Social media brings out the worst in me. I mean, I love it, I love the connections of Facebook, I love the cleverness of Twitter and I dig the pics on Instagram. But I hate stupidity. And Social Media brings out the stupid. Yesterday I … Continue reading A little conflict over a little croissant
Forget stockings and suspenders
Forget little black dresses
And French underwear
Forget them all.
Bring on the apron
The black over the neck apron
The tied around your waist no frills apron
The old apron
The one that smells of butter
The baking apron
The killer apron
The look at me now apron
Add a rolling pin
A wooden spoon
A bit of frosting
And a bottle of champagne.
It’s the best kind of apron.
The fuck me now apron.
This morning I ate too many donuts
and I knew I would feel like dying
and now I feel like dying
a mad desire
I’m just down, I said. Feeling low, a little fragile, that’s all.
Have a bubble bath, he said. Do your yogic breathing. Pour a drink. And get out the house for gods sake. Come meet me. You’re turning into a hermit.
I sighed. It’s been a horrible few days. And I haven’t felt like leaving home. Or seeing anyone.
I ran myself a bath, extra bubbles. Then lay back with my head on a fluffy towel, gazing out the window, into my garden.
A little gloomy.
And there, just waiting for me, was my rhubarb. Ripe and ready. With two new plump lemons on the tree, waiting to be plucked.
And suddenly I could taste the pie. The sweetness, the warmth, the deliciousness of hot apples, the tang of sweet and sour rhubarb, cinnamon and sugar, so much sugar.
And that was the end of my bath.
I’ve spent the day baking. I got a little distracted when I sifted the flour and remembered a very sexy encounter on the kitchen table that was messy and sticky and fantastic but then I moved on and made a rhubarb and apple pie, then a second one, also some fudge, and now I’m on to banana bread and my hands smell of apple and my mouth tastes of chocolate and caramel is bursting everywhere and the smell in my kitchen and in my hair and on my clothes is divine.
And I feel okay again.
I feel good.
Which is what baking can do for you.
And memories too.
I’ve been swamped with messages, people asking me for advice on love and baking.
I’ve made it clear that I cannot give advice on love.
But I can always help with baking. I love it. I love wandering the aisles of the grocery store, picking out the most delicious ingredients, flirting with the cashier, coming home, choosing an apron, cracking eggs, sifting flour, stirring, folding, pretending I’m Nigella, melting, drizzling, beating, whipping and sprinkling.
And then licking the spoon, of course.
Today I made a raspberry soufflé with a molten chocolate centre. Oh my god. Apart from being stupendously delicious, it’s very sexy. Anything with raspberries and chocolate is sexy.
I got distracted as I was pouring the mixture.
Raspberry soufflé will do that to you.
Except this time I didn’t think about a man amongst the raspberries.
Because I had spatulas and wooden spoons and tongs and turners and a whisk.
And a blender. Oh my.
It’s very important to lie down in between the various baking stages. To rest.
To allow your intuition to take over.
That’s the thing about baking. You need to feel it. All over. On every single teeny gorgeous soft luscious part of you.
Go with it. The baking flow.
It’s all about the way you use your hands.
Who cares if they’re a little bit sticky.
That may just be the secret ingredient.
N.B. Look out for my new cookbook. Violet Bakes. Burns? Scorches?
Today I’m going to get flour, yeast, sugar and
mix them together
add the eggs
and then a man is going to come up behind me
put his arms around me
lift me on the counter
push up my skirt
and while I wrap my legs around him
he’s going to fuck me
there will be flour everywhere
we’re going to have sex in the kitchen
great fucking sex
on the counter
with the flour
where was I going with this, I meant to ask for a bread recipe?