Ok. I admit it. I love Nigella Lawson. I love that she has got great heaving bosoms and a degree in Literature and drowns everything in cream. That she makes food sexy, ladle by ladle. Unlike Delia (who taught me how to boil and egg and how to make the perfect mash, thanks Delia, that will be all) Nigella NEVER says: “start this 24 hours before” “soak it overnight” or “the taste is literally out of this world”.
Look at her! Nigella is posh. She buys cheese that costs $50 a kilo, only ever has the best olive oil in the house and her leftovers are like something you’d get in a box at Harrod’s foodmarket. But she doesn’t have an annoying fat tongue in her mouth like Jamie Oliver or make things out of offal and rare herbs like Hugh Fernly-Wittingstall. She doesn’t cook much with seafood like the adorable Rick Stein (less good after his dog died) and unlike those tools in TV ads who claim to be celebrity chefs, I actually know who she is. And she’s hot. SHe doesn’t say “lovely jubbly”, she swallows the whole spoon because she made it and it’s bloody lovely.
And her recipe books include heaps of cocktails. Because if there’s no booze, Nigella ain’t interested. I’d like to go to her house and eat dinner and get trashed and talk about 19th century poetry and see what her party tricks are, cos I bet they’d be brilliant. Then we’d make fun of some of the bits in her husband’s art collection and do shots of tequila in the kitchen whilst saying SSSSSHHHHHHHHHH really loudly. We’d get on famously, as long as she only came over to my house once and tried my patented creamy chicken casserole which she would love. And we’d be BFFFF.
Are you reading this Nigella? Call me.