Greetings, fellow foodies! This week’s recipe is an exotic one, submitted by Pete and Chris; a calorific concoction of intriguing flavours wrapped in a flash casing, guaranteed to bring sparkle to even the drabbest Sunday evening. Some caution is needed: Pete tells me the last time he and Chris made one they briefly set fire to the internet, so make sure you don’t do the same!
- Three continents (if you don’t have these lying around you can re-use the same footage from the recipe we made three weeks ago; neon signs are usually available in all good home & garden stores)
- Two grizzled sidekicks, gay for preference (I always like to season their backstory in advance)
- Two tonnes of plastic
- One obviously robotic bird (make sure you change the batteries first)
- More plastic references
- Three hazmat suits and a couple of gas masks
- Seven tablespoons of BBC interference
- Did we mention plastic?
Time: 50 minutes
Difficulty: Amiable to infuriating
1. First, grease a large baking sheet with marketing hype. I find it helps to do this in layers, but you’ll need to include a really good press release talking about the environmental themes.
2. Pre-heat the oven to Gas Mark 6. This won’t take long as it should still be fairly hot from our last bake.
3. Separate your characters into three piles. Then, in three separate bowls, mix them until they start to combine. This is a lengthy process but they’ll eventually form a loose sort of dough. Be careful not to prod it, though, or it’ll break apart.
4. Place one Doctor in each bowl. Leave to stew.
5. Over a low heat, boil up three technobabble dumplings. Start this early, so they have time to boil dry – the drier the better.
6. While the technobabble is simmering, blend up three McGuffins – I tend to use human-shaped McGuffins – into thousands of pieces. This will be your layer of unpleasant death.
7. Combine all three bowls until the mixture just about clumps together. Crimp the edges with a pathogen reference.
8. Now it’s time to add our flavouring. Dip the hazmat suits very briefly into the mixture and then pull them out straight away; you want only the mildest hint of them. Sprinkle the layer of unpleasant death over the top.
9. When this is done, drizzle with social commentary. I find it helps to do this slowly and laboriously, really allowing the juices to soak in: you’ll probably find it gets concentrated in one area, and will almost certainly drift to the bottom, but your dinner guests will expect this so it doesn’t matter too much. They’ll eat it anyway.
10. The pudding is now ready to be over-egged. You know what to do, right?
11. Place in the oven. While it’s baking, you could catch up on Twitter.
12. It’s vital that you remove your Praxeus from the oven midway through the cooking time. This will ensure it’s half-baked and collapsing in the middle.
13. Garnish with a twist of half-expected villain and, if you have one, a sprig of noble self-sacrifice.
14. If prepared to perfection, the Praxeus should be stodgy and sweet, but leave a mildly unpleasant aftertaste.
And that’s it. In two weeks: Dry Roasted Cybermen, guaranteed nut (and bolt) free.