Week 12: Cauliflower Cheese (with Savoy Cabbage) (and Vichy Carrots)

The book: Masterclass (James Martin)

The recipe: p170, "Cauliflower Cheese"

I'm starting to feel like random.org is taunting me. This isn't the first time the finger of fate has landed on a recipe that's directly surrounded by far more tempting options. In the case of Masterclass, we find ourselves in a section of the book containing such delights as a Leek and Brioche Gratin on page 171, Braised Red Cabbage with Roasted Hazelnuts and Pancetta on page 172, or even Chorizo and Chilli Roast Potatoes (zomg) on page 168.

So what do you reckon? Any chance of one of those delicious dishes appearing on our Random Kitchen dinner table this week?

 
Of course not. Instead, it's cauliflower blooming cheese. Don't get me wrong, I like cauliflower cheese. Quite a lot, in fact. It's just that I know how to make it already. Still, James Martin promises his own take on a classic recipe, not to mention a "manageable step-by-step guide" to making the all-important white sauce including my nemesis, the roux - so let's see how this turns out.

The prep: I don't know much about James Martin other than what I've gleaned from watching his Saturday show on mute at the gym, but his cauliflower cheese involves a metric fuckton of cheese and double cream, so he can't be all bad.

The ingredients themselves being fairly standard, the main piece of actual preparation involves peeling a whole onion and using cloves to attach bay leaves to it. There's a place in the Tate Modern for this, surely.

I call it "Allium On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown"

The making: The above work of art is placed in a saucepan with some milk, which is gently heated so as to infuse the flavours of the onion interloper. Meanwhile, it's time to start work on what will hopefully be a lump-free cheese sauce.

The patented James Martin tip for smoothness appears to involve taking the butter and flour mixture off the heat while stirring it together, and only then cooking the resulting roux for a few minutes before gradually adding the infused milk. Not exactly a radical departure, but it seems to work. Or it could just be that I actually have the patience for the "gradually" part of the adding process today. I often don't. That might explain the lumps.

As an aside, the recipe requires that the milk be added "...(having removed the studded onion)". No recipe should ever contain a "having already done xyz" clause. DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO AFTER I SHOULD HAVE DONE IT FFS. *rageface*

But aaaanyway. The white sauce is simmered for a few minutes, then English mustard, nutmeg, a copious helping of double cream and most of the metric fuckton of cheese are added. Stirring, melting and setting aside follow.

Seriously, that's quite a lot of cheese

Next, a large cauliflower is chopped into florets. It's at this point that I realise my Sainsbury's cauli is closer to medium-sized, so I decide to improvise and add a few shredded savoy cabbage leaves to the mix, if only to bulk things out a bit. The veg is then cooked in boiling water "for 1-2 minutes" - hardly seems worth sullying a pan for really. At least there's a minor washing-up saving in that the cauliflower and the sauce are mixed in the baking dish rather than separately. Further cheese is scattered on top, then into the oven it goes.

Scripture tells us that a man cannot live by cauliflower cheese alone (Cheddar 18:4), and since the very same section of Masterclass contains James Martin's take on Vichy Carrots, I decide to go with an impromptu double-header. I tend to braise carrots in mushroom stock for extra flavour - Porcini stock cubes are an indulgent store-cupboard essential, as this 1950s housewife knows - but the simple simmering-down of butter, caster sugar and a splash of boiling water leaves the carrots coated in a no less pleasing, albeit sweet rather than savoury, glaze. Something saltier would probably have made a more effective accompaniment to the cheesy excess of the cauliflower dish, but at least I feel I've made slightly better use of this week's book now.

The eating: The cauliflower cheese (with savoy cabbage) comes out of the oven looking much like cauliflower cheese (with savoy cabbage).

SUPPLIES

With 600ml of milk, 200g of cheese and 150ml of double cream in the sauce alone, never mind the cheese topping, James Martin's version of the dish is a lot sloppier and richer than I would tend to make it. It seems silly quibbling over the health properties of a meal that has "cheese" in its name, but still - it's undoubtedly delicious (how could it not be?) but probably excessive in the grand scheme of things, and the consistency is a bit too liquid for my liking.

The unplanned savoy turns out to be a pretty useful addition in terms of consistency, flavour and - frankly - making the whole thing a bit less mercilessly yellow. Would use again.

And while I'll probably revert to my tried and tested recipe in future, one thing I may well retain from James Martin's book of tricks is the studded onion objet d'art. It adds a subtle complexity to the flavour of the sauce, plus it's fun and silly, which are two of my favourite things.

Next week's recipe really needs to be something a bit more out of the ordinary, though...

One-word verdict: Cheese.

Week 11: Flash-Fried Steak with White Bean Mash

The book: Nigella Express 

The recipe: p140, "Flash-Fried Steak with White Bean Mash" 

With 22 books on the shelf and 52 weeks to fill, it was only a matter of time before we reached our first repeat offender. Nigella Express takes the honours, having previously supplied us with a nice but insubstantial salad on a wintry afternoon when something warm and filling was called for.

The latest random.org offering seems more promising in that respect, and the "Express" part of the book's name is certainly front and centre here - Nigella vows "the perfect almost-instant dinner ... under five minutes ... from start to finish".

I never do anything involving steak at home because it's pretty expensive and I'm scared of fucking it up, frankly. Overcooking the veg is one thing, incinerating a £5 cut of beef is quite another. Still, Nigella's introduction waxes lyrical about recreating a more substantial version of the old-fashioned minute steak, the kind of thing that only needs to be briefly introduced to a frying pan and little more. Surely even I can't get that too badly wrong.

The prep: "Thin-cut sirloin or entrecôte steaks" are the order of the day here. Pleasingly, Lewisham Sainsbury's offers up a two-pack of "Thin-Cut Sirloin Steaks" without hesitation - it's almost as if supermarket product ranges are dictated by the whims of celebrity chefs or something.

The recipe calls for tinned "white beans" - cannellini would seem to fit the bill - and otherwise it's just standard ingredients like olive oil, garlic, a lemon. Oh, wait, and "1 sprig fresh rosemary, optional". It's a good thing it's optional, because on this particular Sunday afternoon, Sainsbury's is practically overflowing with parsley, sage and thyme but there's not a sprig of rosemary in sight.

Bugger it, I can sprinkle on some dried rosemary instead. Who's going to know?

The making: Olive oil is heated in a saucepan, then garlic, lemon zest and the non-sprig of rosemary are mixed through. I realise this isn't the kind of meal for calorie-counters, but we're trying to be good at the minute, so I decide to halve the quantity of olive oil (30ml instead of 60ml) and see how that turns out.

Next, Nigella instructs me to drain the beans and rinse them under a tap "to get rid of the gloop".

The beans are added to the hot oil and warmed through while being squished and stirred. It's a basic technique and the outcome is actively meant to constitute a "nobbly mash". 

Innuendo aside, that's about my level of food presentation at the best of times, so that's handy.

Meanwhile, more oil is heated in a large frying pan and the steaks are cooked for a minute and a half on each side before being salted "to taste" (in my case: copiously). They're removed from the pan and assembled on a plate with the beans, then the juice of the aforementioned lemon is added, combined with the "meaty oil"...

...and poured over the steaks. In the meantime, I've taken the liberty of steaming some broccoli as a second side, as much for a bit of colour as anything else.

At this point, the rosemary sprig should be gracefully placed atop the assembled food having previously been removed from the garlic oil, but I don't really miss it - this isn't an especially elegant dish, or at least it isn't when my presentation skills are involved.
 

 

The eating: Considering Nigella claims to like her meat practically dripping with blood (no I am not using that GIF again), 90 seconds on each side is a bit much for these thin cuts, if anything - it's not that they're at all overdone, but I could have done with more than just residual pinkness in the middle.

The promise of a "garlicky, lemony, ultra-fabulous, utterly addictive bean mash" is also overstating things somewhat. It's a bit dry (my fault for cutting down on the oil, I suppose) and unnervingly lumpy, and I get far more of the rosemary flavour than the garlic or the lemon - but it is a substantial and hearty accompaniment, not to mention the kind of dish that just lives for soaking up those lovely steak juices. I broadly approve, though next time I'd forego the "Express" component of the recipe somewhat and make a smaller quantity as one of several sides, as otherwise the stodge ends up being a bit overwhelming.

Still, the steak experiment is a general success and I'm now less wary of letting semi-expensive cuts of meat into my kitchen (although justifying loosening the purse-strings will remain a challenge). And I absolutely cannot fault the speed of preparation - it wasn't quite "under five minutes" as promised, but the rustic approach to mashing the beans while cooking them is a huge time-saver, and juggling the various tasks is no problem either. 

OK, the whole thing is hardly the height of complexity, but still - if random lightning were to strike twice then I'd be fine with that, and that's compliment enough.

One-word verdict: Nobbly.

Week 10: Yoghurt with Pineapple

The book: Curry Easy (Madhur Jaffrey)

The recipe: p244, "Yoghurt with Pineapple"

I've said from the start that I'll take whatever the Random Kitchen project throws at me, from wedding cakes to boring side dishes - but even I was a little underwhelmed when the finger of fate pointed at the "Relishes & Accompaniments" section of Madhur's tome this week. Not that there's anything wrong with Curry Easy itself - I actually use it quite a lot, with the mushroom/chickpea curry and the moong dal among the reliable lunchtime favourites of this particular homeworker - but as well as being a bit of a "meh" choice compared with what else the book has to offer, in light of recent complaints I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the unimaginative name of this particular raita-style dish, not to mention the recurrence of my old f(r)iend yoghurt.

Still, the basic premise appeals to me: "sweet and spicy" was my tentative route into the world of Indian food in the first place, thanks to my parents' friendship with the late, great Abdul Latif, Lord of Harpole and countless nights spent in the much-missed Rupali restaurant in Newcastle's... lively Bigg Market. I may prefer more of a kick up the capsicums these days, but it was those creamy curries with plenty of banana and pineapple that indoctrinated me in the first place, so the idea of a sweet and cooling concoction that Madhur describes as "somewhere between a relish and a curry" is an attractive one.

Liberal-Popadom Alliance

The prep: The name of the recipe may suggest simplicity, but the ingredient list is a fairly long one. It's mainly standard stuff as far as this household goes - if you use Curry Easy a lot, you're going to have brown mustard seeds in the cupboard and whole green chillies in the freezer - though I do have to shell out for some creamed coconut (a whole fruit seemed a bit indulgent), and I decide to compromise on dried curry leaves rather than buying a bunch of fresh ones from the Sri Lankan corner shop only to use the ten required by this recipe and most likely discard the rest.

As for the key components, it's full-fat Greek-style yoghurt this time (no cooking required, so presumably no curdling either, but I'm taking no chances!). And while I feel like I probably should buy a whole pineapple from one of the stalls at Lewisham Market, I'm lazy and middle-class so I just grab a tub of fresh pineapple chunks from the supermarket and chop them up a bit smaller instead. Job done!

The making: The cubed pineapple, some caster sugar and water are combined in a pan and simmered down until the liquid evaporates and the pineapple is soft. Grated coconut is stirred through, then the mixture is set aside to cool. Meanwhile, the yoghurt is beaten until nice and creamy, then the contents of the pan are stirred through it, along with a chopped green chilli and - wait for it - between 1¼ and 1½ teaspoons of salt. If there's one thing I've learned from this book, it's that Madhur loves her salt.

Brown mustard seeds, cumin seeds, dried red chillies, curry leaves and sliced shallots are then fried up for a few minutes and poured over the top of the yoghurt and pineapple mixture. One healthy stir later, and the raita is complete. It looks like... well, it looks like lumpy yoghurt with bits in it. Potentially very tasty bits, though!

The eating: I'm sceptical about Madhur's claim that this could work as a curry in its own right, so instead I serve it alongside the last of a chicken, pepper, beetroot (no srsly) and chickpea curry that I've been working my way through for a few days. Plus a pile of brown basmati rice, obviously. The bright pink colours of my improvised dish (not pictured here due to slop-like serving presentation) certainly make for a pleasing contrast to the yoghurty whiteness of the relish.

As an accompaniment, "Yoghurt with Pineapple" does the job, though my scepticism turns out to be reasonable - even stirred through rice, this would be too rich and sickly (and, frankly, boring) to really make sense as a main dish. At the same time, the yoghurt flavour doesn't overpower everything like it did with those damn aubergines a couple of weeks back, so that's something.

I was expecting a bit more from the other ingredients - the green chilli and the seeds don't really cut through the creamy sweetness as much as I might have anticipated, any hints of coconut are conspicuous by their absence, and even the generous quantities of salt struggle to make their presence felt. Still, though, it's an interesting taste combination and it certainly offsets the kick of the main dish like it's supposed to. The sweet/salt/spice marriage puts me in mind of what it might be like if you were to drink a blend of salty and mango lassi - a bit peculiar at first, but when you think about it, it doesn't not make sense...

So a reasonable success, then. While I won't necessary be rushing back to make this particular dish again, the simplicity and the interesting end results mean I'm far more likely to consult the "Relishes & Accompaniments" section of Madhur's book - and the equivalent, similarly easily overlooked sections of other books - than I would have been before. And that's a suitably random outcome.

One-word verdict: Bittersweet.

Week 9: Leek and Ham Galette

The book: Good Housekeeping Easy To Make Complete Cookbook

The recipe: p244, "Leek and Ham Galette"

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

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

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

The mother lode

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

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

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

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

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

OK, fine, I suppose that could work.

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

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

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

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

Washington and Oregon, accompanied by a rogue Minnesota

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

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

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

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

1+1=2

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

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

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

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

One-word verdict: Satisfying.

Week 8: Bengali-Style Aubergine Cooked in Yoghurt

The book: Indian Food Made Easy (Anjum Anand)

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

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

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

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

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

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

That can't be good

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

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

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

(ish)

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

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

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

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

One-word verdict:

Week 7: Chicken and Leek Pot Pie

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

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

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

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

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

Name. Bothered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very much like a pie

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

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

I don't do presentation

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

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

One-word verdict: Pointless.

The books: Everyday Novelli

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

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

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

Sarah, though, swiftly followed up with this:

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

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

EXCEPT IT'S A BARE-FACED LIE.

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

Easy-to-make. Everyday.

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

Oh, and then there's this:

Swan meringues are not "everyday".

SWAN MERINGUES ARE NOT ANY DAY.

SWAN MERINGUES AREN'T EVEN A THING.

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

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

Thanks a lot, Sarah.