Not my risotto, obvs—mine turns out more like this:

Loth as I am to venture into areas about which I know Fuck Nothing (punk and art spring to mind), here’s a little jeu d’esprit on cuisine during lockdown.

Unlike many people, I’m all too accustomed to solitude (cf. On visiting a hermit), so apart from not being able to enjoy my daily swim, my routine has hardly changed—including my activities in the kitchen.

Bearing in mind that pampered Grauniad readers like me have been panicking for some years about the shortage of hummus and avocados (“and other mysterious things that add up to nothing much when it comes to making meals”—Love, Nina), I must confess that I do now tend to stockpile. I recklessly bought two whole tins of baked beans the other day, and—undeterred by the fascist futurist fulminations of Marinetti—I now snap up pasta with unprecedented relish.

The present anxiety is having one influence on my culinary repertoire: a welcome comeback gig for risotto, a simple and versatile dish that I had cruelly neglected for several years. It’s a pleasure to relearn the subtleties of proportions and timing (not entirely like jazz)—frying the leeks (onions, whatever), and then turning up the heat to add the rice and then the white wine; then lowering the heat as I gradually add the stock. Then toying with various combos of vegetables del giorno—lovingly picked by the migrants upon whom our so-called government temporarily finds itself dependent, just like “our” NHS. * All topped off (the risotto, not the migrants) with freshly-grated parmesan. That’s cheese, BTW.

Some last-minute lemon (or if you’re feeling really racy, lime), and rocket, can be pleasing too. Then, turning off the heat, cover and leave to stand (It Says ‘ere). Practice makes perfect.

And as a change from my legendary dinner parties [legendary in the sense that they never existed?—Ed.], I don’t even have to share it—YAY! Imagine if we started to realise that all that frantic economic and social activity was overestimated all along. Don’t be tempted to make enough risotto to last for several meals, though—it’s a kinda one-off (一次性) thing, like…

To borrow from Molvania, this fine main course is

followed by a fruit sorbet, designed to help cleanse the palate in preparation for dessert which, unfortunately, also happens to be fruit sorbet.

For more on cuisine, see Prick with a fork, and, for the regime on Mount Athos, Ritual, food, and chastisement. For more Italian menus, click here; and for the priceless headline “Bake Off winner discovers you can buy cake from shops”, here. See also Alexei Sayle on his youthful epiphany in Hungary (“Now I saw what a salad really could be under socialism”); and for some other accomplishments not commonly associated with him, here. For gems of culinary wisdom, see Love, Nina. For changing dietary wisdom, see here, as well as a wonderful history of the tomato in Italy.

While my qualifications for writing about cooking are nugatory, they are more impressive than those of Tweety McTangerine in dispensing medical, or indeed any, advice:

* Note to so-called UK government: STOP CALLING IT “OUR” NHS, FFS! YOU’VE BEEN DOING YOUR UTMOST TO DESTROY IT FOR A DECADE! See also “How to suddenly support the NHS”, recent instalment in the fine series of guides by Rachel Parris (cf. Is Jacob Rees Mogg as much fun as he seems?). Also cf. “our European friends”, on whom see Stewart Lee. See also my roundup of Tory iniquity.

BTW, these may be trying times for anyone, of whatever age, asked what day of the week it is, or the name of the Prime Minister. On the recent return of the latter, the old Brezhnev joke may be apposite.