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.