Special guest review by Jonty MacBre, president of the Nigella Lawson Is Our Goddess Fan Club
Did we like it?
A sumptuous feast from the angel of the airwaves Nigella Lawson, who serenely showered us, the worthless British public, in her divine golden culinary wisdom to the point where our retinas were burnt out and we were left with an eternal mental vision of heaven – Nigella licking her lips as she prepared cured salmon.
What was good about it?
• The sight of the cider vinegar throbbing and pulsing as it cascaded from the bottle. “A healthy dousing” Nigella called it. And afterwards, I had to go for a “healthy dousing” myself to cool down.
• Nigella’s accent that perfectly pirouettes on the high wire of pouting poshness, like being wrapped in blue velvet while a blue whale caresses you inquisitively with its tongue. The sort of silken voice that could persuade a nation of cowards to lay down their lives for their country in some unjust war. And just imagine if she personally cooked the rations! A VX gas attack? A dirty bomb? A suicide bomber? I’d risk all those and more just to savour her Christmas chutney.
• The way Nigella can make you adore a food just because she adores it. “I love red currant jelly,” she said. So now do I, in fact right now I’m covered in it from head to toe.
• Nigella: “I’m going to get on with some pleasurably absorbing surgery on the ham!” Never before have I wished so much to be a slice of dead meat on a chop-ping board.
• The way Nigella can make even the most mundane words and phrases sound as pants-droppingly seductive as the poetry of Shakespeare: “I’m talking about a really fff-ruity Christmas cake!” And: “It’s these prunes that make sure the cake is daaaark, squiiishy and moissst.” A sentence that perfectly described my quivering, naked body at that very moment.
• She’s so modest, too. As she sprinkled the edible disco glitter on a cake she asked: “Can you hear the choirs of angels singing?” No, I can only hear one angel, and that one angel’s mellifluent tones are enough to deafen me with delight.
• As she walked through a Swedish market she cooed: “How could I resist the smell of gorgeous cured ham?” I have already fired off letters to all the major deodorant companies suggesting this as a new scent; but in the meantime have filled up my bath with cured ham and will be stewing in it each morning for at least an hour and 15 minutes.
• “This cured salmon goes in the fridge for three days; two if you can’t wait.” No, I can’t wait! This sentence crystallised my torture that I will have to wait another whole week before my culinary siren is back on my TV.
What was bad about it?
• The heathen ham! Nigella spoke about it having “a sombre look”. The ham was in the presence of divinity and it was rude enough to look “sombre”! Take it away! Take all ham away and feed it to the dogs, as it’s good for nothing else!
• The jerky camerawork that sometimes puts our earthly aphrodite out of focus. Of course if this happens because her beauty is too intense to gaze upon for long periods like the Sun’s blinding glare then fine, but next time let me be the cameraman.