h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

We live in a time when what most of the things offered us for eating purposes consist of wilting hamburgers, greasy pizza and that sort of spicy food that hurts you both coming and going, not to be too graphic on the subject. How nice is it not then to celebrate old traditions from the 20th century and cook your own food in your own home. I love cooking. It is sensual and sexy. Step by step I will now therefore show you how I make a nice beef stew. I am a trained chef so I will do this slowly, in order for you to keep up and not miss out on anything. Here we go.

On my counter is a bowl of onions and a bowl of diced pieces of beef. First, I chop the onions nicely. When half of the onions are chopped I switch to another chopping board and put the now bloody one in the dish washer. After having had my cut finger seen to by my wife I chop the rest of the onions and throw them in to a pot of really hot oil. I pull the pot away from the heat, rush to the cold water tap and pour ice cold water over the burns on my arms for some minutes. When that is done, I ask my wife to turn off the tap since my hands and arms are now frozen solid and numb from the cold water.

I put the pot back on the heat. I pull it away from the heat, put on a jacket, run down to the grocery shop and buy new meat as a substitute for the meat that was consumed by my cats while I was busy treating my third degree burns. At home again, I put the pot on the heat, sauté the onions, put the meat in there too and stir a bit. I open the fridge to get a can of nice, stout beer to put in the pot, but opt for a bit of water and a buillion cube instead, as I drank the beer last night.

It is now time to chop some chili. I chop the chili. A hair of my moustache tickles my nose. I tickle it back. I pour four gallons of water into my nose and then try, gargling, to console family members who where frightened by my screams of agony. When I come back the smell from the pot, at least that of it that I sense, is now acceptable. I open the fridge and take out a can of nice double cream. I open the can hold it over the pot and see a grey lump of off cream slide out and splash heavily into the pot. I pull the pot from the heat, run out into the shower and spray cold water over myself, with my clothes still on, until the pain has subsided. I dry, change clothes, take the telephone, dial a number I know by heart and then get in the car to collect the pizzas.

I hate cooking. It is messy and painful.

You are simply too sloppy and disorganised.

There's always pasta.

Good thing you are a trained
Otherwise you might end up in troubles

What? In your wounded condition? Maybe get the pizza delivered for safety sake.

I'm glad you're a trained chef, Dukey. You could have been in a real pickle otherwise.

I had a good friend who taught me my first proper dish in his student flat in Manchester. I had mastered frying an egg and beans on toast, but he took me into the realms of cooking a meal that you could offer to others. Shepherds pie (but now we would probably call it cottage pie as it had no shepherds in it).

He took two kilos of potatoes and peeled them and diced them (well, cut them in half)and then put them in a pan of cold water to cook.
He took a kilo of carrots and peeled and chopped them. He put those in another pan of cold water to cook.
He took half a kilo of onions and chopped them into tiny bits. Well, they seemed tiny at the time - they were smaller than half onions. He put those in some hot oil in a pan and shook them about a bit with tears streaming down his face.
He took a kilo of beef mince and put that in with the onions and stirred it about a bit.

When the potatoes were thoroughly cooked, but you could just about still count them, he poured away the hot water. Same with the carrots.

"Did you mean to turn the oven on?"
One of those looks. He turned the oven on (180C)

He put the mince into a huge container and mixed in the cooked carrots. "Here's my mum's secret!" he announced as he opened and poured in a tin of oxtail soup and mixed it about a bit.

"Don't forget the salt and pepper," he said and proceeded to heap it on.

He then went back to the pan of spuds and cut a 250g pack of butter - though to be honest it was actually a half pound pack of butter, in half and put one half in with the steaming roots. "And some salt," he said upending the salt seller for a long time.

He then took a potato masher and gave them hell.

"You put the spuds on top." He noted as he put the spuds on top and levelled it out like a trainee plasterer.

"My mum's second secret," he said as he scooped a hole in the middle of the white layer. "This lets some of the steam out and stops it boiling over the edge of the container. You also get to have a taste of what you've made."

I was wishing I had a secret from my mum that would allow me to get a spoonful in advance.

He then placed the container in the oven.

"How long does it stay in there for?"

"Until the first side of Dark Side of the Moon is finished," he said turning on his stereo and placing the black vinyl disk on the turntable.

After the stylus magically picked itself off the record and returned to rest he managed to get the dish to the table without using block and tackle, but you could see it was substantial.

"How many will this feed?" I asked.

"We can share it," he said, reluctantly, dividing it into 2.

Nick Webb used the same tactics with his "heart stopping breakfasts". They were amazing. He had orange juice to wash these down with because he was "hoping that all those vitamins reduced the damage".

Yep, and McDonalds sell diet coke.