Of all the cooks and chefs that have been on television, from the galloping gourmets to the two fat ladies, from the hairy bikers to the naked chef forever roaming in the gloaming in search of this season’s crop of larks’ tongues, to wrestling cooking secrets from Sardinian clam farmers and Portuguese cheese caves, the only one that would grace my kitchen is the king of them all. Well, perhaps if Marco Pierre White wasn't available and Ainslie Harriot was busy, it could only be, well perhaps if Ken Hom and Nick Nairn sneaked past, it would definitely be Heston.
His very name has people salivating about what culinary delights he would present. His cookbook, a three hundred and sixty five page tome, lists such ingredients such as golden frankincense buds and bee pollen, and uses equipment like gold scales, spray guns and industrial strength dehydrators, to produce unique dishes such as salmon poached in liquorice, snail porridge or bacon and egg ice-cream.
He tells how to make jellies that dance like a belly dancer, a jelly belly dancer if you will, and an exploding chocolate lava cake that will spray all over you and dining room rug, lickable wallpaper for any guests that are prone to doing so and a dessert that is sent in by flying saucer to land on the table in front of the diners. As if all this was not enough, to round off the perfect dining experience, Heston insists sounds accompany the food, that will have you ducking for cover when you hear a seagull diving in for one of his famous triple cooked glass potato chips.
The only dish that I have most of the ingredients for is Hacked Hog Haggis, and what is haggis if not an accumulation of whatever is left over from last week?
I have mince, oats, salt, oh, I need a pig’s bladder, I’m fresh out. Then I think, what is a football if not a pig’s bladder wrapped in rubber? So I hesitate for only a second and find the old one the dog chewed a hole in and deflated in the back of the garden shed. A good whack to get the dried mud and dog saliva off and kill any redbacks lurking within. A quick slit with a Stanley knife and voila, one pig’s bladder.
I put it on to boil. The mince, Heston states, should be kept at a ninety degree angle as it comes out of the mincer, but as I am using Coles finest fat free mince, I easily disregard that fact. He also wants 23½ % lardons, that's bacon to you and me.
Steel cut organic oats - not breakfast oats - is what he wants but ain’t going to get. A handful goes in. Two free range eggs and a third of an extra egg yolk are called for. With nearly five dozen eggs in my pantry, courtesy of chicken overdrive, three eggs are tossed in with an extra one for the pot. Finely dice brown onions. Heston helpfully suggests Japanese steel fuji knifes, two hundred and eight dollars for a full set. See stockists at the back of the book, yeah right.
Himalayan pink Lake salt and finest Peruvian black pearl peppercorns are the seasonings of choice, along with tiny tips of organic fresh baby thyme and teenage oregano, preferably picked from your personal herb garden just outside your kitchen door. Iodised salt, cracked pepper and Master Foods mixed herbs cascade from the bottle.
Gently mix and stuff into bladder. Now this could be a problem. I have left the bladder boiling for too long and it is now a shapeless, slimy mass. I fish it out with the tongs and bung it in the freezer. Now I see another wee problem. How to get what is now almost two kilos of haggis mixture into a hole the size of a pea. I snip it open and begin to stuff. The mix does not take kindly to this and refuses to enter the bladder.
I get the kitchen plunger, confident that Heston would approve; however the plunger brings back as much as it pushes in, making the exercise a bit redundant. Finally, with a loud sucking noise that scares the dog, the mix rolls over and plays dead.
The gaping hole needs to be sewn up, so the butchers’ twine and the big needle are found and carefully I herringbone the slit closed. When I finish it resembles Madonna's corsets, only with more bust than bustier.
A quick wrestle with the glad wrap and alfoil and it slips into the poaching liquid, which calls for sea urchin Taiwanese kelp. I put in a spoonful of goldfish food. Two and half hours later, the kitchen smells like heather on an early Scottish morning, wilting from the waft from the next door sewerage pit.
The haggis plops onto a platter with a splatter and a sprig of parsley and is presented to the table. Applause? Gasps of admiration? The only sound is from the dog, scratching at the door, desperate to get out before it lands in his dog bowl. Finally, my husband speaks.
''Anyone for fish and chips?''
His very name has people salivating about what culinary delights he would present. His cookbook, a three hundred and sixty five page tome, lists such ingredients such as golden frankincense buds and bee pollen, and uses equipment like gold scales, spray guns and industrial strength dehydrators, to produce unique dishes such as salmon poached in liquorice, snail porridge or bacon and egg ice-cream.
He tells how to make jellies that dance like a belly dancer, a jelly belly dancer if you will, and an exploding chocolate lava cake that will spray all over you and dining room rug, lickable wallpaper for any guests that are prone to doing so and a dessert that is sent in by flying saucer to land on the table in front of the diners. As if all this was not enough, to round off the perfect dining experience, Heston insists sounds accompany the food, that will have you ducking for cover when you hear a seagull diving in for one of his famous triple cooked glass potato chips.
The only dish that I have most of the ingredients for is Hacked Hog Haggis, and what is haggis if not an accumulation of whatever is left over from last week?
I have mince, oats, salt, oh, I need a pig’s bladder, I’m fresh out. Then I think, what is a football if not a pig’s bladder wrapped in rubber? So I hesitate for only a second and find the old one the dog chewed a hole in and deflated in the back of the garden shed. A good whack to get the dried mud and dog saliva off and kill any redbacks lurking within. A quick slit with a Stanley knife and voila, one pig’s bladder.
I put it on to boil. The mince, Heston states, should be kept at a ninety degree angle as it comes out of the mincer, but as I am using Coles finest fat free mince, I easily disregard that fact. He also wants 23½ % lardons, that's bacon to you and me.
Steel cut organic oats - not breakfast oats - is what he wants but ain’t going to get. A handful goes in. Two free range eggs and a third of an extra egg yolk are called for. With nearly five dozen eggs in my pantry, courtesy of chicken overdrive, three eggs are tossed in with an extra one for the pot. Finely dice brown onions. Heston helpfully suggests Japanese steel fuji knifes, two hundred and eight dollars for a full set. See stockists at the back of the book, yeah right.
Himalayan pink Lake salt and finest Peruvian black pearl peppercorns are the seasonings of choice, along with tiny tips of organic fresh baby thyme and teenage oregano, preferably picked from your personal herb garden just outside your kitchen door. Iodised salt, cracked pepper and Master Foods mixed herbs cascade from the bottle.
Gently mix and stuff into bladder. Now this could be a problem. I have left the bladder boiling for too long and it is now a shapeless, slimy mass. I fish it out with the tongs and bung it in the freezer. Now I see another wee problem. How to get what is now almost two kilos of haggis mixture into a hole the size of a pea. I snip it open and begin to stuff. The mix does not take kindly to this and refuses to enter the bladder.
I get the kitchen plunger, confident that Heston would approve; however the plunger brings back as much as it pushes in, making the exercise a bit redundant. Finally, with a loud sucking noise that scares the dog, the mix rolls over and plays dead.
The gaping hole needs to be sewn up, so the butchers’ twine and the big needle are found and carefully I herringbone the slit closed. When I finish it resembles Madonna's corsets, only with more bust than bustier.
A quick wrestle with the glad wrap and alfoil and it slips into the poaching liquid, which calls for sea urchin Taiwanese kelp. I put in a spoonful of goldfish food. Two and half hours later, the kitchen smells like heather on an early Scottish morning, wilting from the waft from the next door sewerage pit.
The haggis plops onto a platter with a splatter and a sprig of parsley and is presented to the table. Applause? Gasps of admiration? The only sound is from the dog, scratching at the door, desperate to get out before it lands in his dog bowl. Finally, my husband speaks.
''Anyone for fish and chips?''