A psychopathic, Pacific Islander Elvis Presley

Oh no! The fabulously witty (and rather cute) "kitchen gadget guy" Rhik Samadder has written his last column - but it's a good one! In today's Guardian, he tackles the peculiar concept of "personalised face lollipops"...

...Here’s how it works: you email a picture of yourself to the company, specifying your distinguishing features, and their Oompah Loompahs will spin, knead and sculpt your candy clone. I ordered one of me, one of Boris Johnson... On unwrapping, the first impression is of weight. They’re heavy, as skulls should be. I take a look at the sugar likeness of me. It’s flattering how unlike me it is, more of a psychopathic, Pacific Islander Elvis Presley.

Meanwhile, it feels freaky to have Boris Johnson’s head on a stick, a cascading omelette of blond drowning his blue peepers. A bit Lord of the Flies. I’m not super into the idea of licking it, as I suspect real-life Boris would love it, but I do. The hair tastes of tutti-frutti. Upsettingly nice. Things get weirder over the next few weeks: the skin of my face blisters, beginning to look grey under electric lighting. Boris, however, endures, plump-skinned, tasty, pink in all lights. I’m no Dorian Gray, yet at least he got a portrait.

I don’t want either of these infernal totems, but who can I offload them to? A child? What if someone saw? That would be a messed-up transaction. So now I’m stuck with myself and Sugar Ray Johnson; one mouldering to a symbolic grave, the other hellish and immortal. If auto-cannibalism or licking celebrities appeals, and you’ve got the lolly, here is the perfect gift to yourself. Given the mix of sugar and narcissism, though, it’s hardly the healthy option. They say two heads are better than one – on this evidence, that’s crap...

Farewell, Rhik - we'll miss you.

Rhik slips in the carrot

For no better reason than he is on top form today, we revisit the magnificent Rhik Samadder's "Inspect a Gadget" column in The Guardian - as he reviews a protective glove for kitchen use. Who knew that "health'n'safety" could be such fun?

A lightweight glove that can repel a blade? Holy smoke. Has it been lifted from a superhero’s outfit? Does it mean I can stop bullets with the flat of my palm, like a vigilante lollipop lady? We’ll get to that. I must admit it is weirdly empowering to wear a single glove. A bit “assume the position” chic. This one is appealingly reminiscent of vintage Michael Jackson. But cut-proof? Shamone! How is that possible? From what I can see, it’s made of elastic spangles.

The problem is, to test the glove’s powers, I’d have to put it on and cut myself. I don’t mind the man in the mirror these days, so this seems a drastic step. A friend suggested putting a carrot in one of the finger sheaths, and chopping that through the material; an idea I dismissed as the ramblings of a fool. Having failed to come up with anything better in the following six days, I proceed with Operation Carrot Finger. If it works, I’ll say it was my idea all along...

As I slip in the carrot, the washing label reveals I have the wrong end of the stick. The one-size-fits-most, ambidextrous glove is “cut-resistant not cut-proof, and no claim is made for point-puncture resistance”. Hardly bulletproof. It’s mainly for protecting your fingers while grating cheese. With heavy heart, I test this simpler function, to which it proves excellently suited.

Now, you would have to be a contrary boob to have a problem with such a useful item; but I am and do. Firstly, I don’t mind skin-y food. My blood curry, flavoured with ginger and fingers, is renowned for its depth of flavour. Secondly, I like wearing plasters. Most importantly, wearing a glove to zest a lemon makes me melancholy in a TS Eliot sort of way. We cannot protect ourselves from all the sharp edges of our existence. We dice, and grate, with danger; that’s what gives life zest. Stay vulnerable, stay vital. There is no magic glove.

The man never ceases to bring a smile to my face.

And he's cute, too!

A cheap and simple way to destroy your dinner

Easter and eggs - inextricably linked? You may want to think again...

From the rather cute and very funny Rhik Samadder's "Inspect a gadget" column in the Guardian:

In my time reviewing kitchen gadgets, I’ve learned it would not be good to be reborn as a chicken, because the sickest, most disturbing contraptions always, always have something to do with eggs. Pressure cubers, poaching baggies, vertically extruding grills: they are a twisted universe unto themselves.

So, in a vaguely Easter-themed special, I have decided to test every one of these damned gadgets I can get my hands on. Strap in – I’m looking for the worst, the most unspeakable...

...There’s EZCracker, which sounds more like a racist slur than a kitchen aid. It’s a handheld cradle suspended over razorblades – when activated, the device’s arms push the shell down, on to the blades, and apart. Like a lethal reverse Wonderbra. (I achieved successful shell splittage 20% of the time. The separator attachment fell off and landed in the bowl 100% of the time.)

Then there’s Bogey Man, a clear winner. Imagine a Toby Jug, if Toby were suffering from the plague. When you break a raw egg into his head and tip it up, albumen seeps from his nostrils like snot. It’s goddamn disgusting. Egg-wrong rating: 3/5.

You ain’t seen nothing yet. Lékué might sound like a high-end moisturiser but, in fact, it’s the brand behind Ovo, a square-egg cooker – and, at £5.40, it’s a cheap and simple way to destroy your dinner. Pour an egg, plus other ingredients, into a cube-shaped silicone mould, microwave, then “de-mould” for – ha! – a good, square meal. Be still, my beating digestive tract. I put in carrot, baked beans and thyme, because they’re all I have. After a minute, there’s an explosion. Ovo’s top has blown off, leaving a sorry cube of protein-wrong, flecked with petrified remains of semi-cooked carrot and burnt herb. It stinks, too. Egg-wrong rating: 4/5...

...The Eggstractor, though. It’s a concertina tube atop a tripod, which claims to peel eggs instantly. The idea is that when one pushes down on it, pressure inside the egg’s air cell causes it to jettison its shell, like Nina Simone shrugging off a fur, and slip through a hole in the tripod base, naked and ready. It’s surprisingly violent, like performing CPR. When I finally succeed, the egg slams into the counter, the yolk shooting across the room. It’s like punching someone in the face so hard their eyeball explodes. “The Magic of the patented Eggstractor is Pure Science!” reads the box. Luckily I speak a little bozo, so let me translate: “It’s bullshit!” Egg-wrong rating: 3/5...

Rhik Samadder tries the Eggstractor

...I unwrap Beep Egg, a floating egg-timer from Germany. “It’s very high-t’egg,” the packet jokes weakly, before getting bossy and prohibitive. “Do not try to open Beep Egg! Do not discard Beep Egg in an open fire! Do not swallow Beep Egg!” It plays ringtones corresponding to how cooked your eggs are: Killing Me Softly for softboiled (inspired), It’s a Heartache for hardboiled (bit tenuous) and Chick Chick Chicken for medium (essentially meaningless). What about Hard Knock Life and Stuck in the Middle with You? Wit might not be its forte, but the timer is superbly engineered. Egg-wrong rating: 1/5

The instructions on the DoraQ egg spinner sound like a troubling drunk. “You can make eggs body dumped in the middle of a different rotation.” Sorry? “Housewives simply been thrown into intact eggs inside the eggs shaker.” The words have clearly been put through rudimentary translation software; while I’m gripped by the Gertrude Stein-esque prose this has generated, it’s getting me nowhere.

I turn to the Okashina Tamago Mawashite Purin Egg Flan Maker. The instructions are slightly clearer, being entirely in Japanese, and I find a video online in which a chorus of singing eggs show me what to do. Like DoraQ, the aim is to spin an egg, scrambling its insides and turning it golden. When gently cooked in the shell, it will turn to purin, a crème caramel dessert popular in Japan. Yeah, right. It’s basically a Kinder toy. I place an egg into a plastic chamber and pump a crank back and forth, spinning it dizzy. It’s like subjecting a tiny astronaut to centrifugal training. Following the video, I boil a pan of water. “Stop the fire and enter the egg plastic-wrapped,” the singing eggs tell me. Is this a plea for safe sex? Why plastic-wrapped? (Why any of this, I suppose.) I comply. After 30 seconds – as instructed – I take it out and leave it to cool. I have a bad feeling... spoon poised, I crack the egg. A neon puddle seeps out, covering the counter and dripping on to my shoes. It’s horrendous, an Exxon Valdez of smooth, liquid sick, a split colostomy bag. On the plus side, it’s a shade of yellow I’ve never seen before. A masterpiece of egg-wrong: 5/5.

...It has been a shattering experience that has left me shell-shocked. I never want to see one again. My flat stinks to high heaven. I’ve learned to watch my back next time I’m on a farm, for the things we do to eggs are an insult to hens that will echo through the ages. The horror. The horror.

Genius. It brightened my day...

Read Rhik's previous monstrous experience with processed eggs.

Free wooden skewers, to defend yourself from your food

From the Guardian's "Inspect a Gadget" feature today:

This week’s gadget describes itself as “a new way to prepare eggs”, which is accurate in the way that chopping off your legs could be described as a new way to lose weight. Let’s start with that name, its unsettling taint of S&M, an overtone consistent with the design. In hot pink and stippled black rubber, Egg Master’s exterior screams cut-price, mail-order adult toy; its funnelled hole suggests terrible uses. And it has a traffic light on it, for some reason.

“Spray non-stick agent into container”, the box advises, which definitely gets the tummy rumbling. As instructed, I crack two whole eggs into the hot tunnel, trying to ignore the gurgling sound from within. It’s impossible to see what’s going on – but it smells bad. I squint into the dark opening. A bulging yellow sac peers back at me. Minutes pass; the smell does not. Then, without warning, a flaccid, spongy log half jumps from the machine, writhing like an alien parasite in search of a host body. It’s horrifying, like a scene from The Lair of the White Worm.

I can’t look at it, let alone eat it.

To stall, I consult the badly photocopied handbook, which suggests other delicious treats this baby is good for. Egg Master Egg Crackers, which is mixed-up crackers, egg and cheese; Egg Master Egg Dog; PB&J (peanut butter and jelly) Egg Master, and the tantalising Cuban Egg Master. It’s a dossier of culinary hate crimes (barbecue Pork Egg Master has two ingredients, “biscuit dough and three teaspoons of precooked pork”).

Nervously, I try the sulphuric, sweating egg mess before me. The taste is ... not the best. As I dry heave into the sink, I try to remember if I read about this machine in the Book of Revelation. Why is it in the world? Who created it? Maybe no one. Perhaps soon, sooner than you think, we will all bow to the Egg Master.

Redeeming features?

It’s quite space-efficient, being so dense with evil. The box contains free wooden skewers, to defend yourself from your food, and a pipe cleaner to swab the device, although no holy water to soak it in.

I don't think that's a recommendation.