For those of you not familiar with Rachel Allen, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed lass is the heir apparent of the Irish culinary scene; she studied at the world-famous Ballymaloe Cookery School and ended up marrying the owners’ son. Now a celebrity chef in her own right, she’s written books, starred in TV series, and even released her own line of electrical appliances.

Home Cooking is her latest offering, a collection of recipes for comforting soul food and family-friendly fare. Its eight chapters include Breakfast, Lunch, Sunday lunch (more festive than the former), Dessert, Snacks, treats and sweets and even Baby purées (not useful for me, but charming nonetheless). This is the type of food that you’ll make day-to-day or for family celebrations: good ingredients, simple to prepare and downright delicious.

Rachel’s personal brand could be defined as “feminine country”, and her books reflect this. Home Cooking makes prolific use of cutesy typefaces, the colour pink, small-scale patterns and photos of her angelic troupe of blonde children. While normally this kind of in-your-face girliness irks me to no end, I barely notice it here; the design is well handled and supports the content, rather than distracting from it.

Recipe pages are clearly laid out, with servings, ingredients, equipment and variations noted. There’s also a particularly useful “Vegetarian” heading for any dishes not containing meat (and there are more than you’d think). I also appreciate that Rachel doesn’t waste loads of time talking; while there are food writers whose words I lap up as eagerly as their food, she is clearly in the “cook who writes” camp (rather than the inverse), and knows it.

So if it’s not the design or the writing that makes me love this book so, it’s gotta be the food. Rachel’s cooking is perfectly up my ally, and I can hardly flip through this book without bookmarking something new to try. It’s not the most experimental or creative cookbook you’ll find, but neither is this all traditional Lamb Stew or Soda Bread. As my lovely (and Irish) friend Dawn put it over at Kitchenist,

I also like that her cooking is a fairly accurate reflection of Irish cooking now- one part traditional Irish food, some Mediterranean influences, a hit of Indian and Chinese flavours, and more American influences as well.

Most everything I’ve made from Home Cooking has been delicious. Smoked Salmon, Leek and Potato Pie (pg. 114) and Dark and White Chocolate Fudge Pudding with Zesty Orange (pg. 229) made for a delicious New Year’s Eve dinner, and Spotted Dog bread (pg. 32) was wonderful the next morning. I’ve tried the Brussels Sprout Soup (pg. 50), Tagliatelle with Smoked Salmon, Watercress and Peas (pg. 84) and Squashed Fly Biscuits (pg. 277), all to triumphant success.

In fact, the only disappointment so far was the Pizza Dough (pg. 149). Rachel’s recipe contains butter, an anomaly which confused and intrigued me. But besides making my hands extra-soft during the kneading process, I saw no benefit; the resulting dough was bland and tasteless, with an bizarre soft texture.

Still, one disappointment isn’t bad, and I’m hopeful it’ll be the last from this book. Next on my to-try list is Kedgeree (pg. 36), Carrots with Nutty Buttered Crumbs (pg. 126), and Fluffy Lemon Pudding (pg. 245).

There isn’t much I can say against Home Cooking; it “does what it says on the tin”, as they say.  The mix of recipes is good, though I would likely find it even more useful if I was omnivorous or had small children to feed. It’s probably too soon to say whether my love for it is the real thing or a passing infatuation, but either way I’ve been eating well in 2010 so far. A solid four stars.

“I will, don’t worry” I answered. But inside, I was skeptical. Come on- cakes made with vegetables instead of butter? Who’s buying that one?

The premise behind Red Velvet & Chocolate Heartache is that cakes can be healthy, or at the very least, not unhealthy. The author, Harry Eastwood, was one of four women behind Channel 4′s 2007 series Cook Yourself Thin, and is a self-confessed cake junkie. She wrote this cookbook because she believes that enjoying cake- real, delicious cake- should be a regular activity, and not an infrequent indulgence.

How to achieve this, without sacrificing flavour for health? Reduce the fat, sugar and calorie content of classic cake recipes by replacing the butter with a combination of ground almonds (for fat and texture) and finely grated vegetables (for moisture and fluff). Used together, this nuts-and-veg combination is meant to magically create a moist, tender crumb without compromising on taste. What I thought? We’ll see about that.

The book looks lovely, if a bit cute and girly for some tastes. Most of the food shots are beautifully styled and a treat to look at, and the only ones that truly bother me are those where cupcakes are displayed in an antique doll’s house (yes, really) or the ones featuring little girls dressed up like fairies. The thick, matte paper is a nice quality, and the layouts are pretty, but clean and effective.

The eight chapters, rather infuriatingly, have been given colours as well as names, such as The Pale Pink Chapter – Birthday Cake or The Purple Chapter – Lemon and Lavender Drizzle Cake. Obviously there is more than one recipe per chapter (those named are simply the leading one), and there has been an effort to group these somewhat logically. For instance, The Orange Chapter – Chocolate and Peanut Butter Cupcakes contains recipes of an autumnal feel, many containing citrus, toffee or fall fruits. This “system” of organization is slightly confusing, but not a huge annoyance.

No, the huge annoyance here is the writing. As nearly every review of this book has mentioned, the author’s girly, twee, altogether too-cutesy-for-words style grates like fingernails on a blackboard. She seems strangely preoccupied with personification: every vegetable and cake gets a personality, and usually a gender too. Absurd to the point of hilarity, it does get a tad annoying when you realise that, instead of offering any useful information about each recipe, there’s nothing but a little story. For example, the blurb about Orange Blossoms:

These little cupcakes are light, bright and pretty. They’re also a little fickle, and not without ambition. Don’t be surprised if they compliment you on your hair, the week before your birthday party invitations are being handed out… (pg. 13)

(A word to the wise: if your cupcakes do, in fact, begin to compliment you, step away. They’re likely laced with more than just vegetables.)

If you can move past this to the actual recipes, you’re in for a delicious surprise. After first trying some of my sister’s veggie baking, I was astonished; these cakes are good. My own first effort was Ginger Millies (pg. 15), a butternut squash-based cupcake with a unbelievably moist crumb. I then tried the Sunken Apricot and Almond Cake (pg. 49) which rivals many traditional (and far less healthy) treats in both taste and texture.

Next on my list are the Forbidden Chocolate Brownies (pg. 137), which get their “squidge” factor from beetroot, and the Ginger Sticky Toffee Pudding (pg. 172), which contains parsnip. Not limited to cakes, Red Velvet & Chocolate Heartache also contains recipes for preserves like Sharpie Strawberry Jam (pg. 7), teatime treats such as Port Mary Scones (pg. 94) and other intriguing delights, like Parsnip Vanilla Fudge (pg. 169).

Not everything is super-healthy, though many cakes are low in calories (there is a useful nutritional table at the back). Since the vegetables contain natural sugars, there is little extra added- good news for those of us who don’t like our cakes too sweet. Also unusually, all the recipes have been tested with white rice flour (though they can be made with plain flour), which makes them suitable for those with gluten allergies. While almost all of the recipes are notable for their lack of butter, many of the icings, sauces and toppings in the book do rely on it, as Harry claims to be “all for butter- when you can taste it” (xiii).

So, have I been convinced? Yes and no. I’d like to hang on to Red Velvet & Chocolate Heartache for a while, though I’m not sure I’ll be investing in my own copy. While these cakes are light years better than I expected them to be, they’re hardly the Most Delicious Cakes I’ve Ever Had or anything. I also feel that, while the texture of Harry’s cakes are indeed wonderful, the flavour isn’t always there (butter adds more than just fat and moisture to baked goods, after all).

When all is said and done, though, I (grudgingly) admit that Red Velvet & Chocolate Heartache is a great cookbook. If you’re a health-conscious cake lover, a concerned parent looking for some healthy treats, or have a gluten allergy, you can’t go wrong with this book. If you can get past the nauseating writing, there are some wonderful recipes in here. Four twinkly, sparkly, dancing little stars, then.

Tender is actually a two-part publication, the first volume of which focuses on vegetables. In Volume II, which is due out next year, the emphasis will be on fruit. As fruit doesn’t interest me nearly as much as vegetables (I dislike it cooked, anyway), I’m thrilled that Nigel saw fit to start at the beginning.

And “at the beginning” is apt: in the vein of Jamie at Home and others like it, Tender is as much about growing vegetables as cooking them. The introduction speaks of Nigel’s love for growing food, and in particular for his west London garden, which was transformed over several years to provide him with a generous, if not entirely self-sustaining, amount of fresh produce with which to cook.

This introduction (all 12 pages of it) is strangely one of my favourite parts of the book. It’s not that I find the subject matter all that interesting, but the prose is a treat to take in. Nigel Slater is beloved by the British in part due to his wonderful writing, which is at once charming, self-deprecating, witty and honest. He even manages to make a section titled “Slugs, snails and other buggerances” sound amusing, which I imagine is quite a feat.

While all of Nigel’s books are wonderfully readable, Tender is probably one of the prettiest to date, at least in my opinion. Printed on beautiful matte paper, the pages are full of simple type, wonderful photography and enough clean white space to bring it all together. The photos especially, mainly of food but occasionally of Nigel’s garden or some raw ingredients, are considered and elegant without being styled to death. In short: this is my kind of book.

Broken into 30 chapters, each covering a different vegetable, the books is large but hardly an exhaustive vegetable lexicon. Of course, it wouldn’t be; Tender is all about eating locally and cooking seasonally, so it only covers those vegetables grown by Nigel here in Britain. This makes it especially useful for those of us who buy produce at farmers’ markets, or who grow our own food.

Each chapter follows the same basic formula: an introduction, some information about growing the vegetable in question, a “diary” following the planting, growing and harvesting in 2008, and some information on the different varieties available to gardeners. Following this is a bit about cooking with the vegetable (methods, classic flavour pairings, tips and things to try), and around 5-10 recipes using it. This may sound like rather a lot of “extra stuff” taking up room in a cookbook, but it’s far more interesting than it sounds. In fact, there are just as many ideas for dishes hidden in these sections of prose as there are recipes themselves.

Now, about those recipes. While I haven’t been cooking from Tender for all that long, I don’t need to cook everything here to know it will be delicious. Nigel’s recipes rarely disappoint me; in fact, I’d consider him one of my most trusted food writers, in terms of “doing what it says on the tin”. And he hasn’t strayed far from his trademark cooking style here, relying heavily on fresh ingredients, simple cooking methods, and the occasional indulgence. (Nigel seems to be a man who likes a good dose of cream or cheese now and then.) While the recipes aren’t strictly vegetarian, non-meat-eaters will find little to complain about, as it only makes a rare and subtle appearance here. Additionally, very few things read as “sides” to me, leaning instead toward being meals in their own right.

I first tackled A Rich Dish of Sprouts and Cheese for a Very Cold Night (pg. 126), which was so good that my boyfriend went back for thirds (quite something, considering that he’d previously claimed to dislike Brussels sprouts). Pasta with Sprouting and Cream (pg. 114) was also a success, as was Kale with Golden Raisins and Onions (pg. 321). I hope to try the Carrot Cake with a Frosting of Mascarpone and Orange (pg. 179) soon, and I’ve currently got some chickpeas on the stove for tonight’s dinnner of Chickpeas with Pumpkin, Lemongrass and Coriander (pg. 506).

The negatives of this book are few and far between. If you aren’t interested in gardening or eating locally it probably won’t be for you, as you’ll get more bang for your buck with a larger, more comprehensive vegetable cookbook. I suppose Tender could contain more recipes; I mean, four broccoli dishes is hardly all the vegetable has to offer, is it?

Still, what Tender does, it does very well. This is a collection of reliable recipes, made from ingredients local to many of us living in the Northern Hemisphere. I’m giving Tender a solid four stars and a strong suggestion that you check it out. While cooking from this book might not feel exactly like sitting down to dine with the author, it’s as close as I’m likely to get.

For some reason, I felt that owning a copy of Deborah Madison‘s Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone was a prerequisite for being a “real” vegetarian. As if not owning this book were somehow an admittance of amateurism, or an open invitation for mocking by more “serious” vegetarians.

My parents (despite not being vegetarian themselves) have been cooking from this comprehensive book for years, but living across the ocean from them as I do, it was imperative to buy my own copy. Luckily, there was a 10 year anniversary edition out, so it was with a firm heart and aching back and that I lugged a copy home from a trip to New York City last May. (It was cheaper in North America, and luckily my lifestyle change coincided with a planned holiday.)

Like most encyclopedia-style cookbooks, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone starts off with several introductory chapters, covering things like shopping in season, menu planning, kitchen tools and cooking techniques. The recipes themselves are organized into an impressive fifteen chapters, covering the to-be-expected Vegetables, Grains, Eggs and Cheese and Desserts, as well as the less common Sandwiches, The Soy Pantry and Breads by Hand. Within these chapters ingredients are given due respect; you can find out which potatoes are best for which recipes (pg. 408), brush up on types of cheeses (pg. 584-587), or learn about how different varieties of rice are processed (pg. 536).

Most everything I’ve made from this book has turned out well. Penne with Tomatoes, Olives, Lemon and Basil (pg. 454) is a favourite, as is Curried Quinoa with Peas and Cashews (pg. 534). The Polenta Gratin with Tomato, Fontina and Rosemary (pg. 526) was even good enough to impress my Mum when she was visiting. Deborah’s breads and baked goods are similarly dependable; her recipe for Naan (pg. 674) is my go-to one for serving with curries, and her Ginger Cream Scones (pg. 651) go down a treat. Add to these successes the fact that the ingredient lists here tend toward short and the instructions toward clear, and you’ve got a winner.

Why then, don’t I reach for this book more often? As much as I love Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, more often than not it stays on the shelf while I reach for my trusty copy of How to Cook Everything Vegetarian instead. Deborah and Mark’s books are similarly structured, and though Deborah came along a decade earlier, I can’t help feeling that Mark does the whole vegetarian-encyclopedia thing a bit better.

A quick internet search reveals that I’m not alone in feeling this way; for some reason, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone doesn’t feel as relevant today as it perhaps used to. Whether it’s the style of the food, the style of the writing or both, I can’t be sure. It could be simply down to the look of the book, which though clean and attractive, is hardly all that modern or exciting.

I don’t think we should be too hard on this book, though, as there are things it does very well. While Mark’s recipes have an “everyday” feel to them, Deborah’s food comes off as a bit more special. While I prefer How to Cook Everything Vegetarian on a stressful mid-week evening, I’m more likely to reach for Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone on a lazy Sunday afternoon, or when I really want to pull out all the stops and impress someone. I definitely think there’s room for both books in a vegetarian kitchen.

Having considered it, I think Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone deserves a solid four stars. The quality of the information and recipes is top-notch, and you’ll find both classic dishes and new ideas in here. The only drawback is a slight lack of that elusive “pull” factor, and even that’s probably just personal preference. In any case, I can’t imagine anyone would be disappointed after buying this book. (But maybe just order it online: trust me, it’s a bit heavy for a trans-Atlantic flight.)

Regular readers of my blogs know that I adore Italian food, and this adoration tends to extend to most Italian cookbooks. But although I’ve had The Silver Spoon in my possession for almost nine months now, I’ve delayed reviewing it here. Frankly, this thing is so huge and comprehensive that I’m a little intimidated by it, and somewhat stumped as to how to present a well-rounded critique. To simply tell you about the dishes I’ve cooked from this book would be futile; with over 2000 recipes, it’s only ever going to be a tiny percentage.

Visually, The Silver Spoon is somewhat dry. Though published by the design-centric Phaidon Press, it’s not favourite cookbook of theirs; it certainly doesn’t fill me with delight like my copy of Breakfast, Lunch, Tea. With so much content to work with, the designers clearly had to make compromises to avoid ending up with a book the size of a small car. As a result, the recipes themselves are somewhat cramped, and what scant photography there is contributes little to the overall feel of the book. 

There are things I do like about the design though, including the use of type in the section headings, and the charming line drawings scattered through the pages. Many of the most successful visual devices here are actually in the name of organization; for example each section is colour-coded, and clever tabs along the top of the page allow you to quickly find what you want. If you can keep track of 15 different colours and what they mean, of course. 

Yup, The Silver Spoon contains an astonishing 15 chapters, beginning with the standard Cooking Terms and Tools and Equipment, before moving into those including (but not limited to) Antipasti, Appetizers and Pizzas, First Courses, Meat and Offal, Cheese and Desserts and Baking. Each chapter is further broken down by ingredient, and then by recipe. At the end of the book, there’s a sizable Menus chapter, which contains Italian-themed menus and recipes by celebrated chefs from around the world.

As for the recipes themselves, they’re delightfully varied: in the Vegetables section, for instance, you’ll find three for Dandelions (pg. 435), four for Pumpkin (pg. 575), and 17 for Tomatoes (pg. 538). All the classic Italian favourites are present (including Bruschetta, pg. 95 and Milanese Risotto, pg. 330), along with some that are slightly less, er, mainstream. (Brain Roulades with Truffle, pg. 855, anybody?) But neither is The Silver Spoon a tour of stereotypical, cookie-cutter Italy. The presence of many international dishes like Indonesian Rice (pg. 318) and English Bread and Butter Pudding (pg. 1027) are a testament to how varied the country’s cuisine really is.

Be warned, though: while this book may teach you how to cook Italian food, it won’t teach you how to cook. Unless you’re at least somewhat confident with the ins and outs of a kitchen, you’ll find The Silver Spoon confusing, as explanation and clear instruction is somewhat lacking. I also find that there’s rather a lot of jumping around between recipes, with certain dishes almost nothing more than a combination of others. Not that I really mind this; it’s simply a book that assumes you know how to cook, and are using it first and foremost for the recipes.

Well, I do know how to cook, and still I’ll admit: I haven’t used this book nearly as often as I first imagined. Oh, don’t get me wrong- I love reading it, and I’ve used it as a reference countless times, but it’s not the first book I reach for when I need a new recipe. Whether that’s because of its intimidating size or lack of visual enticement, I can’t really say. I do have a hunch that The Silver Spoon is more of a long-term love than a quick fling, though, and I’ll probably be using and treasuring my copy for years to come. After all, generations of Italian brides can’t be wrong. 

With careful consideration, I’ve decided to give this book four stars. Deserving of top marks for its breadth and authenticity, The Silver Spoon nonetheless loses out for the depth of its instructions, and for failing, just slightly, to draw me in. Still, if you’re looking for the mamma of all Italian cookbooks, this is it. 

It’s not that crazy, though; Nigel Slater is known his witty prose, unpretentious cooking style and recipes that really work, so collecting his books isn’t exactly a foolhardy exercise. My copy of The 30-Minute Cook actually belongs to my boyfriend, but as I’m the head chef around here, I get to enjoy it most often. The premise is simple: delicious meals that can be made in a maximum of 30 minutes- perfect weeknight fare.

Visually, The 30-Minute Cook  is lovely- a modestly sized paperback with an illustrated cover. Inside, there are a few sections of full-colour photos, but for the most part it’s straightforward text. Ingredients are simply listed and instructions, while in a paragraphical rather than numbered style, are clear and easy to follow. Truly, you wouldn’t want Nigel to write in numbered steps; part of his appeal is his wonderful writing and dry sense of humour. For example, his views on serving Asian-style noodle dishes:

If you are unfettered by tradition then use Italian fettucine or spaghetti. No one will notice. No one will care. Unless they are purists, in which case you would do well to serve the proper thing. Otherwise they will only talk about you afterwards. (pg. 107)

Divided into nine chapters, the book covers Vegetables, Salads, Pasta and Noodles, Fish, Shellfish, Chicken, Game and Other Good Things, Lamb, Pork and Other Meats, Grains, Beans and Lentils and Snacks, Cheese and Puddings. The sections are generally well-balanced, and contain a nice mix of British, European and Asian influenced recipes. Happily for me, the meat in this book generally stays where it belongs, and Nigel seems able (for the most part) to fight the urge to throw bacon, pancetta and chorizo into any old dish. 

I’ve been cooking from The 30-Minute Cook  for almost two years now, so trust me when I say there are some real recipe gems here. Back in my meat-eating days I was partial to the delicious Sausages Braised in White Wine (pg. 196) and the Coconut and Coriander Chicken (pg. 152). Nigel’s Leek, Tarragon and Mushroom Risotto (pg. 212) is the best (and simplest) recipe for mushroom risotto I’ve found, and Red Lentils with Turmeric and Mustard Seeds (pg. 232) is so good that I’m sitting here wondering why on earth I haven’t made it in months.

There are a few places where The 30-Minute Cook could go a bit further. While I like most of the recipes, it isn’t exactly exhaustive, particularly where the Puddings chapter is concerned. It’s admittedly quite sparse, but there’s a reason for this; Nigel has another book, Real Fast Puddings, which along with its companion Real Fast Food delves further into the speedy food genre. I know that I should be concerned that more wasn’t covered here, but truthfully, I just want the other books.

Some people might also like The 30-Minute Cook to have a few more photos, and while I like visuals in a cookbook, I don’t mind that much. The recipes are so simple, with such descriptive titles, that you don’t really need photos to picture the outcome.

What The 30-Minute Cook does, it does well. There are some wonderful recipes here, and yes, they’re all quick and easy to prepare. It could do more in some areas, but I still think this is a wonderful book to have around, especially for anyone looking for a little inspiration in the weeknight meal department.

Inspired by Mark’s personal journey two years ago toward a healthier, more environmentally friendly diet, the book is divided into two (roughly) equal halves. The first deals with the state of the average American diet today, its health and environmental consequences, and the second is comprised of a collection of health-focused recipes, with an emphasis on whole grains and vegetables. 

In the first section, Mark discusses the global impact of a meat-based diet in terms of the use of resources and its effect on climate change. He also touches on the US government’s role in the nation’s eating habits, expressing concern over the choices behind the USDA guidelines. Also in this section, Mark looks beyond the “facts” of many food studies, and debunks several health and diet myths. 

So, did any of this change the way I think and eat? Well, not really- Mark is preaching to the choir here. I already gave up meat 15 months ago for many of reasons stated here, so I found myself more heartily agreeing with him than being swayed in any way. At the very least, Food Matters has provided me with many fascinating statistics with which to guilt my friends and family. (Did you know that 40 times more energy is required to produce one calorie of meat, as to produce one calorie of grain? My parents sure do.)

After this barrage of carefully executed complaints, the “diet” angle of the book comes into play. Mark discusses what he calls “sane eating”, and introduces us to his “vegan before 6 o’clock” method. At first, this prescriptive approach put me off a touch, but I realised that in pandering to the American diet-books market (and it’s a pretty huge one, I’d wager), Bittman is widening the audience for Food Matters considerably.

The second half of the book kicks off with four weeks of sample menus, covering meals, snacks and desserts for seven days a week. This is another example of Food Matters‘ prescriptive, diet-type approach, but I actually liked this. Not that I’ll be using Mark’s meal plans, but it is interesting to see just how varied a month of eating can be using these recipes. 

The 77 recipes included here are nothing new to me. Being a huge fan of Mark’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, I was pretty sure I’d seen most of them before. Divided into chapters for Basics, Breakfast, Lunch, Snacks, Dinner and Desserts, they represent a best-of selection of Mark’s recipes; vegetarian for the most part, but some containing meat as well. It’s a great edit though, including both old favourites of mine (Anything Goes Granola, pg. 168) and new ideas I’d like to try (Crisp Nori Ribbons, pg. 227).

The recipes here have also been chosen for their simplicity, which I think goes along with the slight diet angle of the book. Practical for people who aren’t used to cooking, they rarely contain a long list of ingredients, or indeed any that are difficult to find. In that way, there’s sort of an “introduction to healthy cooking” vibe here. 

The only problem I have with the recipe section of Food Matters is that it looks like the rest of the book. That is to say, there are no photos or any visual treats to entice the reader. From a design perspective I understand this and even agree that photos would be out of place here, but from a cooking one, I’d like something to convince me that Roasted Herb-Stuffed Vegetables (pg. 272) are worth making. 

I really liked this book. As a cookbook alone it probably wouldn’t get top marks, since the recipes, though delicious, are simple in nature with not a lot of variety. Those interested in making a real leap into vegetarian cooking would do better to invest in Mark’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian instead. But as an interesting read, or a tool for anyone wanting to improve their health and the health of the planet, I would definitely recommend Food Matters.

On first impression, however, I felt that I could handle cooking from this book. Reassuringly simple ingredient lists, beautiful photography and straightforward instructions convinced me that this was good, modern Indian food. I was surprised, then, when my Mum told me that this very book had in fact been sitting in her kitchen for about a decade. Originally published in 1996, Quick & Easy Indian Cooking is simply a clever re-print.

But what a re-print! Colourful, beautifully photographed and enhanced with evocative Indian-style graphics, this book is a real looker. Softcover and with a landscape layout, it feels much more modern, accessible and digestible than my Mum’s battered old copy.

Of course, anyone who’s been at all interested in food writing in the past 30 years or so will know that Madhur Jaffrey is the word in Indian cooking. Her books introduced a generation of North Americans to this vibrant cuisine, and is still the first person many people think of when they think of Indian food. To the modern cookbook-addict, however, Madhur’s prose takes some getting used to. Once I’d read the book through for the first time, I remember telling my Mum that while I loved recipes, I had trouble warming to their author. She just didn’t seem like a real person to me. To which Mum replied “Oh, well; Madhur came along before food writers were expected to be personalities as well as cooks.” Huh? But it’s true- the slightly more distant tone of writers past can be a bit of a shock to those of us who imagine we’re on a first-name basis with our favourite authors. (Yup, that’s me.)

As for the recipes- everything I’ve made out of this book comes with rave reviews. Stir-Fried Shrimp in an Aromatic Tomato-Cream Sauce (pg. 73) was a great place to start; the flavours felt Western enough to ease me into Indian cooking gently, yet Eastern enough to feel like I’d achieved something. At my parents’ urging we then tried the delicious Garlicky Mushroom Masala Omelette (pg. 44) which has since become a house favourite. Curried Tuna (pg. 76) is incredible in sandwiches, and Whole Green Lentils with Cilantro and Mint (pg. 86) is a wonderfully fresh, summery curry. In the future, I’m looking forward to trying the Carrot and Green Bean Pickle (pg. 117) and even tackling some of the desserts- Minty Lassi (pg. 122) and Banana Halva (pg. 128) look especially good.

There are things here that I won’t be trying, of course. The book has a slightly meaty slant, and obviously I won’t be tucking into Lamb Vindaloo (pg. 34) anytime soon. The omnivores among you will love it, though: the meat recipes all look delicious. Even the photo of “Hamburger” Kebabs (pg. 25) is enough to make me consider throwing my vegetarianism to the wind; if I read the description, I’m in trouble. While there are many vegetarian options in the Legumes and Vegetables chapter, most of them read like sides, and a couple more vegetarian mains wouldn’t have gone amiss here.

All in all, Quick & Easy Indian Cooking is a great introduction to Indian cooking, featuring recipes that are simple to prepare yet impressively authentic. My confidence has improved to the point where I’m ready to branch out and try other Indian cookbooks, which of course is the point of an introductory book like this. For anyone looking to try their hand at the flavours of India, I would definitely recommend this book.

I’ve been cooking from my sister’s copy of How to be a Domestic Goddess for years, but since it’s currently across the Atlantic at my parents’ house, I invested in my own copy last year. While I consider myself to be more of a cook than a baker, with leanings toward savory rather than sweet, there are times when only baking will do. When I’m stressed or simply bored, and no regular meal is approaching, I’ll often convince myself that there are cookies/cakes/brownies that need baking, just to have something to focus my mind on. (Hint: the trick is never to buy treats, that way you’ll always have the “Well, there isn’t anything sweet in the house!” excuse at hand.) At those times, I usually turn to this book. While there are many other food writers and cookbooks with wonderful baking recipes, they’re often buried between more practical dishes, and there is something to be said for opening a book and knowing that, within ten seconds, you’re likely to come across just the thing that you’re craving.

How to be a Domestic Goddess is a paean to what in 2003 Nigella considered the lost art of baking. Divided into nine chapters on cakes, biscuits, pies, puddings, chocolate, children, christmas, bread and yeast, and the Domestic Goddess’s Larder, the book is comprehensive, if not exhaustive. Intended as a celebration of baking rather than a manual, it nonetheless has a recipe for almost any baked good you might think of. With the addition of some useful conversion charts in the front, it’s as close to a baking bible as my kitchen is likely to see. 

The recipes themselves are fairly simple, and rarely contain difficult-to-find ingredients or fiddly instructions. They range from basic (Madeira Cake, pg. 5) to impressive (Molten Chocolate Babycakes, pg. 179). It’s not all sweet stuff- the pie chapter is split 50/50 between dinner and dessert (Supper Onion Pie, pg. 85, is delicious), and bread chapter contains recipes for several “practical” loaves. Something that strikes me about the recipes compiled here is the breadth of ethnic influences at work. As expected in a British baking book, there is Victoria Sponge (pg. 14) and Mince Pies (pg. 259), but nestled between them are recipes for Egyptian Om Ali (pg. 140), Norwegian Mountain Loaf (pg. 302), Turkish Lahmacun (pg. 312) and German Plum Tart (pg. 316). It’s a bit of a whirlwind trip around the world of baking, with Nigella as your anecdote-filled tour guide. 

Recipes aside, How to be a Domestic Goddess is beautiful to look at, with the stylish layouts and stunning photography we’ve come to expect from a Nigella Lawson book. Each chapter begins with a two-page spread, a photo printed on matt gold paper that somehow reinforces the book’s message- that baking is something special, to be treasured. The recipes are simply laid out, and clearly state ingredients and equipment needed. (A sticking point for many, and with good reason- who wants to get halfway through a recipe only to find you have to wrong sized pan?) Those who prefer recipes written in numbered steps won’t like Nigella’s paragraphic, colloquial style, but it’s a minor issue. Overall, there isn’t much to dislike here. 

To most of this I say rubbish; I’ve rarely encountered problems with recipes from this book. Granted, the “smooth and springy” dough of Norwegian Cinnamon Buns (pg. 322) was more like a gooey paste escaping across my countertop, but adding a bit more flour fixed the problem, and the resulting breakfast was delicious. And while I had lukewarm feelings toward the Night-and-Day Cupcakes (too dry, with too runny an icing, pg. 201), the Christmas-Morning Muffins (pg. 277) are lovely. In fact, this book inspired me to make several items that I’d previously thought were best left to professionals, including Bagels (pg. 304) and Danish Pastries (pg. 327), both with surprisingly good results.  

Overall, I think How to be a Domestic Goddess is a wonderful baking resource to have around, and certainly essential for anyone who enjoys procrastination or distraction of the culinary kind.