Lockdown Edition Week 14: Pancakes

The book: How To Boil An Egg (Jan Arkless)

The recipe: p183, "Pancakes"

Yes, just "Pancakes".

Here's the thing about randomness. It doesn't care whether you're in the mood for something exciting, something exotic, something Italian involving seafood that's still alive at the point of purchase. If the wheel of fortune wants to land on How To Boil An Egg, and if, within that, it chooses to avoid the old-fashioned but more involved propositions on the surrounding pages (case in point: the "Crunchy Cream Pie" involving Angel Delight and crushed digestive biscuits) in favour of "Pancakes"... well, then all I can do is endeavour to turn it into bloggable content. Somehow.

In defence of Ms. Arkless, I'm pretty sure I've referred to exactly this page when making pancakes in the past. Her book remains a useful starting point for the absolute kitchen novice, as it did when I first wrote about it, and it's hardly her fault if page 183 is lacking on the excitement front.

Besides, it could have been worse.

(Perhaps I was too quick to defend Ms. Arkless after all.)

Anyway, the pancake "recipe" mentions the obligatory lemon and sugar topping, but it also points us in the direction of the "Omelette and Pancake Fillings" section on pages 30-31.

This seems like a good opportunity to spice things up a little (not literally, of course; spices would be far too exotic for Jan) and select one savoury filling and one sweet filling at random.

Even here, the finger of fate lets us down: we could be enjoying asparagus, cheese, honey and walnut, bramble jelly (or, erm, "herbs" - thrilling), but instead we end up with "Tomato" from the left-hand page and "Fruit" from the right-hand page. Cheers, random.org.

Fine. Let's just get on with it, shall we?

The prep: Jan says we can use fresh fruit, but for that full 1986 effect, I'm using a tin of peaches that's been sat in the cupboard since the last no-deal Brexit supermarket stockpile (which reminds me, must get in the queue for a November delivery slot).

Eggs are in plentiful supply because I've been on a bit of a Swedish baking kick lately, while the tomatoes come from this week's veg box and are probably too good for this purpose - but hey, a bit of luxury never hurt anyone. (Gout sufferers may disagree.)

The making: Are you expecting me to actually tell you how to make pancake batter? It's flour, milk and an egg, you whisk it, it remains lump-free (ideally). Jan even spares us the pinch of salt you find in many other pancake recipes. Why go crazy?

Preparing the fillings at least requires a little more effort, but only a little. The tomatoes and peaches are sliced...

...and then I follow Jan's detailed instructions by frying the tomatoes "in a little oil or fat" and keeping them hot until required.

This being done, it's time to make some pancakes! Jan wants me to grease the pan with "oil or lard - not butter". You won't be surprised to learn that I go for the first option. (I did consider buying some lard for sheer old-school authenticity, but I would have had absolutely no use for it beyond this recipe and that seems a bit wasteful, so there we go. Isn't it a pleasing word to say out loud though? Lard. Larrrrrrrrrd.)

The frying and tossing process is complicated by an ancient IKEA fish slice losing its remaining structural integrity partway through...

...but we get there eventually, and Miniature Ainsley is delighted.

Fillings are added in turn and... nope, I just can't conjure up any more words to describe making pancakes and rolling them up with stuff inside them. Sorry.

The eating: This is what it comes down to, right? We all know how to make pancakes and slice up a few basic ingredients, but how do the minimalist (to the point of frugal) fillings suggested by How To Boil An Egg stack up in terms of actual enjoyment?

The fried tomato variant, while simple, is OK. It'd benefit from some cheese, of course (as most things would), but at no point does Jan suggest actually combining her suggested fillings, so plain tomato it is. And yeah. It's fine. Sam even goes so far as to venture that most glowing of praise, "it doesn't not work...?".

Miniature Ainsley can scarcely conceal his excitement

The tinned peach variant, however, is a big ol' lumpy pile of "meh". In hindsight, following the tomato approach and heating the peach slices first to activate the sugars a bit might have been an idea (albeit an idea Jan failed to mention) - at room temperature inside a warm pancake, it's just a bit underwhelming and tasteless.

Which was to be expected, I suppose: there's no ambition here beyond "equip your home-leaver with the skills to make basic food without burning down the kitchen in their student halls", and in that respect at least, it's a case of "job done". From looking at Amazon, it seems like the updated edition of How To Be An Egg does aim a little higher in places - witness the mentions of such concepts as "hoisin" and "tabbouleh"! - but a search within the pages shows that the "Tomato" and "Fruit" fillings still use exactly the same wording as they did in 1986. I suppose it's reassuring that some things never change.

There's enough batter for two more pancakes. We do them with ham and cheese. They're much better.

Two-word verdict: Brutally rudimentary.

Lockdown Edition Week 13: Ginger Chicken with Coconut Rice

The book: Ainsley Harriott's Meals In Minutes

The recipe: p114, "Ginger Chicken with Coconut Rice"

While The Random Kitchen is ultimately a self-indulgent little project, I'm grateful to have acquired a modestly sized but surprisingly fervent base of readers who have consistently engaged with my ups and downs, made the right "eww" noises at my terrible photographs, peer-pressured me into making meringue swans, and occasionally even donated me their ridiculous cookbooks. I've come to expect and greatly appreciate the entertaining and funny comments I get every time I share one of these blogs on my socials.

What I never expected was for an anonymous reader to send me a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ainsley Harriott.

Well, I say anonymous. The targeted misspelling of my name on the delivery label, plus the fact that a 40th birthday party I attended in the not too distant past involved Sir Cliff Richard in cardboard cut-out form, meant I had a strong suspicion.

A WhatsApp exchange followed:

(If you heard that reply in this voice, you're not the only one.)

What can I say? Apparently this household is now home to a cardboard Ainsley, the man whose every contents page launches a thousand bad quips.

I wouldn't mind, but there's even a mini-Ainsley to sit on the kitchen worktop and observe my every move.

I reiterate what I said on WhatsApp: for fuck's sake.

Anyway. For all it arrived a few weeks ago, I think it's only right that I waited until the next encounter with Meals In Minutes before unleashing the full Ainsley on this blog. Even if this recipe isn't really the "full" Ainsley - it has a sensible name, for a start. But honestly, in a week when I have to try and explain the presence of a giant fucking Ainsley Harriott in my house, I'm glad to have a fairly straightforward recipe to blog about...

The prep: I had a sense of déjà vu when reading the recipe for "Ginger Chicken and Coconut Rice" (seriously? not even "Nutty Chick 'n' Ginger"?), until a spot of targeted searching made me realise I was thinking of the Sichuan Orange Beef recipe from the original Random Kitchen, which also involved mushrooms, oranges, spring onions and some unnecessary garnishes. (Spoiler alert.)

Technically I'm allowed to veto anything that's too similar - no point in blogging the same stuff twice - but the fact that this is a chicken dish already satisfies the "different enough" criterion, so on we go.

The main compromise I'm going to have to make here is that the recipe calls for skin-on chicken breasts, and getting hold of them at Lewisham Asda proves surprisingly difficult, by which I mean impossible. I feel like the skin would up the "authentically oriental" score of this dish - not that it's claiming to be authentic, but the ingredients at least suggest we're looking in that general direction - so it's a shame, but skinless will have to do. Healthier, at least, innit?

Other than that, most of what I need is already in the house. The recipe calls for two bunches of salad onions (honestly, is there a more useless measure than the "bunch"?), but I think the colourful single bunch that was in the veg box this week should be substantial enough:

Lewisham Asda does at least provide me with a block of creamed coconut from its mighty "Jamaican/Indian/Polish/preserved lemons" aisle of randomness. Meanwhile, I'm usually lazy when it comes to ginger (the stuff from a jar is fine for most purposes), but since it's actually in the title here, I figure I should buy fresh. Even if my bits of ginger root do look unnervingly like potatoes.

The making: You're going to enjoy the first instruction here. Are you ready? Here we go: "Heat the oil in a frying pan and cook the chicken, skin-side down, for 2-3 minutes on each side until golden brown."

Cook the chicken skin-side down. On each side. Good good.

Anyway, my breasts are skinless so it's a moot point. Having browned my breasts, they go into an ovenproof dish and I mix together the marinade-slash-sauce, which involves honey, soy sauce, crushed garlic, grated ginger, and the grated rind and juice of an orange. For a while, this doesn't look like it's going to turn out terribly well...

...but we get there in the end, more or less.

This is then poured over the chicken, and into the oven it goes. There is "basting" involved later in the process, which is a bit surprising considering how little liquid there appears to be here:

...but there we go. After ten minutes in the oven, I remove the dish and add some halved button mushrooms and the salad onions, "trimmed and halved". Hard to say what exactly is meant by "halved" here - lengthways, I guess? The photo accompanying the recipe suggests that we might actually be talking crossways, but that seems a bit excessive given my onions are quite substantial, so I compromise on this:

Seems all right. There's not really enough room in the dish for me to successfully baste the chicken, onions and 225g of mushrooms with what is a minimal amount of liquid anyway, but I do my best and back into the oven it goes.

In the meantime, I make the coconut rice. Like so often recently, this involves a rice-to-water ratio that I'm not entirely happy with - just 400ml of water for 200g of long-grain rice - and when a good amount of that water boils off in the time it takes for the creamed coconut to dissolve, I'm forced to improvise a little. The end result (with just "12-15 minutes" as the required cooking time) manages to be simultaneously sticky/squishy and a little al dente, which is an impressive and not altogether pleasant combination.

Still, it's good enough, and that means it's time to assemble the finished dish. Which I think I've done:

...until I remember the "garnish": orange wedges and bay leaves.

Well, okay. I find garnish to be a fairly useless concept anyway - you'll have noticed over the years that food presentation isn't exactly my strong point - but sprinkling on something actively inedible like bay leaves seems especially superfluous. Still, rules are rules, so on they go and it's time for us to wolf down this meal in minutes, in minutes.

The eating: It's not particularly coherent, which is to be expected given it's just some chicken, mushrooms and spring onions bound together with a tiny bit of sauce and a lot of hope. But the combination of sweet and savoury flavours - coconut and orange on the one hand, garlic and soy on the other - is nice enough.

And it looks quite pretty in a jumbled kind of way (though my colourful onions help a lot there).

I'm expecting a lot more of a ginger kick, given it's actually named in the title and Ainsley's blurb promises that "the delicious smells coming from the oven once this is on the go will drive your family's tastebud wild". There's nothing especially wildness-inducing here - it's a well-balanced flavour, but that's all. I suspect a 2020 cookbook would be a lot braver on the flavour front than this 1998 tome - we're probably bit more used to punchy flavours being front and centre nowadays, and that's a problem I keep encountering in this blog generally, and where 90s Ainsley is concerned specifically.

And, yes, the orange wedges and bay leaves serve no discernible purpose.

Still, not a bad effort. My miniature worktop Ainsley gets a little pat on the head for this one, but it's not quite nice enough for me to show his big brother any love. I'm still too busy working out what the hell I'm going to do with him...

Three-word verdict: Tastier than cardboard.

Lockdown Edition Week 12: Tomato & Okra Curry and Rice Pilaf with Almonds & Sultanas

The books: My red recipe folder; Curry Easy (Madhur Jaffrey)

The recipes: no. 12, "Tomato & Okra Curry"; p203, "Rice Pilaf with Almonds & Sultanas"

Typing the words "Lockdown Edition" for the twelfth time got me to thinking. A friend recently said he felt lockdown was essentially over now that he'd booked a hair appointment for a few weeks' time. And I totally get that sentiment. With the beaches overcrowded and people being encouraged to visit everywhere from the pub to Primark, it's hard to act like we're in full-on crisis mode even as the virus persists. But for me, as long as there's still no parkrun, no organised running generally, no theatre, no concerts, no stress-free foreign travel - all the things that make life more than just a slog in service of capitalism, in other words - as long as that's the case, "lockdown" as I choose to define it continues, and so does this silly little blog.

And it continues with a double feature, no less. Because the random wheel of fortune landed on a curry recipe from one of the folders of "stuff I've downloaded from the internet/been recommended by friends", I spontaneously decided to also randomise the side dish by picking a page from within the "Rice & Other Grains" section of Madhur Jaffrey's Curry Easy. That could have seen me making my own chapatis or parathas from scratch - fun! - but instead it's a fairly straightforward rice side to accompany a tomato and okra curry that was originally sent my way by a friend from a football forum, of all things.

What this means is Week 12 is not just vegetarian-friendly but, if you remove the little bit of butter the recipe calls for (and I tend to prefer to do that anyway), vegan-friendly too. Makes a nice change after all that duck, chicken and fish. And while the rice recipe remains under Madhur-shaped copyright, the curry comes from off of the internet so you can even read along at home if you want to - though I did have to use archive.org to retrieve the original page. It was actually quite nice to read it again after so long, since I only printed out the recipe part at the time, and not the accompanying blog post (so much for blogger solidarity). Although I note the latter section does contain the line "I think rice tends to make vegetable curries boring". Oh. Well, moving on...

The prep: The recipe calls for six tomatoes, and this week's Riverford veg box has kindly given me exactly that to work with.

The almonds and sultanas I need for Madhur's rice pilaf are still in plentiful supply following my adventures in aubergine a few weeks ago, and while the okra for the curry does require a trip to one of the Sri Lankan shops on Loampit Hill whose two-metre distancing policy is basically the owner shouting at you if you come in when you shouldn't, that's a good excuse to stock up on gloriously unhealthy snacks while I'm there.

With most of the other ingredients being store cupboard staples for any curry-friendly household, all that remains is for me to judge exactly what constitutes a "good handful" of coriander. People have different-sized hands, after all.

Ah sod it, let's just use it all

The making: Being from a blog rather than a recipe book, the somewhat casual nature of the ingredients list for the curry is also reflected in the method. It's almost like having to recreate a dish based on a Random Kitchen post. Which could be a blog in itself, if anyone else is bored on lockdown...

I start by halving a large onion and chopping one half into crescents and the other into "rough chunks".

The crescents of onion go into a big saucepan and are softened in a little oil. While that happens, it's time to make a curry paste (of sorts). This I do by putting the chunks of onion in a blender along with some garlic, bird's eye chillies, ginger, and the stalks from my "handful" of coriander. This all gets whizzed up before a glug of olive oil is added along with some ground coriander, cumin and turmeric. While it's hardly a classy method, it can't be faulted for speed and very soon I have a paste of sorts, albeit one that is looking rather coriander-heavy.

It's not easy being green

Maybe my hands are on the big side, I don't know. Anyway, coriander is awesome, so I see no real issue here.

This paste is added to the softened onions, as are some cardamom pods, and the spices are "cooked out". I sort of know what that means without actually knowing. Basically I'm looking for them to release their fragrance. Which they duly do over the next five minutes or so - though (as the recipe suggests) I add some extra oil, as otherwise the fragrance would be less "aromatic spice paste" and more "burnt stuff".

At this point, I add a tin of tomatoes - the recipe just says "plum tomatoes", but context suggests to me that they should be chopped - plus 400ml of water. This is brought to the boil, sea salt is added, then it's time for me to carefully add the fresh tomatoes. These go in whole, and that's how they'll stay. I find this a really interesting idea, even if it does look a bit... odd.

While that simmers away, I prepare the rice. This is beautifully straightforward. Having soaked some brown basmati rice, I briefly fry (in turn) a small cinnamon stick, some half-rings of onion, some finely sliced almonds and some sultanas. The drained rice is then added and stirred through, along with some water and ('twas ever thus) considerably less salt than Madhur wants me to use.

Once this mixture is brought to the boil, it's left to cook on a super low heat with the lid on - no need for crumpled greaseproof paper here, Novelli - and that is literally it. The water (and, subsequently, steam) does the rest, with the occasional stir just to make sure that nothing's sticking, and the result is some lovely plump grains of rice. Well, plump by basmati standards, anyway.

Back to the curry, then. With 20 minutes to go, it's time to add the okra, which I've chopped into inch-long pieces (or thereabouts). At this point, the recipe says: "Remove the lid if the sauce needs to thicken a little / add a touch more water if necessary."

Mm, incoherent floaty stuff

You can probably guess which of these instructions I follow; the lid duly comes off for the entire last 20 minutes. Even then, it still looks a bit liquid-heavy - it smells great, though, so if nothing else we're talking liquid with tons of flavour.

The final step improves matters, fortunately: a teaspoon of garam masala is stirred through, as are the coriander leaves whose stalks I used in the curry paste earlier. This has the effect of thickening and fleshing out the curry right at the very last minute - although I'm still glad to have made plenty of rice to mop it all up with.

Serving suggestion: Pair with some underwhelming supermarket "Indian" "starters" you found at the back of the freezer earlier today.

The eating: My main thought while making the curry was "crikey, that's a lot of coriander". The sheer herb overload of the paste, the big handful of leaves that got stirred through at the end - I thought it might end up overpowering the dish. Instead, the coriander and the spice combination works really well against the sharpness of the tomatoes, and the end result is a veggie curry with a really deep and punchy flavour. Although that punchiness could also be due to the bird's eye chillies. This is definitely a dish with a kick to it, albeit one that's controlled enough to be absorbed by the rice.

Speaking of which, the pilaf turns out to be a good addition, with the almond and sultana sweetness doing some useful work against the heat and tang of the curry.

And what of the whole tomatoes? They're supposed to be "softish, but still hold their shape". I wouldn't quite go that far - even with a careful stir, adding the coriander has also caused the tomatoes to start disintegrating a little - but there's still plenty of intact tomato flesh in there. I'd go so far as to say it gives the curry a certain "meatiness" that can be lacking in vegetable curries (ha ha, yes, I know - I mean texturally!). And I suppose that'd be even more the case if I'd gone with unchopped plum tomatoes too.

It's a curry, it was never going to look elegant

There's a little dissent within the household for once - Sam thinks this is a nice enough meal but not something he'd go out of his way to order in a restaurant, say, whereas I'd be quite happy if you served this up to me and charged decent money for it. Making it all the more satisfying that (being meat-free) this is a super cheap eat. A little oil aside, it's also reasonably healthy. Well, depending on what you serve it with, obviously.

All in all, then, it's a good week for my recipe folders and even reliable old Madhur. I'm getting better at not messing up rice, and the humble tomato gets to enjoy its moment in the limelight. Solid work, everybody.

Two-word verdict: Deceptively decent.

Lockdown Edition Week 11: Late Piquant 'Minute' Chicken

The book: Everyday Novelli (Jean-Christophe Novelli)

The recipe: p182, "Late Piquant 'Minute' Chicken"

It's Novelli time!

Jean-Christophe Novelli occupies a curious status within the Random Kitchen canon. The gods of randomness have only required me to make one of his recipes to date (a sloppy but broadly acceptable aubergine hummus). Despite this, my most-read posts by far are the original introductory piece on Everyday Novelli and - inevitably - the meringue swan saga to which I subjected myself as the swansong (ba-dum-tish) of the original run of this blog.

I can only conclude that either people are stumbling across my Novelli posts having googled this book because they find it every bit as ridiculous as I do, or my small but dedicated base of readers keep coming back to revisit my agony over and over again. Both seem perfectly plausible, making me glad that 2020 has given us a Novelli encounter fairly early in proceedings (well, I suppose Week 11 isn't that early, but we all know Lockdown Time doesn't follow normal rules).

Disappointingly, the recipe itself looks like it might be quite sensible. It's essentially a chicken and rice dish, with a (very!) long list of ingredients but nothing too outlandish. So I'm delighted to report that there's plenty of Novelli nonsense to unpack along the way.

It starts with the Ainsley-esque opaqueness of the title - at no point is the "late" explained, and it's a good thing there are sceptical quotation marks around the word "minute", because it turns out this is going to take 45 of them.

And then there's the introduction:

I realise I haven't explained anything about how this dish is made yet, but at the risk of spoilers, here are some initial observations:

• This recipe does not "create" stock which can be "served with" rice; it requires the reader to cook rice in stock. Which is a completely different thing.
  
• Sure, home cooking means not waiting for food delivery, but in this case you do have to spend the better part of an hour in the kitchen making the thing.
• This recipe is not "quicker to make than any takeaway recipe" for the simple reason that you do not MAKE a takeaway recipe, because THAT IS THE WHOLE POINT OF ORDERING A TAKEAWAY.
• "Make sure you use a jumbo cucumber."

Does Novelli actually read the recipes before writing the accompanying blurb? Does Novelli even write the accompanying blurb? Can anyone recommend a proofreader? Fuck's sake.

Anyway, onward, with a growing sense of dread...

The prep: As I said, the ingredient list is long and imposing (I count no fewer than 23 items), but not actually too problematic. With a few exceptions, everything is either already in my cupboards or readily available nearby. I decide to substitute freshly grated nutmeg for powdered, since a pinch is all that's required, and some well-chopped sundried tomatoes will have to do instead of sundried tomato purée. Meanwhile, fresh thyme is something that Lewisham Asda isn't prepared to provide on this occasion, but I'm not trekking to the shopping centre for the sake of a fragrant twig.

Elsewhere on the herb front, there's a request for "50g fresh mixed herbs (e.g. tarragon, parsley and coriander)". That non-committal "e.g." is marvellous, isn't it? I do like a chef who goes to the trouble to create a recipe but isn't especially bothered about what you chuck in there at the end. Oh well - I can rustle up some fresh parsley and coriander, and I'm even adding some dried tarragon for the heck of it.

There's also this:

Wait a minute. Four gherkins? What happened to "Make sure you use a jumbo cucumber"? Am I supposed to use... four jumbo cucumbers? Is the jumbo cucumber exhortation entirely unconnected to the recipe and merely meant for my entertainment? This is deeply confusing. But given we've established that the author of the introductory text shows no sign of having ever actually read or made the recipe, I opt for four regular-sized gherkins after all. (Sorry, jumbo cucumber fans.)

And with that, we're ready to roll!

Some of the stars of the show

The making: I start by preparing the rice. This involves sweating a chopped onion in olive oil for a few minutes then stirring in the rice along with a bay leaf, some thyme and the aforementioned nutmeg. Once stirred, stock is added - 450ml for 300g of rice, which feels a bit on the measly side, but we'll see - whereupon Novelli strikes again with the following instruction:

"Cover the pan with crumpled greaseproof paper, which acts as a lid but by allowing steam to escape it stops the rice from burning."

I mean, sure. You know what else acts as a lid but allows steam to escape?

That's right: A LID WITH A HOLE IN IT.

Sigh. Fine, okay, let's waste some perfectly good greaseproof paper by turning it into a makeshift pan lid, then. Why not. I'm not even sure I'm interpreting the phrasing correctly, but at least it looks quite interesting:

The rice is then left to cook over a very low heat "for 20-30 minutes or until the stock has been absorbed into the rice". The stock is absorbed into the rice pretty darned quickly (largely because there's not much stock there to begin with), but extensive use of the techniques for basmati contained in Curry Easy has taught me that Madhur Jaffrey likes a slow and steamy finish...

...and if it's good enough for Madhur, it's good enough for me. Indeed, the rice does steam itself to a very pleasant consistency in the end - though it still needs some stirring to avert the burning that I was assured the crumpled paper "lid" would prevent. Almost like it was a ridiculous idea in the first place.

In the meantime, I slice four chicken breasts "into 3cm pieces" (length? width? height? who knows), then sauté some garlic in a frying pan for a minute before throwing in a bay leaf and some more thyme.

"When the pan is hot" - it's hot already, J-C, you literally just told me to sauté some stuff in it - I add the chicken and cook it over a moderate heat "for 2 minutes to seal it". ("Minute" chicken indeed.)

The next step is to stir in all of the ingredients in the world. That means some tomato purée, chopped sundried tomatoes, 200g of mushrooms (halved), the juice of a lemon, some caster sugar, some English mustard, an entire teaspoon (!) of Tabasco (I suppose the titular "piquant" had to come from somewhere), and the sliced non-jumbo gherkins.

Oh, and this:

Reader, what's your first reaction on seeing the phrase "1 litre double cream" in a recipe for a chicken and rice dinner? It's probably quite similar to mine:

That cannot possibly be right, can it? Four chicken breasts, a handful of mushrooms and a litre of double cream? It must be a misprint, though I can't work out how. Even supposing it is meant to be that way (is the "flavoursome stock" of the blurb actually referring to a shit-ton of cream?), I apply an immediate veto if only for the sake of my arteries. A 250ml tub of double cream is my absolute maximum here, and even then, I cautiously start with half a tub before going any further.

In the end, I come to the conclusion that the dish can probably cope with the full 250ml - it'll be rich, but not ridiculously so - and end up with this:

See, that's a decent amount of liquid, isn't it? Looks about right for chicken and sauce, yeah? Now imagine it with another three tubs of double cream in there.

I can't even.

Disaster averted one way or another, all that remains is to stir in the vaguely defined herbs then serve up some spoonfuls of this creamy, chicken-y goodness on a bed of the rice.

The eating: Let's not beat around the bush. I've been quite mean to old Jean-Christophe in this post, and not without reason - but this is actually good.

I was a little sceptical when the recipe didn't ask me to do any more simmering after the stirring-in stage - surely the mushrooms would still be basically raw, never mind the inside of the chicken - but actually, there are so many things to stir in that it takes a few minutes to get it all mixed together, and that's enough to finish cooking what needs to be cooked.

And the end result is a seriously nice little dinner.

It's a bit simpler than the endless ingredient list suggests it's going to be, I have to say. The flavour combination of tomatoes, gherkins and tabasco almost gives it a hamburger relish vibe, which makes it feel a bit like student food (albeit seriously pimped-up student food). The tabasco kick is just about right, though - good thing it didn't get diluted through four times as much cream.

And speaking of the cream, I reckon you could happily use low-fat crème fraîche here without compromising on the decadence too much. That's exactly what I'll try when I make it again. (But still only 250ml of the stuff.)

Other than evoking the taste of chicken shop burger sauce, I'm not quite sure what "takeaway recipe" Novelli is trying to replicate here, nor am I any the wiser as to what makes this "late" - is it meant to be a late-night feast? Has anyone ever got a solid night's sleep with that much cream inside them?

But putting aside the usual bullshit that inevitably comes with a trip through the pages of Everyday Novelli, it's a fairly straightforward process that delivers a satisfying punch at the end of it. Hurrah!

In conclusion, then: This is a really tasty recipe provided you apply common sense, use a normal pan lid like a normal person, and - most crucially of all - IGNORE EVERYTHING JEAN-CHRISTOPHE NOVELLI EVER SAYS.

Two-word verdict: Stupid. Good.

Lockdown Edition Week 10: Streusel Cake

The book: Swedish Cakes and Cookies (Sju sorters kakor)

The recipe: p32, "Streusel Cake"

During the original Random Kitchen, I dedicated an entire post to this particular book only for it to stubbornly refuse to be chosen even once during the entire project. (How rude.) It's a pleasing bit of timing, then, that we're finally all set to visit the world of Swedish baking just as I'm busy working my way through a lockdown care package from the marvellous Scandinavian Kitchen.

Except we're not. Because, and there are no two ways around this: the randomly chosen recipe this week is German. That's not just food snobbery. Sometimes known as a crumb cake on account of its crumbly topping, Streuselkuchen is unquestionably and undeniably a German speciality. Now, it's true that this book only claims to contain the recipes you need for a perfect Swedish fika, not that they're all Swedish in origin. So while I'm disappointed not to be doling out the pärlsocker just yet, we'll just have to make do with something from slightly further afield.

Even if it's something I already know isn't going to be especially interesting. Or interesting at all, really. Granted, Streuselkuchen is occasionally my cake of choice when life happens to plop me down at the counter of a German bakery, but ideally one with fruit in - apple or some berries, say - to add a bit of much-needed texture and moisture. This particular variant is resolutely fruit-free and looks about as rudimentary as they come.

I wouldn't mind, but the recipe comes from the "Yeast Breads" chapter of the book, which features such genuine Swedish favourites as saffron buns, cinnamon rolls, and even the magnificent seasonal semlor. Still, that's the nature of the random project. And don't worry - there'll still be plenty for me to write about...

The prep: While the aforementioned care package mainly comprised crispbreads, chocolate, various fish products and the obligatory salt liquorice, the Great Flour Shortage of 2020 was still recent enough for me to add a bag of actual Swedish flour to my order. Which means big authenticity points:

Other than that, well, I said the recipe was rudimentary and I wasn't kidding - beyond stocking up on chopped almonds, there's nothing I need to buy here. Which is good, because it means less of a waste of money when things all go wrong.

The making: Milk and butter are heated to the very specific temperature of "37°C, or 45°C if using active dry yeast", which I am. This fine distinction is somewhat arbitrary considering I don't own a food thermometer, but hey - it's not like the temperature is going to be perfectly accurate by the time it all gets mixed together anyway, so I decide to apply a rule of thumb (or rather, forefinger) in judging what constitutes luke-warm liquid for this particular purpose. This may prove to be an error.

The recipe then asks me to crumble in the yeast and dissolve it in the warm milk and butter mixture. The crumbling implies this instruction is for fresh yeast, but it doesn't tell me not to stir in my powdered dry yeast at this point, so in it goes. This may prove to be an error.

I then put some flour in a mixing bowl before stirring in a mere two teaspoons of sugar (this really is a "cake" in nominal terms only), a pinch of salt, half an egg, and the milk/butter/yeast combo. The resulting gloopy mixture is kneaded with a wooden spoon "until smooth and elastic". This seems to happen fairly quickly, so I figure that's probably enough kneading for now. This may prove to be an error.

The rest of the flour is then added. The recipe doesn't tell me to knead it in - it doesn't say anything about mixing it in at all, in fact - but I figure I need something that at least resembles dough by the time this stage is done, so I get to work with my knuckles for a minute or two (making sure to wash my hands first, since I've also been making a batch of Canarian mojo sauce - no one needs traces of chilli and coriander in their Streusel).

This is the end result:

Seems to be a dough, so I cover it for an hour and leave it to rise.

At this point, I hear a whisper in my ear. The whisper is a memory. A memory of when I made those white bread rolls a few weeks ago. James Martin required me to knead the dough for ten minutes, see, and even then it didn't rise quite as nicely as I might have liked. Since this is cake base is essentially a bread too, common sense would dictate that this week's dough would benefit from a similar level of attention. But again, the recipe hasn't actively told me to work the dough especially hard, so I decide not to. This may prove to be an error.
 
An hour passes. And whatever the error, be it single or cumulative, the fact is that my dough now looks like this:

Ah. That's... that's the same, isn't it?

Bugger.

At this point it's already fairly clear that this project is destined for failure, but what do we do on Random Kitchen when faced with adversity? That's right, we plough on regardless! And so I "lightly knead" my defiantly unrisen dough into a "round, smooth cake" around nine inches in diameter, then leave it to rise for another half an hour.

Less a cake, more a pancake

Obviously it doesn't rise any further during this time. Not even a bit. Not even when I decide that our kitchen might be a bit on the cool side - because that's the problem here - and pop the baking tray out in the Saturday sunshine for a while (still covered, of course).

Still, I'm determined to see this through no matter what, so I move on to preparing the titular crumb ("Streusel" loosely translates as crumble(s) or sprinkle(s), fact fans). This involves measuring out some dry ingredients in a mixing jug, because Swedish recipes seem to really hate using scales:

This decilitre-and-a-half of flour, sugar and chopped almonds is rubbed into some butter to form the requisite crumb. The "cake" is then brushed with beaten egg and the mixture is sprinkled on top before it goes into the oven.

I may have a cynical demeanour, but deep down inside I'm something of an optimist. As such, I still hold out some hope that the cake might miraculously rise while cooking. And it does! A little. Unfortunately, the stodgy nature of the dough means the prescribed cooking time is now excessive, so I end up with a somewhat scorched Streusel:

Yeah. Quite aside from the burnt bits, the "finished" cake feels about as dense and heavy as it looks. Still, it would make a quite attractive frisbee, or an effective doorstop.

All in all, it's a bit of a disaster. So of course we have to try some.

The eating: We manage about half a slice each, more out of grim curiosity than anything else. The topping actually isn't bad, even the burnt bits - I suppose you can't go too wrong with sugar and butter - but the main body of the cake is a predictably flat, dense and doughy disappointment.

Now, I really hate food waste - I'm a demon for coming up with unlikely meals to use up whatever's left in the fridge, and we're fortunate in having no particular allergies or intolerances to hold us back on that front. But honestly, I don't think even the birds would bother with this, so into the recycling caddy it goes.

Still, it could be worse - at least I've got some bloggable content out of the experience, and... wait, sorry, what's that?

The making: See, here's the thing. I'm a stubborn sod, and while there are many downsides to that tendency, it does mean I'm determined to get this one right. Or at least less wrong. So I give it another try. (The next day. I'm not that keen.)

I won't bore you with the details, suffice it to say that this time I stir the dry yeast into the flour rather than mixing it with the warm liquid, and I knead the dough for a good ten minutes before leaving it to rise. Lo and behold:

That's more like it.

It's still quite flat and shallow by the time I get to the assembly stage, but the end result is decidedly more risen and less burnt. I then take the executive decision to add some icing sugar to make the whole thing look more interesting (well, "less like rubble on toast", at least).

It's still not especially attractive, but there's only so much you can do with what is effectively a flattish bit of bread with some stuff dumped on top.

The eating: The end result remains a bit on the doughy side, but it is a "yeast bread" as much as it is a cake, so that was to be expected. And it's a damn sight better than what I came up with the previous day. Sure, it's far from decadent - you saw what went into it, we're hardly talking luxury ingredients here - but the combination of the buttery crumble topping and the, well, bready base make for a pleasant enough eating experience.

Was it worth making a second time? Probably not, really - we're still working our way through it some days later, and I suspect it's going to feel like a bit of a chore by the time we get to the last few slices. Though it'll probably work quite well heated up and topped with some ice cream. But then most things do.

I'm willing to give Swedish Cakes And Cookies a pass on this one, though - if only because (a) the cake (when made correctly) is perfectly all right really, (b) it's not actually Swedish, and (c) I've made far better things from within the book's pages before. I'll need it to do better next time though. And ideally give me a wee bit more guidance when it comes to how long I should do things for or whether I need to do them at all. You know, little things like that.

Two-word verdict: Acceptable, eventually.