Don’t get me wrong, I love Nigella Lawson and her magnificent rack. But I am increasingly irritated by her over-the-top commentary. Just cook the damn FOOD, woman!
Last night she dished up a black rice concoction with prawns and chili. She wanted me to behold the “marvellous black pearls of rice studded with ruby chillies”. For a vegetarian variation, she invited you to try it with some “soft, jade hunks of avocado”.
Next she bunged a bit of marinated steak on the BBQ, black on the outside but moo-ing within, chopped it up and called it a “quiveringly-rare, plateful of spice-seared, ruby-fleshed rags”.
To finish off, her limoncello-drenched trifle featured blackberries “peeking through their blanket of mascarpone cream”.
Her flowery descriptions are making me long for the last series, with her patented deep-throat taste testing of elongated vegetables. She seems determined to make the even the most unremarkable foods sound gloriously decadent and sensuous. Perhaps she cut a deal with some farmers, “Luv, if you can make this here cabbage sexy, we will keep you in bosom-hugging twinsets for life”.
You can just imagine her brushing her teeth at night, whipping her tongue over her choppers and marvelling, “The pristine minty freshness of toothpaste evokes memories of prancing barefoot through a meadow in the summertime.” Or buying new tyres for her car, she’d be groping each one like a ripe melon and purring, “The charcoal curves, the tangy aroma of rubber; the deep and twisting tunnels of the tread, how they surround the shiny wheel like a lovers embrace.”
NIGELLA UPDATE: Last night, when chopping up a watermelon, she said, “Make sure the pieces are big but not so big you can’t fit it them your mouth”… then she paused and gave the camera a saucy look, “Not that it would be a problem for me!”. Rhi and I shrieked, “YOU DIRTY BITCH!” in unison.