NIGELLA LAWSON, SEX-GODDESS OF THE KITCHEN

Suddenly I have the urge to play "Motorboat..."

Of all the people I hold dear perhaps none knows and understands me better than Jewish Warrior Princess, and this morning I was solidly reminded of that fact. Y’see, JWP knows quite a lot about what kind of woman would be considered my “type” — being one herself — and now that she resides in London she often mentions British women she feels I’d find…toothsome, but for the most part they’re friends of hers over there and since I’m not able to instantaneously teleport to Blighty and pursue these posh-accented sirens it’s all a moot point.

But JWP’s also made mention of various Brit celeb-chicks who’d turn my head, and a few months back she asked me if I’d ever heard of celebrated TV chef Nigella Lawson, stating that she knew I’d be an instant fan if I ever saw her. Being that I’m a cook myself and an avid watcher of cooking shows the name sounded familiar, but all I could recall of having seen this Lawson woman was a brief glimpse here and there of ads for upcoming installments of some show she was doing and the commercials blew by faster than I could follow.

When I awoke this morning I didn’t immediately feel like getting out of bed — I was awake until nearly 4AM after an all-day marathon of DVD watching, reviews to come shortly — so I turned on the TV and flipped about the multitude of channels in a fruitless attempt to find something worth watching on the one day of the week dominated by religious programming, family films, reruns of unwatchable and “wholesome” cartoons like THE LITTLES — a flagrant ripoff of the far superior and classic THE BORROWERS — and LIBERTY’S KIDS — a cloying show telling tales of the Revolutionary War from a teen perspective, with each episode closed by a horrendous rap tune that actually has a lyric about “gonna get my independence on” — and talking-head political and ethnic interest shows. Just as I was about to pull out the cocked Walther PPK I keep stashed under my pillow and coat the wall across the room with my brains, I heard a sexy British accent and looked up from my pistol.

There on my TV screen was an episode of NIGELLA FEASTS and I have to say that, as is so often the case when she psychologizes the quagmire that is my mind, Jewish Warrior Princess was one hundred percent right; Nigella Lawson is the sex-goddess of the kitchen, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head and into my slack-jawed mouth as I watched her prepare chocolaty goodies — stuff I don’t even like all that much — while fighting the very strong urge to “shake hands with the unemployed.”

The voluptuous Nigella’s luscious curves pushed her blouse and skirt to their tensile limits, while her dark hair and large brown eyes held me utterly mesmerized as she drizzled melted chocolate over a layer cake in a self-described culinary salute to Jackson Pollack.

When she leaned over to stir the batter for a chocolate cheesecake I swear I could see the cameraman waging a Herculean internal war to remain professional and not fill the screen with her magnificent breasts, and as my own febrile lust reached the boiling point Nigella pulled her wooden spoon from the creamy, russet mixture, trailing a thick bolus of sweetness to her slowly-parting lips and orgasmically sighed “Mmmmmm…” with unbridled sensuality, later punctuated with an equally erotic and drawn-out “Yuuuuuuum.”

This incredible spectacle unfolded for the next half hour, and I didn’t even notice the commercial interruptions because I was too occupied replaying Nigella’s uber-MILF womanliness in my head, and I assure you I’ll be tuning in again to check out this epicurean Aphrodite as soon as possible.

“Yuuuuuuum” indeed.

Oh, and she can cook, too.

This enchanting woman could spoon-feed me dogshit and I wouldn't notice.