Nigella Lawson, I want to BE you.

London – that’s where I’ll be able to make it and live a fabulous life.  I’ll make tons of edgy friends and go to edgy parties where they only play the newest coolest music.  I’ll live in a trendy area and my flat mates and neighbours will constantly be inviting me to places and we’ll sit around drinking outside in the sun over fish and chips and meat pies.  I’ll finally meet that British soccer boy who is cute, witty, smart, sensitive, sweet, popular, well dressed, sings, dances, can cook, smells nice, and has good taste in music and he’ll make me his girlfriend and we’ll be that cute happy couple that everyone hates.

FALSE. (except the meat pie part.  that’s entirely true.  I went to town on those babies)

Back in May, I went to London with a working visa and a plan of starting a new life.  Turns out, my priorities had changed in the past year and a half that I had been planning this move and now I had something good waiting for me back at home.  Life has a funny way of f*cking with you sometimes huh.

Also, I ended up living in what has to be AT LEAST in the top 5 worst neighbourhoods in London.  I know this must be true because of these responses:

“Can’t do much worse than that, can you?”

…Silence….”At least you’ll have the experience.”

“Make sure have your keys on you AT ALL TIMES.  Any threat, remember, make sure TO THE JUGULAR.”

“You are living my worst nightmare right now” (My mother, after a quick google search of the area)

Oh then my roomie turned out to be insane.  And then there was the fact that I was living in a dump with six other people (don’t forget about the cockroaches and the fox in the garden!) for the price of oh, say an arm and a leg.

So, naturally, I did what any lonely girl living in London in miserable circumstances would do.  I re-watched youtube videos of Nigella Lawson.  TALK ABOUT GODDESS.

LET ME TELL YOU, ain’t nobody manhandles food into their mouths sexier than she does.  and nobody sneaks downstairs in the middle of the night to shove more food down the gullet in a slinky black robe better than her.  NOBODY.  (You gotta watch the episode where she showcases her beautiful black box of licorice.  There is something REALLY magical about the way her fingers go to open the containers and wrap around the ingredients that basically make you lose all sense of time.)

I spent HOURS in my half of my crapshow room watching old episodes of her shows and I became OBSESSED.  I need to BE her.  I need to host dinner parties every night where classy red wine is present and plentiful and I need to serve salad from fancy wooden bowls with bear claw spoons and I need to chop my vegetables like a slob with a mezzaluna and not a real knife.

The living in squalor London gal life wasn’t quite working out for me and I decided to come back home early.  (of course, with the dream of hosting only the coolest dinner parties where all my guests will constantly be eating,  drinking, and being merry!)

Fast forward to now and it turns out, becoming Nigella is a tad more work that I had anticipated and a biiitttt more pricey that I would like.  BABY STEPS THOUGH.

So, in the spirit of Nigella, last night, with the help of BoyToy, we hosted a small dinner party for my mother’s birthday.  (Apparently, BoyToy is unnervingly good at cooking meats and cleaning the house.  And I mean GOOD.  He was essentially making out with the toilet yesterday.)

We had lettuce wraps as an appe-teaser and cooked standing rib roast, bacon cheddar garlic butter mashed potatoes, and roasted veggies for dinner.

I had also put out some pretzels and pistachios (more for looks than anything really), and being a classy family as per usual, they started shoving those down their throats as soon as they walked in.  My squeals of, “Hey, don’t fill up on snaaaaacks before dinner!!” went largely unnoticed.

(“What’d you put these out for if you didn’t want us to eat them?” CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH – My father)

After sending pictures of the meal to my friend, Nige (who is fabulous and just a bit too sassy for his own good, and is also a HUGE Nigella fan), I get a text from him: “You are SO Nigella right now.”  Which might just be the nicest thing he has ever said to me.  (“You mean even nicer than the time I called you a pig??”)


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