I’m back — with Toblerone fondue, no less!

Gentle Reader, I’m sure you have been mourning my conspicuous absence from the blogosphere. (Just nod your head yes.)

Well, fear not, the good people of Twitter (I refuse to say “tweeps” — it just squicks me out) have spoken, and their resounding chorus has been: We want Nigellablog! (Poor babies, so starved for foodie snark and crap photography, they are.)

So here I am, because Lord knows when the Good People of the Twitstream demand something, you’d best be on it. And what better way to resurrect one’s badly-photographed snark than to make Toblerone fondue, during Valentine’s week? Oh, yes.

Behold, my beloved bounty (complete with accoutrements from Fearless Husband, and supermarket-fashioned watermelon heart, which, no, did not get dipped in the Toblerone goodness.)

Toblerone Fondue (from the Nigella Quick Collection iPhone app, AKA The Best $2.99 I Ever Spent)

(Serves 6-8 chocaholics, “depending on age and appetite”; Fearless Husband would say “All your Toblerone fondue are belong to me.”)

• Approximately 6 (yes, 6) bars of Toblerone
• 1 cup double cream (that’s heavy cream for the non-Anglophile geeks amongst ye)
• 1/4 cup milk (I used whole because, you know, the heavy cream just wasn’t enough)
• Fondue dip-age: I used mixed fruit (strawberries and pineapple, mostly), but Nigella also recommends bananas and marshmallows

 

My preciousssss ...

First, bust up your Toblerone into its requisite bits. Resist the urge to pre-game (you will most likely fail). Snort at husband when you ask what size bowl to place them in, and he points to his open mouth. Watch in amazement as your pre-gaming child sneaks a bite and announces she likes it (the first food with nuts in it she’s consumed and approved).

Place what’s left of your Toblerone in a generously-sized bowl which is not your husband’s open mouth. Pour in your milk and cream (or enlist your suddenly nut-loving child to perform said task).

Ready for a meltdown ... (unlike me, for once)

Next, you will need to make the difficult decision of whether to do things Just Like Nigella Tells You To (which is my general modus operandi), or whether to diverge paths from Her Gorgeousness. Nigella recommends melting your bowl o’milky goodness in a bespoke fondue set, and rather begrudgingly concedes that she “suppose[s]” one could use a bowl perched precariously over a saucepan of simmering water. (Magnificently simmering, of course.)

Gentle Reader, I must confess that my fondue set went the way of my ex-husband, so I was left with no option but to take the renegade road less traveled. (I’m so sorry, my darling. I’ll make it up to you next time by using real bourbon in my vanilla wuss pud.)

 

Double boilin', ghetto style.

Once your proper fondue set or ersatz double boiler arrangement has been secured, allow your Embarrassment of Toffee Nougat Riches to get its melt on. In my saucepan/glass bowl universe, this took approximately 15 minutes of alternating between allowing my four-year-old to stir and cautioning her away from the burner (the whole operation will exude steam every so often, so be careful).

 

Flashback time!

You may notice, Gentle Reader, that, about midway through this 15 minutes of simmery fame, your fondue-in-progress will bear an alarming resemblance to the disheartening slop that was Nigella’s uber-fail-y Instant Chocolate “Mousse.” Do not, I repeat, do not panic. Simply practice your distress tolerance skills, and hang onto your oven door handle by your fingernails, and have faith, for, just about the time your young sous-chef begins begging you to watch a DVD of bad 1980s animation she insisted on checking out from the library, your concoction will take on a rich, thick texture, like so:

 

Tha's much bettah, innit?

At this juncture, it will be critical to perform a taste test. Procure a hopefully-not-too-mushy winter strawberry from yonder fridge, and dip that bad boy into your velvety nougat-y notslop.

 

Hell to the yes.

After you’ve had a sloppy, sensuous bite, you may be tempted to hoard the whole damn bowl with enough tenacity to make you a prime candidate for that show Intervention on A&E. Don’t do it, friends. It is Valentine’s week, after all, and one must share the love.

Nigella suggests placing the fondue in individual bowls, to reduce the mess your chillens make. We did this for our girlie, but she dripped far less than we did (and took better food photos, truth be told). Next time, for the three of us, I would scale this recipe down to a third of its current gluttony (those 6-ish servings are quite generous). However, your leftovers would make an absolutely divine drizzle over cheesecake, or an obscenely thick pudding, or even cake frosting. Plus, if you’re lucky, when you go downstairs to sneak some for breakfast the next morning, you might even find this:

 

All together, now: Awwww!

Instant Chocolate Mousse

Oh, Gentle Reader, how easy and lovely I thought this would be for my suppersnack, after a long, grumpy day and a late lunch. Sure, I’d read the damning Quentin Letts review of this very same recipe, but dismissed him as a hater.

You know what, though? He’s totally right.

Yes, my beloved Nigella has created a recipe that is completely full of fail. So terribly so, there will be no photog of the finished product, which I call Instant Too-Rich Chocolate Slop with Mini Marshmallow Surfeit. Oh, my darling, what have thou wrought?

Instant Chocolate Mousse (From the Food Network site, recipe courtesy Nigella Lawson, 2007)

(Serves 4-6, or potentially no one)

• 3 cups mini marshmallows
• 1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened (or, in my case, almost melted and spilled all over a stovetop burner)
• 9 ounces best quality semisweet chocolate, chopped into small pieces (I used a generic baking chocolate bar, nowhere near “best” quality)
• 1/4 cup hot water from a recently boiled kettle (my, my girl is precise!)
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

First, draft your Fearless Whomever to chop chocolate whilst (yes, I said whilst; I admit fully I have a pretentiousness problem) your teakettle screams and you stare longingly at your Big-Arse bag of marshmallows (and you thought I was going to say Ikea Bowl, didn’t you?).

Oh, how lovely it was, before it went all wrong.

While your child repeatedly asks you “Can I have chocolate? Can I have marshmallows?,” plop your chocolate bits, freshly-boiled water, way-m0re-than-softened butter, and marshmallow surfeit into a saucepan over a heat whose temperature the usually-quite-exacting Nigella sadly does not specify. (She describes it as “gentle”; I went with medium.)

Eventually, your chocomarshbuttah melange will turn to slop, like so:

Behold, the sad state of the slop.

Removing said mixture from the heat, you will get excited and think, “Mousse is not far away! I shall have a suppersnack that will transform me from a cranky, over-sedated novelist to a freaking Zen Mistress!” But you will be wrong, Gentle Reader. Oh-so-wrong.

Next, “whip” your cream and vanilla until “thick” (I’m so not making this up, friends; I’m just quotin’ Nigella), and “fold” it into the cooled chocolatey stuffs until you have a “smooth, cohesive mixture.”

Right there, Gentle Reader, should be a warning sign, as there is rarely anything in one’s life that is “instant” in its smoothness or cohesion. But still, go ahead, spoon some of the liquidy result into a dessert glass. Take a bite — or to be Nigella-ly precise, a sip.

I guarantee you you will yell, “Hey, that’s not frickin’ mousse!,” and then proceed, in your disgruntledness, to spill some atop your long-haired dachshund’s knotty little head. To say nothing of swear that, next time, you’re stickin’ with caramel croissant pudding.

Southern-Style Fried Chicken

Now this Nigella creation, Gentle Reader, I will admit to some skepticism of. Heresy, I know, but as the descendant of Southerners, I’m just a tad picky about all things fried and/or barbecued, especially with such fond memories of gnawin’ drumsticks done up by my North Carolina-born grandmother after church on Sundays. Not to mention the stomach-churning terror at the thought of using . . . shortening.

But, given the utterly draining day I had (hint: it involved the “Two Hour Public Transit Commute to an Expensive Therapist” mood choice from my customized Personal Pocket Nigella collection), I was rather desperate for amusement. Fire up the fryer, baby.

This, right here? This, friends, is why I will never be a food stylist or photographer.

Southern-Style Fried Chicken (Recipe found on the Food Network site, courtesy of Nigella Lawson, 2007)

(Notice she calls it “Southern-Style,” not “Southern,” which is good, otherwise we might be havin’ ourselves a little lovers’ quarrel ’bout authenticity and putting on airs. Thank you, dear Nigella, for keeping it real.)

• 2 chicken drumsticks, skin on
• 2 chicken thighs, skin on, bone in (mine were skinless and boneless — what can I say, I have authority issues)
• 3 to 4 cups milk (I went with 4)
• 2 1/4 cups solid vegetable shortening, for frying (as opposed to for recreational use, I suppose)
• 1 tablespoon plus one teaspoon salt
• 3/4 cup all-purpose flour (I used an all-purpose gluten free mix)
• 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper (I wussed out and skipped this)
• 1 egg, beaten

If you are feeling industrious, or do not have a hellish public transit commute in the morning, place your chicken and milk in a bowl (with plastic wrap — or clingfilm, for those of us who put on Anglophile airs) and let it hang out in the fridge for at least two hours (and up to overnight). Nigella assures me this step is optional, which pleases me, because I skipped it.

In the evening, once it’s fryin’ time, send your Fearless Whomever, should you have one, and any chillens you may also possess, out somewhere so you can get your Nigella on in peace. (I sent mine to the park.) Transfer your chicken and milk (pre-tenderized or not) into a big ol’ pot, and bring the milk to a boil. (For some reason, this freaked me out. Boiling milk? Won’t that be gross?)

Milk! Boiling! Eek!

Let this strange concoction then simmer on medium-low for about 20 minutes. Come back downstairs (yes, I multitasked, for I hate to break it to you, Gentle Reader: I am not the daggum Dalai Lama) to find your chicken-n-milk lookin’ all foamy and funky, and not unlike a more chicken-y version of cream chipped beef (another Southern fave).

Is it breakfast time, or are you just a cream chipped beef impersonator?

Pick the birdie bits out with tongs, and place them on a rack to cool for 15 minutes. If you are lazy, and/or don’t have a Dutch oven in which to fry, rinse out your foamy Cream Chipped Chicken pot (not too fastidiously, as it’s just gonna get gunked up with oil). Once your drummies and thighs have reached a comfy, warm-ish temperature, pat them dry lovingly with a piece of kitchen — err, paper towel. (The Anglophilia, it’s an addiction, I tell you.)

Open your tub o’shortening. Marvel at how much it looks like (non-hydrogenated, because I bought the organic spendy kind) Cool Whip as you spoon it into your measuring cups. Plop it into your marginally-clean stockpot.

I'm like Cool Whip, baby, only better for you. Sort of.

Next comes the terrifying part. The part that made me shake in my boots and want to cry out (with a shocking paucity of innuendo): Hold me, Nigella! I’m scared!

Heat your quasi-Cool Whip over high heat, until it’s “barely at the smoking point.” (Nigella and her Food Network American-izer assure me this is somewhere around 325 degrees, but I’ll be damned if I’m sticking a thermometer in a pot of smokin’ oil.)

Gentle Reader, let me warn you: Even on medium high, this puppy will sputter far worse than the cream for caramel croissant pudding. Please go easy on the heat, and put a lid on your saucepan if need be.

Now we're cooking with spatter!

While the oil makes noises that will no doubt remind you of the time you blew up something in the microwave, stay emotionally regulated as you wash the residue from your oily hands (thinking dirty thoughts is totally optional, but highly recommended). As the oil reaches frenzied proportions o’spatter, hurriedly combine your breading ingredients in a large zip-top bag, and whisk your egg.

Nigella recommends dipping your chicken in the moist and dry mixtures twice, but I said to hell with that, and gave them a quick swish-n-twirl and called it good. At this point, Fearless Husband and Girlchild had returned home from their park stroll, which was a good thing, as I was deathly afraid to dunk the chicken in the liquified un-Cool Whip, and was desperately in need of assistance. Feel free, Gentle Reader, to exploit your loved ones and allow them to get splashed with rogue oil. This is not part of the Interpersonal Effectiveness module you learned in therapy, but sometimes, one must improvise.

After each chicken bit has been summarily baptized in the spluttering waters for at least 1 minute, take them out and fling ‘em on a plate. As your side dish microwaves (without sputtering or explosion; I chose a decidedly un-Southern accompaniment of Trader Joe’s polenta with spinach, peas, and spicy cream sauce), gnaw at one of the drumsticks like a feral beast, in order to taste test. Declare it a tad salty, and not worth the trouble to make again, and not your Mimi’s fried chicken, but pretty damn decent, considering it was made by a one-eyed girl from an Englishwoman’s recipe.

Caramel Croissant Pudding

This Nigella recipe, Gentle Reader, is my absolute favorite in the universe. Mainly because it has THE best accompanying video clip on her cookery show (which will make you fall in love with her completely, if you haven’t already, in which case — what’s wrong with you? are you dead?), but also because it’s fast becoming a trope in my latest novel-in-progress, showing up in poignant and funny ways. So you know I had to make it. How hard can it be? I thought.

Well, apparently I need to go to cooking school, because my caramelization abilities are even worse than my ability to photograph. Even though I did exactly what Niglla told me to. Sigh. I shall blame it on the fact that this defiled beauty was made early in the morning, when I was still in the post-Seroquel groggy haze that is my first hour of the day. Perhaps if I wore those nice silky pyjamas Nigella’s got going on in that episode, rather than my ratty T-shirt and capris, I would magically alchemize into a pro caramelizer, and redeem my pud?

Eh. Not holding my breath. What I’ve created is more likely uber-vanilla croissant pudding with a hint of caramel (far less sexy), but it’s so unbelievably fabulous that I don’t quite mind.

Bonus: Flaking croissants into a casserole dish is truly one of the loveliest mindfulness exercises ever. You have to work at it a little, thanks to the stickiness of the pastry and the way it adheres to your fingers, but it’s truly meditative. Even if said croissants are decidedly non-gluten-free. (Has anyone actually made gluten-free croissants? I would love to know.)

See this pud? It's sad. It wants to be saucy and have caramel. But you will not be sad, Gentle Reader; you will scarf it down even in its vanilla tameness.

Caramel Croissant Pudding, from Nigella Express (Hyperion, 2007)

(According to Nigella, this serves 2 “greedy” people, and should be “every Monday night’s supper.” Spot on, darlin’.)

• 2 stale croissants (mine were two days old, and decidedly not gluten-free)
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 tablespoons water
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 2 tablespoons bourbon (Nigella begrudgingly recommends rum as a substitute; I had neither, and used vanilla — next time, I’d ease up, do perhaps 1 tbsp)
• 1/2 cup whole milk
• 2 eggs, beaten

Preheat yer oven to tree-fiddy, but don’t give that goddamn Loch Ness monster any (more) money. (For those of you not versed in the South Park canon, this translates at “Preheat oven to 350.” For those of you who are thinking, Seriously? She worships Nigella and watches South Park?, this would be a perfect time to introduce you to the idea of dialectical thinking.)

Tear your croissants into itty-bitty pieces, in all their sticky adhering glory. When your devil dog howls and your child chatters, think nothing but “Flaking croissants, flaking croissants,” endeavoring quite valiantly not to recall that “Maaaaakin’ caaaaahpies” dude from the early-90s SNL sketch. Put your Flaky Croissant Bits (TM) into a little ovenproof dish (but not too little, lest ye risk overflow — Nigella recommends a 2-cupper).

Mindfulness, by way of decimated pastry.

Next comes the tricky bit, the part where I went Bad Wrong: Place your sugar and water in a saucepan, and “swirl [it] around a bit to dissolve the sugar” (as per Her Goddess-ness).

When I did that, it looked like this right chere:

Are we dissolved? No, I think not.

When I touched said mixture, t’were the consistency of sand. (Which freaked me out, because I have sensory issues. Help! Eww! Make it stop!) Not dissolved atall, but what could I do? It’s not as though Personal Pocket Nigella has a video tutorial on Caramelizing for Dingbats (though she right well should!).

So off we go, as my former MFA mentor used to say. Put the sand art on the hob (that’d be a burner, for my fellow Uh-mur-icans), and jack it up to medium-high. Let the pot hang out there for 3-5 minutes. No stirring, no fiddling, because, damn it, we must embrace the subtext of Nigella’s exhortation to “Keep looking, but don’t be too timid.”

Go off and crack your two eggies. (Without hyperventilating.) Return to your sand art, to find it, true to form, bubbly and possessing a “deep amber colour.” Like so:

I'm so fly, my colour has a "u" in it.

So far, so good. Slide your pan to an unheated burner, and whisk in your cream (Nigella kindly advises to “ignore all spluttering,” which is good, because it will splutter, worse than my gleeful crushtastic self does when I watch the caramel croissant pudding episode). Whisking all the while, add your bourbon (or Wuss Vanilla), milk, and eggses.

At this point, Gentle Reader, hopefully your sauce will be all sauce-y and appropriately caramel-y. Mine, however, was not. At best, it was a weak, creamy, and faint infusion of caramel, scented overpoweringly of vanilla, with the vast majority of my sand art/deep amber bubbly crusted to the bottom of my saucepan.

If this happens to you, do not, as I did, immediately grab a spoon and commence forcibly scraping. Simply view this as an opportune moment to practice radical acceptance and distress tolerance skills, and pour your mixture over your croissant bits, before stepping away. Nigella, after all, says we must let this concoction “steep” for 10 minutes.

Once you have deep-breathed and mourned the caramel for the requisite amount of time, return to your steeping slop o’goodness, and place it tenderly (for, it, too, must be mourning the loss of its caramelized potential, and wondering whether it’s worthy enough for Nigella to crawl into bed with it) in the oven.

Wait 20 minutes, mumbling to yourself that it’s just going to be Wuss Pud, even though Nigella tells you to “prepare to swoon.” When the timer goes off, search frantically for your OveGlove, only to eye the finished concoction with skepticism (That looks a little eggy . . .).

Remove such doubts from your mind, forcibly with a scraping spoon, if necessary. Take half off the mixture (which is not too eggy, and not Wuss Pud by any stretch, I assure you), and spoon it delicately into yet another Big-Arse Ikea Bowl. Scramble for a suitable place to photograph, eventually deciding upon the top of your daughter’s dresser.

And then: take a bite.

I guarantee you that it will not matter what sort of pyjamas you’re wearing, or how stellar your caramelizing skills are, or how groggy your meds or lack o’coffee have made you. You will be transported to a land of flaky, milky, flavorful bliss. It will be terribly sweet, and surprisingly satiating, so resist the urge to eat the entire casserole dish worth. Save it, perhaps, for your afternoon snack. Or your supper. Or better: your midnight snack, in bed, a la Nigella.

Spaghetti alla Carbonara

After a freak 85-degree day in which I endured three-plus hours of un-air-conditioned public transit, ran across a highway in a slim skirt, and bit my nails to shreds at the pharmacy waiting to find out whether my new wonderdrug prescription was going to cost $200, let’s just say, Gentle Reader, that the only mindfulness I could summon was an awareness of what flavor of ice cream I wanted my minions to spoon-feed me with one hand, while fanning me with palm fronds with the other.

But, alas, said minions only exist in the world in my head (a most in-tee-resting place, if I do say so myself), and so it was up to me to make the dinner start-up happen, Nigella-style. I had originally planned to make a one-pan wonder involving an entire chicken, but, in true scatterbrain style, completely missed the “marinate for at least 2 hours, and up to 24″ portion of the equation.

Well, then. Clearly, there was only one sensible thing to do: make Nigella’s spaghetti carbonara. Yes, it involved a phone call to the still commuting (in an air-conditioned car, the lucky dog!) Fearless Husband, something along the lines of “Bring me the pancetta, and no one gets hurt!,” but hey. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that. Bring on the Carb Loading Collection!

All right, people, I know I said no photos, but I'm a pushover for my own self-indulgence.

Spaghetti alla Carbonara, from Feast (Hyperion, 2004)

(Nigella says this is 1 serving. Unless you are in desperate need of a refill on your SSRI prescription, I’m guessing 4 quite generous servings would be more accurate for most people.)

• 1 lb. spaghetti (I used brown rice spaghetti, cause that’s how we roll in my pantry)
• 2 cups cubed pancetta, rind removed
• 2 teaspoons olive oil
• 1/4 dry wine wine or vermouth (all I had was girly vino*, but it was white, so I made do)
• 4 eggs
• 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan (again, I cheated, and used pre-grated, and probably not half a cup worth, alas)
• 1/4 cup heavy cream (AKA double cream, in Britspeak)
• freshly ground black pepper and nutmeg (or dried, if you’re lazy like me)

Okay, get ready for your prosaic, decidedly un-Nigella-y, how-the-hell-is-this-woman-a-novelist rundown:

Boil your salted water, and plop your food intolerance-approved spaghetti o’choice in zee stockpot.

In a skillet massive enough to handle both pasta and requisite accoutrements (see! I can be florid! watch me!), fry pancetta in oil until, in the words of my heroine, tis “crispy not crunchy.” This may require a taste test to gauge texture. Fear not, it will be yum.

Then comes the fun part: take your vino, girly or not, and pour it in for a delightful deglazing sizzle. Let that chillax for a few, until you have what Nigella describes, quite rightly, as “a salty winey syrup.” Take the pan off the heat — or, if you are lucky enough to have a ceramic stovetop like I am, just shove it back a little.

"Salty winey syrup," ish.

Meanwhile, beat together the Parmesan, eggs, cream, and pepper in a bowl. Hyperventilate slightly at how very eggy (to say nothing of raw) this business all is. Take a photo to commemorate your anxiety. Feel better.

Raw eggs! So many! Ack!

Next, drain your pasta, swearing all the while at how badly that gluten-free fashizzle sticks to your stockpot. (Nigella suggests checking the spaghetti 2 minutes before the recommended cooking time, for al dente precision, but that all flies out the window a bit with alternative grains, I’ve found.) Reserve 1/2 cup of the pasta water (or forget, as I did, and mentally swear some more).

Add your finally-for-the-love-of-God drained pasta back to your Monstah Skillet, tossing it in the yumbly syrup. Then drizzle all that raw eggy creamy Parmesan-y goodness over the carb mountain, thinning it with water which may or may not have come from your pasta. Finally, grind your pepper and grate your nutmeg, or eyeball your pinches of dried spices, as desired.

Check the clock. Marvel at how fast that was. Put a verrrrry generous ladleful in a big chipped Ikea bowl. Nearly fall over at how decadent, and thick, and so unlike the sour cream, deli ham, and pea version from your childhood this is. Feel ready for bed, even without a Seroquel.

In short: mindfulness fail; carb coma win. (To say nothing of the utter, absolving sweetness of hearing one’s child call one the “best mama ever” for making her this for dinner.)

*Before you talk trash about my wine, however, you must know: This was not just any girly wine, but extry-special organic hootch from Trader Joe’s, that my friend Khadija procured from the trunk of her car and poured into a paper cup for me, during a midday moment of need at my MFA residency this past summer. The stuff is called Green Fin, and is fabulous, and Trader Joe, so usually my main man, is playing me out and refusing to keep stocking it. Hmph.

Nigella “in your pocket”: the Quick Collection iPhone app drooled over — I mean, reviewed.

Photo courtesy of http://www.nigella.com

Yes, Gentle Reader, Nigella has her own iPhone app. Upon hearing this, I was both gleefully delighted and insanely jealous, but my desire to have “Nigella in my pocket” won out over envy, and I hurriedly clicked the “I Want It Now” button. (Apparently someone on her web design team has mind-reading capabilities as well, because I’ve watched clips of her show and thought that very thing. About, umm, several things.)

But pay no attention to the innuendo-laden woman behind the curtain, Gentle Reader, while I extoll the virtues of this beautifully-designed little app, which (unless you already own every single one of Nigella’s cookbooks) is thoroughly worth the $2.99. Once again, Nigella’s developer team (at Random House, I’m assuming, given her upcoming book launch) has done an uncannily good job of anticipating hungry fans’ needs (40 minutes of video instruction, friends!), plus they’ve done so in a way that’s both geektastic (voice control for progression through recipe steps) and utterly classy, what with its soothing blue color scheme, and its recipe photo backdrops imitating dark wood grain.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fangirl,” I can hear you smirking, Not-So-Gentle Reader. “But what about the recipes themselves?”

Well, there are, at conservative guess, around 60 included, with each of her cookbooks represented (though the balance does tip significantly towards Nigella Express), as well as 10 recipes exclusive to the app. (Heavy on the desserts, of course, but come on, now — there’s no way you’ll mourn the loss of mains when you’ve got the makings of baklava muffins and Toblerone fondue, right? Just nod your head yes, people.)

Other handy features include shopping lists, US equivalencies for measurements (though a few UK measures edged their way back in), technique tips (mango-splitting tutorial, anyone?), and fun indexes based on one’s meal proclivity and mood. Some of these were a bit fiddly (I wasn’t aware “Children” were a food group), but others were delightful — “Nibbly” as a mood, for instance.

A few others I’d like to propose (you know, just to be helpful in terms of customer feedback):

Meal Types:

• Shitey McShite, I’m Hypomanic and Working on a Novel, and Planning to Conquer the World, and . . . What the Hell Do You Mean, It’s Dinnertime Already?
• First Meal Eaten After Being Hospitalized for a Week, Subsisting on Mystery Meat and Pudding Slop Barely Passing for Parfaits
• Cheap but Satisfying Stuff You Can Scarf on the Bus During the Two Hour One-Way Trip to Your Expensive Therapist

Moods:

• Serotonin-Deprived and Carb Loading
• On Depakote and/or Lithium and Fighting the Urge to Devour Everything in Sight
• Wide-Awake At 2 AM, and Not For Fun Reasons, Either

A woman can dream, right? But at least now I’ve got Nigella in my pocket . . . sorta.

Why Nigella? And we get the sensuality bit (oh, and how!), but what’s with the mindfulness business? Aren’t you just an ersatz Julie Powell, with more Zen and fewer f-bombs?

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Gracious, Gentle Reader, that’s a lot of snarky questions. But I shall endeavor (look, Ma, no extraneous “u” — though I longed for it, so fiercely!) to answer ‘em all.

Why Nigella?

Well, why not a blog paying homage to Nigella Lawson? We are, after all, talking about a woman who can make caramel croissant pudding, edit the Times literary supplement, and weather tremendous loss, all while looking hotter than Hades. If that’s not homage-worthy, friends, I’m not sure what is.

Lest you think my sycophantic, crush-y gushing is pure light-hearted fandom, however, I will also say this: the coupling of Nigella’s unapologetic sensuality and her erudition (foodie and otherwise) makes her a formidable, yet approachable, heroine for those who, for whatever reason, feel divorced from their own bodies and stuck in their heads, who want to proudly take up both physical and intellectual space, who make no excuses and have no regrets about the delicate permutations and bold acts that make up their personal choices, who write the novel with one hand and stir the pot with the other.

In other words, Gentle Reader, girls like me.

No, scratch that. Women like me. I’m thirty-two fricking years old. Time to stop quoting circa-1992 Tori Amos, stop thinking of myself as a waif, and start embracing my own hard-won, gorgeous gravitas. Rather like Nigella, no?

Okay, sure, but what’s with the mindfulness business?

Oh, Gentle Reader, I was afraid you were going to ask that. Partially because my answers will no doubt sound mighty woo to those of you who haven’t lived on the West Coast for a half-decade like I have, and partially because, well, the mindfulness business has an awful lot to do with struggles of a Far More Personal Nature Than My Tendency to Think of Myself as Waifish and Unnecessarily Quote Tori Amos (TM).

I will say this much: mindfulness training, inspired by Zen Buddhist practice and studied in an absolutely brilliant therapeutic context as a way to cope with excruciating emotional distress, has changed my life, and probably even saved it. But here’s the thing: it sounds easy, but it’s hard as hell. And it’s not just about chillaxing on throw pillows meditating; it’s about integrating that mindfulness into your daily life, and experiencing the present moment in all its simplicity and richness — which takes practice, particularly for a bipolar workaholic like myself, whose brain goes five gazillion miles an hour.

At first, when I started a year ago, I could only do it while cooking. Even when the monkey brain was in full-on Speed Racer mode, something about setting out a cutting board and some vegetables, or turning on the tap to rinse out a stockpot, would immediately signal to it, Shut the funk up, we’re pretending to be Nigella, now! And I would chop (clumsily yet carefully, because of ye olde vision impairment, which I’ll get to later when I explain this blog’s copious lack of photographs, or at least ones that aren’t complete and utter pants), and do my washing-up, and concentrate on those tasks with such excruciating care, that eventually I could kinda, sorta, by my standards, think of blessed nothing other than ginger, and carrots, and dish soap.

Which did not, of course, mean that I could magically extrapolate said moment of nothingness to the rest of my life, or that I was, from that moment onward, cured of my propensity for putting saucepans on the stove, walking away, and then wondering what that smell was half an hour later. Oh, no, no. But it was a respite. A crack of light under the door of the locked, anxiety-laden room of my mind. A start.

A year later, I’m fairly good at this sort of cognitive pause button pushing, but I’m not perfect. And I’m tremendously bored with my current meal rota (which may have something to do with the fact that I spent a month or so tormenting myself with an elimination diet that removed alcohol, caffeine, sugar, chocolate, gluten, and dairy — basically, all the Things That Make Life Worth Living). I’m feeling twitchy and burnt-out, and omnivorous, and ready to embrace a little . . . eh, hedonism’s not the word, with its connotation of wanton excess and shameless self-absorption. Baroque beauty? Omnivorous delight? Big bad chipped Ikea bowls full o’Noodle Soup for Needy People and caramel croissant pudding?

Check, check, and check.

Hence my genius revelation, which dawned upon me as I strolled through a carnival, licking at the chemical tang of a soft-serve ice cream cone, watching my daredevil child get her adrenaline rush on: Screw that Nourishing Traditions crap, with its bone broth and sauerkraut! Hell with my IgA lab results, with their reactivity to everything from cranberries to goat cheese! I want to get back on the mindfulness train, and work my way through the Nigella culinary canon! And, umm, maybe blog about it.

Oh, please. What are you, an ersatz Julie Powell, with more Zen and fewer f-bombs?

Maybe, but does it matter? I’ve already watched Hollywood turn my work into a mediocre script, plus I have no idea who’d play me, so I’ve got no aspirations to stardom here. (Oh, and while I do have an occasional penchant for the well-placed f-bomb, you’ll be far more likely to find an errant, indulgently-placed Britishism — cf. “brilliant,” “pants,” and “washing-up,” above.)

Bonus question, from the Short Attention Span Society: Why no photographs, or at least no decent ones, again?

Because, Gentle Reader, I’m vision-impaired. Now, nobody get all excited and condescending and act like I’m the Helen Keller of food blogging, all right? I can read recipes; I can handle a santoku knife okay (though I usually let Fearless Husband or a food processor do the more refined choppity-chop). I’d even go so far as to say I’m a decent cook, but I’m neither a photographer nor a food stylist, and would much rather give full disclosure now, rather than post a photo and have everyone shriek at how fugly it is later. (Of course, on the rare occasion I manage to take a decent photograph, you’d better believe I’ll be posting it.)

Bonus question, redux, from the purists: Are you going to mess about with the recipes?

Yes and no? I may adapt some to be gluten-free, to heed the one dietary concession I did make based on my eeeeevil lab results, and of course sub in if there’s something particularly Brit-tastic I can’t find here (though I live in a mighty foodie town, so I don’t think that will be a huge issue). I also can’t, of course, reprint the recipes verbatim, but I will make reference to US equivalents where necessary, and attempt to liberally season the posts with smatterings of Nigella-ness.

And on that note, let the feasting begin.