The way you folks like to grab a tangent and run with it, I’m surprised no one galloped off with Nigella, after I mentioned her yesterday. (Yes, you’re thinking; of course it might have helped if you hadn’t embedded it in such an extra-boring passage.) We watched more Nigella than was absolutely good for us yesterday — a long lull when 2/3 of our family was capable of little else — and I thought the same thing I did the first time I saw her: This woman is sexy. She’s sexy not in the Victoria’s Secret mold, but in the real-woman kind of way. She can bring home the bacon, and fry it up in the pan, and unlike the Victoria’s Secret girls, she won’t stick her finger down her throat and barf it all up later.
She does like to stick her fingers in her mouth, though. She’s always sucking ecstatically on her fingers, rolling her eyes and — I believe this is the point where Alan’s eyes glaze over with lust — separating eggs with her hands, because she so enjoys the feeling of egg white slipping through her long, slender fingers.
While I can appreciate her looks, what I really appreciate is her kitchen. The gas range, the fabulous accessories…the one-handed pepper mill! I want one! Her kitchen is so clean, but she slops food everywhere, wipes it up with her finger and licks it off.
I bet she likes to do it on the butcher block.
Not much to report today. Monday, bleah. I go to work so damn early they don’t even have a word for it. For a while there, we had a string of mild mornings, and I rolled to work with the jazz station on and the sunroof open. I’m very susceptible to music at certain times, and the moments between 4:45 and 5 a.m. are some of them. The DJ on whatever satellite feed our jazz station uses went through about a 10-day period when he was always playing something with vibes at that hour, and I switched to hip-hop. It got my mind perked up for eight hours of shoveling copy down the sluice, but then the station went through a stretch of playing some god-awful R&B power ballads, so I switched back to jazz. Thankfully, the programmer had regained some semblance of sanity for the pre-dawn hours, and we were back to trumpet, sax and piano.
Vibes. What are they thinking?
Speaking of hip-hop. ODB died Saturday. I remember these acts mainly for the headaches they caused my husband, the entertainment editor who had to try to ramrod these names through the copy desk. ODB was, of course, Ol’ Dirty Bastard. He was 35. He had a heart attack. At 35.
Too much rich food, maybe. Someone tell Nigella.