Lockdown Edition Week 16: Turkey Chappali Kebabs, Thin Rice Noodles with Brussels Sprouts, Peshawar Red Pepper Chutney, Thin Raw Onion Rings

The book: Curry Easy (Madhur Jaffrey)

The recipe: p101, "Turkey Chappali Kebabs"; p220, "Thin Rice Noodles with Brussels Sprouts"; p238, "Peshawar Red Pepper Chutney"; p236, "Thin Raw Onion Rings"

Blimey, that post title is a bit of a mouthful, isn't it? But there's method in the madness. Kind of.

You see, random.org does a perfectly good job this week in choosing "Curry Easy" - it's nice to be firmly back in Madhur territory, even if her rice did accompany a non-Madhur curry quite recently - but the recipe it then lands on, "Thin Rice Noodles with Brussels Sprouts", feels like a bit too much like a side dish to stand on its own two feet.

So we try a further spin of the wheel, which brings us to "Turkey Chappali Kebabs". (If you're as clueless as I am, Wikipedia is here to help.) I'm initially concerned that this may involve components that Lewisham Asda will struggle to furnish:

...but thankfully the leaves and sticks and lemons such are just a serving suggestion - or at least they're not mentioned anywhere in the recipe on the opposing page - so this one seems like a goer. I'm not sure it'll necessarily go with the noodle side dish, but hey, life's fun when you mix and match?

Speaking of what it might go with, on closer reading of Madhur's blurb for the turkey kebabs, I notice a recommendation that I serve them with two accompaniments: a spicy chutney and some prepared sliced onions. I've ignored Madhur's instructions on salt quantities often enough that I feel I owe her one, and so I find myself gearing up to make no fewer than four different things for this week's blog. Ho hum.

Not that they're all of equal difficulty. You'll enjoy the recipe for "Thin Raw Onion Rings", for example:

Well, I mean... sure? I probably didn't need that to take up a whole half-page of a book I paid good money for, but there we are.

The prep: Ingredient-wise, even with four dishes to juggle (well, three dishes and some onions), there's nothing too complex here. The various herbs and spices I don't already own can largely be procured from the aforementioned Asda; I end up sacrificing fresh curry leaves for dried (and, conversely, dried chillies for fresh), but that won't be a problem. No issues finding turkey mince, either, albeit I can't fulfil Madhur's request of "preferably a mixture of light and dark meat" - going by the fat content, at least, this is on the light side. Which is healthier, but also more likely to become dry when cooked in kebab form, I guess?

I'm a little concerned that sourcing Brussels sprouts in July will be troublesome (not that it's a deal-breaker, since Madhur notes that shredded cabbage is fine too), but nope: all present and correct at Asda, albeit about five times more expensive than when they're being flogged as a loss leader in the run-up to Christmas.

The only potential sticking point is the thin rice noodles, or "dried rice sticks" as the ingredient list calls them, adding the warning: "(from Thai grocers)". We don't specifically have one of those nearby, but I figure the pan-Asian shop down the Lee High Road will surely come up trumps if necessary. No need, though - the exotic aisle at Asda offers not one but three different types of rice stick for me to choose from. Being rather inexpert in the genre (I've eaten them before, but never made anything with them myself), I plump for the cheapest, because it's as good a criterion as any.

The making: A bit of planning is required here, god forbid. I actually start the night before, since the recipe for the turkey kebabs suggests that letting the flavours mingle for "as long as 24 hours" could be beneficial. Those flavours are yoghurt ("strained", the recipe says; the Greek yoghurt I'm using does not require this treatment, or at least refuses to respond to any efforts to impose it), lightly crushed coriander and cumin seeds, finely chopped fresh mint, crushed red chilli flakes, peeled and grated fresh ginger, and - wait for it - "¾ teaspoon salt, or to taste".

"Or to taste"! It's a Madhur miracle. Quite why this recipe gives me the option of not overloading the dish with salt when nothing else in this book does is beyond me, but I gladly take the opportunity to reduce the quantity by half without risking opprobrium. Anyway, all of the above having been mixed in with the turkey mince, it's time to cover it up and let it sit in the fridge overnight. After which time it looks predictably delightful.

The actual cooking part begins with the cold components, which means thinly slicing an onion and plunging it into a bowl of icy water (read: literally some water with ice cubes in it) for half an hour.

These half-rings of onion will later be drained and squeezed dry, which you're going to have to imagine for yourself without photographic evidence. I suspect you'll manage.

I then make the chutney, which is a fairly straightforward matter. Red pepper, mint leaves, lemon juice, roughly chopped garlic, cayenne pepper, salt and black pepper are put into a blender "in the order listed", Madhur insists for some reason. She doesn't say that I should blend them as I add them, though, so:

Only now am I told to blend it all, still none the wiser as to what the order was all about, before adding some slivered almonds and blending again. "Until smooth", Madhur says. This is a bit of a problem for my old Kenwood, whose blade isn't really made for tasks like this. Still, I'm good with a chunky chutney, so I complete the last step - stirring through some chopped fresh dill, because apparently that couldn't possibly have been thrown in the food processor with everything else - and the end result looks... well, chunky, yes, but certainly flavoursome.

I then return to the kebabs - or the turkey burgers, as they basically are. I say that because the next step involves taking my meat mixture and dividing it into six flattened patties before frying them on each side. So, yeah - pretty burger-like. The recipe requires them to be cooked entirely in the frying pan, but I need to get my noodles going too and multi-tasking seems like a terrible idea, so I brown them a little...

...then pop them into the oven on a low-to-medium heat to slowly cook while I get to work on my self-imposed side dish.

It's the description of the noodles as a "south Indian-style dish" that makes me finally twig that Madhur is essentially replicating the idiyappam or "string hoppers" you sometimes get at the mighty Everest Curry King, just without the need for obscure ingredients. The Thai rice sticks are longer and thicker than their Sri Lankan/south Indian counterparts, admittedly, but this is partially resolved in a rudimentary manner: by soaking them in water then using kitchen scissors to "snip the noodles into manageable lengths".

Manageable enough, I guess?

The Brussels sprouts are then trimmed, cut in half lengthways, then cut crossways into thin-ish shreds. If you're finding that hard to imagine, boy, do I have the picture for you!

See

That done, I fire up a heavy-bottomed wok and heat some oil. The first ingredient to go in is an unexpected one. "You will notice that a little raw rice is used here as a seasoning", Madhur says. I do notice that, and I find it a bit odd. Still, it's supposed to add a bit of nuttiness to the dish, and after five seconds in hot oil it just looks like any other spice or seed really. That's when I add mustard seeds and some fresh whole green chillies that I've slit lengthways, followed by the dried curry leaves and the chopped-up sprouts. These are stir-fried for five mnutes or until "lightly browned".

Browning in progress

I then add 120ml of water, lower the heat and cook everything for a minute, before adding the drained rice noodles and - yes! - a whole teaspoon of salt. (Madhur, never change.) This all gets stir-fried for a few minutes before yet more water is added, even though the noodles are already pretty soft from being soaked for hours. Hmm. It feels like this might all end up being quite claggy, but then maybe that's the point, I'm not sure? (Oh, I should mention that I've discarded the chillies by this point, since they've served their purpose flavour-wise and no one needs the unexpected surprise of biting into one.)

Either way, once all of that water is more or less absorbed/evaporated and the wok is full of a sticky but pleasant-smelling mess, the kebabs come back out of the oven and I'm ready to serve up! 

The eating: "You may even put this kebab in a hamburger bun, along with the onion rings and either a good squirt of lemon juice or some tomato ketchup," Madhur says. Since I may, I do. Or rather, I've discovered two brutally cheap white burger buns in the freezer - so I give us one bebunned kebab and one non-bebunned kebab each, as that also seems like a fair way of finding out which works best.

Oh, and rather than ketchup or lemon juice, I put some of the red pepper chutney that I've made into the burger bun, because otherwise what was the point of recommending that I make it? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The rest of the chutney and the surplus onions are served on the side (i.e. they're not pictured here; you'll have to use your imagination again).

Now, obviously that's not exactly a hugely elegant plate - the bun/non-bun combo makes it look rather lopsided, and the soggy noodles (you can practically hear how they splatted onto the plate, can't you?) aren't exactly the obvious companion for the more fast food-y turkey kebabs. You'll have to forgive me.

Don't waste too much of your forgiveness, though, because the meal itself is lovely. I mean, just really, really good. The 24 hours in the fridge have done the turkey kebabs the world of good; the flavours are deep and pleasing, and the addition of some yoghurt prevents the meat from being too dry, even after being finished off slowly in the oven. Meanwhile, the noodles are flavourful without being overly spicy, with the nuttiness of the Brussels sprouts and the almost buttery slipperiness of the rice sticks combining to fine effect.

The chutney has a nice kick to it and a complex flavour; nothing outstanding as such, but that might be because I didn't blend it smoothly enough. It's a good addition either way, though.

The only thing that's a bit pointless is the onions, which don't really taste any less sharp than, well, normal unsoaked onions. So that wasn't especially worth the bother. Still, no harm done (other than to the tea towel I had to squeeze them in).

But generally speaking, it's two thumbs up for Madhur this time round. Not only would I happily make the turkey kebabs and the sprouty noodles again, I actually already have done the noodles a second time, using up the rest of the packet of rice sticks with some cabbage that was still in the fridge from last week's veg box. (It didn't work quite as well; cabbage is less flavourful and more watery in the first place, which I think may have been the main issue. Either that or there just wasn't the surprise element of it actually tasting nice...)

In any case, I'm calling this one a bit of a triumph. And I managed to publish this entire post without Blogger deciding to delete it for no good reason. Celebrate!

Two-word verdict: Spot on.

Lockdown Edition Week 15: Baked Custard with Macerated Fruit

Thursday and still no Random Kitchen post? Well, therein lies a tale.

I'd written the text as usual and was just adding some photos, I hit ctrl-Z to undo a photo I'd put in the wrong place, for some reason that deleted the entire blog text too... and then Blogger decided to choose precisely that moment to execute a non-recoverable autosave.

Which is not just a source of deep frustration, but a pity too.

If Blogger hadn't decided to delete my post, I'd have told you all about the recipe for "Baked Custard with Macerated Blackcurrants" from the Riverford Farm Cook Book, which you can also read online. I'd have detailed my suspicions about the term "baked custard" (much like "grilled cheese", it feels like it's missing something) - and, of course, the word "macerated", which just sounds a bit grim.

You'd have heard about my inability to locate blackcurrants in the Lewisham/Deptford area and my decision to go with a vaguely cobbled-together alternative that would probably work okay despite not really being the same thing at all:

I mean, purple fruit is purple fruit, right?

I'd have told you about the other compromises I made along the way, including substituting the required "crème de cassis or brandy" for some fairly potent Alcohol Of Some Description that a friend brought back from Kosovo...

Ainsley pictured for scale

...and, erm, accidentally using granulated sugar instead of caster sugar. Not so much a compromise as a cock-up, that one.

Managed to fish out about 40% of the granulated and replace it with caster though, so, you know. Could be worse.

I'd have told you how pleased I was to realise I owned a roasting tin big enough to serve as a bain marie for a "23cm gratin dish":

And I'd have shown you the epic old-school ruler I used to make sure the water in my mahoosive bain marie was deep enough.

Eddie, this one's for you

I'd definitely have shared the pleasant sight of curds being strained out of the custard.

(Also those bubbles can't be ideal)

You'd have enjoyed my growing scepticism about the 50-minute oven time prescribed by the recipe; then again, it specifically says the custard should be cooked "until just set", with nothing about it being brown on top or anything else, so I can only assume that this:

...and this:

...are how it was supposed to be, as unappealing as it looked.

Then I'd have talked about the berries and how I macerated them two ways (one with Kosovo grog, one without):

And we'd have ended up with some badly-presented slop in a bowl, because that never ever happens in the Random Kitchen.

You might have been puzzled to learn that Riverford's visitors "often tell us this the best thing they have ever eaten", given that it's just some overly creamy, barely set custard with some slightly soggy fruit on top. I certainly was. It tasted nice, of course, but it was hardly luxurious.

So much so, in fact, that the next day I popped the leftovers into the oven for an extra half an hour at a higher heat.

That's a bit more like it

As well as looking more attractive, the baked custard, now being actually baked to some extent, also held its shape when being served up this time. Speaking of serving, I just used unmacerated fruit second time round - we didn't feel like the alcohol added anything much to proceedings (though that might be because I was using the wrong berries and some freaking weird alcohol).

And as if that wasn't enough, I could have told you all about the third attempt I made. (There were ingredients left over and I don't have much use for double cream, despite Novelli's best efforts.)

This time I decided to use individual ramekins (well, Gü dessert jars) in the hope this might lead to a more set dessert. They still required the full 50 minutes to look vaguely done, and even then, my oven conspired to cook them unequally - thinking about it, this may go some way to explaining some of my less successful baking efforts...

As for the congratulations and macerations, to quote the recipe, "It also works with ... raspberries as well." That's fortunate, because I was all out of purple berries by this stage. Instead, I warmed some raspberries with some sugar and let them get squishy as per the recipe, and they did indeed work rather well on top as a tangy counterpoint to the rich custard.

(Looks a bit like I've just poured a tin of chopped tomatoes over the whole thing, but what can you do?)

The flavour was still a bit meh, to be honest - I think I'm learning that I just prefer sugar to cream, perhaps because I'm northern and cheap - but this was definitely the most successful execution of the three and made for a perfectly satisfactory dessert.

And so it would have been nice to tell you all about it.

But I can't, because Blogger swallowed my post whole.

Three-word verdict: Screw you, Blogger.

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.