You know what you can do with your goose fat...

The newspapers are full of advice about Christmas cooking. Janice Turner in The Times puts the boot into the ever so slightly portly Nigella:

How are you cooking your turkey on Monday? Surely you won’t simply shove it in the oven with a knob of butter? Has Nigella taught you nothing?
This week the nation goggled and gagged while the domestic goddess shoved a large bird in a bucket of salty water then added star anise, berries, maple syrup, parsley, an orange . . .
This is no longer cooking: it is shtick, Nigella as a parody of herself, fleshy and lubricious, tempting us into 3,000-calorie repasts, because they haven’t hurt her, saying hang the washing up (and sod the planet) with her chuckaway roasting tins.
My esteemed colleague Robert Crampton once wrote that the world can be divided into Cavaliers and Roundheads. And Nigella is the chef of the Cavaliers — louche, lazy and approximate. I’m missing the culinary Oliver Cromwell, the exacting mistress of the kitchen: this Christmas I’m going back to Delia.

Me, I'm going to my sister's. And when it comes to cooking, she is at least the equal to either Nigella (silly name!) or Delia.