth remembering before inadvertently zapping your apples on 1000W.

Did I say apples? Yes, yes I did. Naturally, the random number generator chooses to ignore all of the beef stews, risottos, fish dishes and other delights elsewhere in the book, instead taking us to the "Jams & ..." section and lumbering us with this week's selection: Apple Butter.

Apple Butter?

I mean, I don't even know what those two words are doing next to each other, although Barbara Kafka (let's just take a moment to appreciate that name, by the way - I don't know what she looks like but I'm imagining an even more severe Judge Judy) relates a childhood tale about making it "on American Indian day at summer camp", so I'm guessing it's something our friends from across the pond will be more familiar with.

In any case, the recipe quickly makes it clear that we're essentially talking about a spiced apple sauce, give or take. My last encounter with this particular food group was when I had a nasty stomach bug last summer and ended up subsisting on white bread buns and apple sauce all week (great weight loss tip, FWIW). Today I'm going to go a little classier and use this as an excuse to dig some pork loin chops out of the freezer. We'll see just how Kafkaesque things get from here on.

The prep: The main ingredient, funnily enough, is apples. Bramleys, to be specific. Other than that, the recipe calls for two types of sugar - dark brown and caster - plus various spices, namely cinnamon, allspice, cloves and nutmeg. I only have to buy one of these specially for the occasion, which is saying something considering how rarely I ever need to use the others. 

I may not be missing many ingredients, but here's an unexpected hitch: at one point the method requires me to uncover the dish and pass the contents "through the medium disc of a food mill". I genuinely have no idea what this means, but a bit of creative googling suggests that anything that'll squish the mixture into a purée-like consistency will do. I briefly consider using a potato ricer before realising the food processor would make a lot more sense (albeit probably offering less in the way of anecdote value further down the line).

The making: First up, four big Bramley apples are cut into chunks. The recipe doesn't require them to be peeled or cored first - I assume the magical food mill would take care of any extraneous parts - but I figure we don't really want that stuff messing up our "butter", so out it goes. The apples are then mixed with the sugars and spices and placed in a dish. A "27.5 x 21 x 10 cm" dish, specifically. I don't know how big American microwaves are, but that is not going to happen here, and so:

If you're thinking it looks like I've just assembled the contents of a marginally more savoury apple crumble... well, you'd be right. A tight covering of microwave-friendly cling film is added and we're ready to go.

After 15 minutes in the microwave at "100%", the contents are blitzed to a halfway smooth consistency in the food processor. Can you guess what apples, dark sugar and dark spices look like after they've been in a blender for a while?

 
That's right: disgusting.

Another 10 minutes at "100%" and our apple butter (ahem) is ready to be decanted into jars, or indeed smeared all over some heavily cut-price pork from the local Tesco Express (three cheers for shop staff with poor inventory management skills!).

The eating: Actually, once you get past the visuals and the consistency, this recipe makes a lot of sense. It basically takes boring old apple sauce and adds some interesting dark wintry spices and complex flavours without detracting too much from the fundamental sweetness (hardly surprising since there's 190 grams of sugar in here, but hey).

It does go well with pork, as you'd expect, but it remains the lowlight of a plate involving broad beans, roasted broccoli and spuds - and it's certainly the least attractive component in terms of presentation:

#slop

While it still beats opening a jar of supermarket apple sauce, if the purpose of The Microwave Gourmet is to make life easier, I don't see how this is substantially better than just using a pan on a low heat like a normal person. It certainly is quicker - Kafka bemoans the lengthy cooking and stirring required in the original version, whereas this is done and dusted in barely half an hour - but the traditional process would likely give a richer and more caramelised flavour to the sauce, there's just as much washing-up to do afterwards, and what should be convenient ends up still feeling like quite a faff.

Judgement on the book as a whole, however, will be reserved until the finger of fate points to something that's more like an actual recipe I'd ever consider making.

One-word verdict: